Fear of Flying

As some of you know, I used to be intensely afraid of flying.  It all started with a near-death experience (or what some people might callously say was just really bad turbulence) on a flight from Denver to Salt Lake City, and it resulted in me doing strange things on subsequent trips.  Like overdosing on lorazepam, having to be dragged through a connecting airport by my 7-months-pregnant wife, being hooked up to an oxygen tank somewhere over the Atlantic, vomitting all over the plane, and then falling into an old English lady's lap on the post-flight train ride from the airport to downtown London.  And that was all on one trip. 

Officially called "Pteromerhanophobia," a fear of flying

"may be a distinct phobia in itself, or it may be an indirect combination of one or more other phobias related to flying, such as claustrophobia (a fear of enclosed spaces) or acrophobia (a fear of heights). It may have other causes as well, such as agoraphobia (especially the type that has to do with fear of open spaces). It is a symptom rather than a disease, and different causes may bring it about in different individuals."

My fear of flying actually has nothing at all to do with flying.  I'm not necessarily scared of heights or of enclosed spaces (other than being in small cars with lots of kids) and I don't even understand how someone can be afraid of open spaces.  For me, it's a fear of not being in control.  During my near-death experience, I had a sudden realization: I couldn't hit the brakes or pull up on the controls or use my superior skills and intelligence to get on the ground safely.  Have I ever flown a plane before?  No.  But for some odd reason, in the back of my mind I felt like that if I had been at the controls, everything would be just fine.  And if we slammed into the side of the Rocky Mountains?  Well, at least I would have given it a go.  But back in seat 26C, I was held hostage by some faceless pilot who might have been drunk or stupid or a terrorist.  Not being in control explains why I don't like riding in a car as a passenger (although I can usually convince myself that I could grab the wheel and avoid a speeding 18-wheeler bearing down on us).  It also explains why I hate working on group projects.

What it doesn't explain is why I joined the Air Force, which requires its members to surrender control over significant aspects of their lives.  As a result of my documented fear of flying, I was initially denied entry into the military and only commissioned after I obtained a waiver.  The waiver process involved me meeting with a military psychologist, who went through my records and made a predictable joke about someone with a fear of flying wanting to join the Air Force.  I obliged him with a laugh even though I wanted to punch him in the face.  He asked me if I was still afraid of flying.  I told him no, and even though it was a true response, it was the wrong question.  He should have asked me if I was still afraid of letting go. 

Since finding out that we will be moving to England this summer, I have been flying white-knuckled, digging my fingers in the arm rest and bracing myself for the choppy air.  A couple of weeks ago, a troll in the base passport office basically told us that the passports and visas for Emily and the kids would not be ready until mid- to late September.  As a result, we could be separated for up to a month (I have to report by August 31st) and, even worse, my wife and children essentially could be homeless for up to two months (we have to be out of our house on August 1st).  I have never been more interested in passport processing times.  Every morning, I wake up with a sense of dread and a pressing on my chest.  I spend at least an hour a day driving myself into a frenzy as I search for ways to speed up the process.  I have researched arcane Department of Defense and State Department regulations, and I have tried to convince the base passport troll to see things my way.  I have called military passport agents at just about every base in the DC area, searching for answers.  I even called a British attorney to see if she knew of any way to speed up the visa process. 

But I've come to the realization that there's nothing I can do.  I'm in seat 26C, reading my Rolling Stone profile on Dennis Rodman, and the bottom of the plane feels like it has fallen out.  I can dig my fingernails into the arm rest and scream and promise to never read anything about Dennis Rodman ever again, but there's nothing I can do to control the situation.  I have to trust that the pilot isn't drunk or stupid or a terrorist, and that he's going to get us back on the ground.  I feel sick to my stomach ... but not as sick as when I puked the remnants of a lorazepam overdose all over the cabin.

When we were initially approached about the England assignment, Emily and I spent a weekend fasting and praying about it.  In the end, we both felt like it was the right thing to do.  Walking away from our home, our friends, and our extended family is shaping up as one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.  But I'm occasionally reminded that this is what God wants for us at this time.  I've always had faith in God, but admittedly with a strong dose of self-determination and a sense that I can control my own destiny because, damn it, I'm a McCammon and that's what we do.  But I'm starting to realize something that I eventually learned on another transcontinental flight, when there was no one to drag me through connecting airports or inform the flight attendant that I didn't appear to be breathing thanks to the drugs I consumed like they were Skittles:

Sometimes you just have to let go.