Written By Diane Kirby, The London Writers Society (LWS)
It was the end of a two-week tour of Morocco: another solo journey since my husband had passed away seven years ago. I was in an excellent mood for most of the trip, as I had learned how to carry that loss. In other words, I’d acquired the ability to manage the effects of my own trauma. What I didn’t expect that morning was to understand just how far I had come.
The aircraft was full and departed Marrakech at 6:00 a.m. Little did I know when I chose my seat on the aisle, directly behind the exit row, that I would have a bird’s-eye view of what would transpire next. For reasons unclear to me, two people seated in the row in front of the exit row were escorted by a flight attendant to the rear of the plane. Two women, who didn’t appear to know one another, came forward to take their seats. The younger woman, no more than twenty, came down the aisle, presenting herself as somewhat entitled as she said loudly that if you pay for a seat in a specific spot, you should be able to sit in it. Hence, it was immediately apparent that she didn’t wish to sit in the seat to which she was being moved, the one beside a door.
The flight attendants moved about the plane, preparing the cabin for takeoff. The girl became increasingly agitated. She was talking on her phone, even though it was supposed to be turned off. Apparently, she was afraid she was going to “lose it” because of where she was sitting. The older woman sitting beside her said nothing, looked away, and gave the impression she wanted to become invisible. One flight attendant came. Then another, and finally, the cabin manager. They all talked to her as she begged to be moved. However, she couldn’t be moved yet because the plane had backed away from the terminal and was moving to the runway. The flight attendants assured her they would move her after the plane levelled off in the air.
With no immediate escape, she became like a trapped animal. She started crying. A flight attendant sat beside her in a third seat that faced in the opposite direction, holding her hand and trying to talk her down. But this girl couldn’t even catch her breath. She was hyperventilating. No one knew why she was so afraid to sit beside the door, but it didn’t matter; the reason was real to her. She was terrified, crying, panting, and finally, remorseful. She had fallen apart and said she was sorry for her behaviour. She apologized for her reaction to her own trauma.
And it took me back. As I watched her, I remembered what it was like in the early days after he died. I was louder than I realized, and perhaps my motives were misconstrued by others around me. I was terrified that I’d lose it too, for reasons known only to me—or sometimes not even to me. I remembered the feeling of not being able to breathe and hyperventilating. I recalled how there was very little anyone could do to help me, even if they tried (which many did not, preferring to look away). Most of all, I remembered being sorry for and apologizing for my reactions to my own trauma on several occasions.
And I prayed for someone to help this girl just as I’d prayed for help myself, once upon a time.
