Does everyone get trip anxiety? Does it get worse as we get older?
When I was seventeen I got on a plane (before jets) and flew 3,000 miiles from my home in New Jersey to Los Angeles to go to the University of Southern California. I don't remember any trip anxiety--just joy at getting to go that far and to start my life over again.
That flight took thirteen hours. I got nauseous and held the vomit bag open in my lap just in case. But a friendly gentleman from Brazil was sitting next to me. We had been chatting amiably, ending in an invitiation from him to visit if I ever found myself in his country. There was no way I was going to barf in front of him.
What changed me from that brave girl who couldn't wait to leave home and have adventures, into this timid soul who gets nervous every time I have to travel anywhere?
What is so damn frightening about our tiny Ithaca airport? All the gates are within yards of each other. It's true that we can't get anywhere from here in one flight except Newark and Philadelphia, but it certainly is an easy, comfortable terminal for the beginning and end of a trip. And it's a ten minute drive from my house.
But there's no use arguing with my nervous self. I'm going to be anxious no matter how illogical it may be.
Adrian got extremely anxious before trips in his later years. The effort of helping him pack and get organized distracted me from my own anxiety. It was agonizingly frustrating trying to get him ready for a trip, but he was the anxious one, not me.
Before we'd leave the house for the airport, I'd grill him and review: glasses, meds, socks, etc. But I still overlooked, that one time, the fact that he hadn't brought his wallet, and thus, his driver's license.
No ID, no fly.
I left Adrian at the airport and zoomed home to get it, but by the time I got back, it was too late. We'd missed the flight. They rescheduled us through Elmira, another local regional airport. Driving home from there the night we got back was not as easy as coming into Ithaca.
How I used to complain about traveling with Adrian in those last years. Getting from one gate to another when he walked so slowly . . . helping him through security . . . having him spill his drink all over me on one flight . . . falling down the escalator on another.
In those days I thought it would be a relief to travel alone, with only myself to worry about.
How wrong I was.
