An inauspicious start to my new life as a New Englander. My first panic attack (as I later self-Google-diagnosed). 39,000 feet in the air on a flight from DFW to Logan for the house closing. I tried to discreetly notify a flight attendant that I couldn't get any air and that my pulse was racing. Discretion flew out the cabin when the attendant pinged the cabins for a medical professional.
This embarrassing incident needed multiple flight attendants (very kind), a fellow traveller nurse (also very kind), and various folks seated around me (yet again...very kind...courtesy is not dead among air travellers). I simultaneously felt like a foolish drama queen while worrying that I was going to die. Each attendant gently queried if it was my first time flying. Answer: no. Did I have chest pains? Allergies? No. No. I was given a tank of oxygen. And I realized as I struggled to catch my breath and gain composure that really, one is very exposed and fragile so high up in the air. Had it been a true medical emergency, really...what could they have done?
And the misadventures continued as our closing got delayed from Wednesday to Thursday to Friday. I flew home Thursday, hoping that the closing would be Friday. When I landed, I received the bad news. No, it would be Monday. Late Monday. Thankfully, Will managed to lease forward from the seller at no cost, and was able to move in Friday to start preparing the house for our move. First up: pink room for the girls.
The shelties flew with us on this trip. Our vet had prescribed them Xanax for the flight. I had three Xanax left over, and took one before my flight home. Didn't want to chance a panic attack reprise. Isn't it a sad commentary on my life that I'm reduced to taking my pets' anti-anxiety medication?
