Meltdown at 38,000 Feet

The problem isn’t turbulence. The problem is existential dread.

It’s 4 a.m., and I’m lying on the floor of the aft galley on a Boeing 737 headed for Mexico City. The cabin is dark, most of the passengers asleep. But back here in the service area behind the toilets, in a cold corner between the exit door and docked beverage cart, there’s enough fluorescent light to spot crumbs and tiny liquid stains on the floor a few inches from my face.

I’m not worried about germs, or how I must look to the man who just stumbled into the restroom, noting my presence with sleepy confusion. I’m concerned only with staying conscious. To that end, I’m doing breathing exercises I learned from a workbook on panic attacks. Inhale through the nose for a count of 4, hold for 7, exhale through pursed lips for 8.

After 10 breaths, my racing heart begins to slow into the mid-aerobic range. After 20, I can almost feel the blood settling back to my core. The nausea subsides, the sweating stops, and the shivers begin: little flutters of the shoulders and arms, the last traces of a poltergeist leaving the body. When the shivers come, the worst is over.

A flight attendant approaches with a thin red airline blanket. She’s the same one who found me tilted forward in an aisle seat about to black out, frantically fanned me with the laminated safety card, then…