Do not anger the commercial air gods

I wasn't really intending to knock commercial flight in my last post, but the commercial air gods must have been looking down on me, because yesterday's return flight was a doozy. This post is a long one, sorry. But yesterday was a long day. I understand if you don't make it through the post, because there were several points yesterday when I didn't think I'd make it through the day.

It started with a cold. By this point, my sickness from two and a half weeks ago is just barely hanging on, hardly noticeable at all, but flying with a cold can do funny things to you. I knew this - I'd gotten a pressure headache on my flight out to California, and another one when we lost altitude on the car trip home from skiing on Tuesday, so I packed four ibuprofen tablets (two for each leg) to take if needed. About half an hour in the flight, I was patting myself on the back for my foresight because the pressure headache had already begun, a dull throb in my right temple. I set down my book, took two of the ibuprofen, plugged myself into my iPod, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain to die down.

It didn't. Instead it increased to the point that I couldn't even listen to my music. After another half hour or so, I popped my last two ibuprofen, then went into the bathroom and burst into tears as soon as the door had shut. I can't remember the last time I was driven to tears by pain, but I had never had a headache like this before, not even the migraines I used to get every six months or so in high school and early college, and the worst part was knowing that I was stuck on the plane for another 3 hours. I composed myself, went back to my seat, pulled down my tray, put my head on my arms, and promptly began crying again. I couldn't help it, the tears just came. I really felt like my head was about to explode, and I wasn't sure how I could make it through the rest of the plane ride.

I finally pressed the call button for a flight attendant, although I admit I had no idea what they could do. I was past the point of being embarrassed by my tears, and I told the flight attendant exactly how I felt (you know, exploding head) and asked if she had an ice pack or something. "Do you want some oxygen?" she asked. Oh! I could now remember those safety presentations I never watch in which they tell you that if the pressure decreases in the cabin, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. Clearly it was the pressure change that was giving me this massive headache, and so I nodded gratefully, and when she took my seat number, I wondered if she had some little button to press that would drop the oxygen mask from the little compartment above my seat.

Sadly, that's not how it worked. Instead she and two other flight attendants returned with a big green oxygen tank and had my seat mates, a little girl and her grandmother (who were pretty much oblivious to my plight - and it wasn't just me who noticed their obliviousness, I had another more sympathetic passenger lean over to me and comment on it later in the flight) shift over so that I could take the aisle. They took my medical information, showed me how to put on the oxygen mask, velcroed the oxygen to the seat arm, and turned on the flow. At first it didn't do much except give me something to focus on - I could feel my fingers begin to tingle, and I concentrated on my breathing (which was better than hyperventilating with my head between my arms). I had my eyes closed, and I stopped opening them after awhile because every time I did, I found the little girl next in the adjacent seat staring at me, completely unashamed, with wide eyes and a half-open mouth. It was a bit unnerving.

After maybe half an hour the pain had begun to subside, and by the time the oxygen ran out with about an hour left in the flight, it was just a dull ache again. I finally had the physical and mental capacity to listen to music, and was even able to pick up my book again when we had to turn our electronic equipment off before landing.

I landed safely in Chicago, with almost a two hour layover, and checked the status of my next flight. It was on time before I ate dinner, and still on time after I ate dinner. This was a relief. My temple was still throbbing a little, and I just wanted to get home and stay away from airplanes for awhile. I found an empty seat at the gate, and was happy to see our plane come in on time, and the passengers from that flight debark without incident. As I waited, my dad called to tell me that he had once experienced the same kind of pressure headache I had described to my mom a few minutes earlier. "I felt like my head was about to explode," he said. "I was literally driven to tears by the pain," and "I really didn't think I was going to survive the flight." It made me feel better to hear this coming from my dad, whose flight had been much shorter than mine - I knew that the pain had been almost unbearable, but was worried that it would sound like an exaggeration when I told the story later. If my dad could back me up, then people would be less likely to doubt the severity of my situation.

I got off the phone with my dad because I though they were about to board our flight. Instead, they told us that they were doing some maintenance on the plane and that our flight was delayed, but they would let us know soon when we could expect to get on the plane. I put off calling my ride in Michigan, under the expectation that in a few minutes I would be safely on the plane and could give him a better idea of when I would make it into Detroit. And so I waited, and waited. And just when I had about decided to call my ride anyway to make sure he didn't leave for the airport before we had even left the gate in Chicago, they announced that our flight had been cancelled.

There was practically a stampede to the United service desk, everyone anxious to get on the one last United flight to Detroit that night. I was right in the middle of the pack, and was pretty sure I had no hope of making it. My parents called because they had just gone online to check my flight status, and I started to brace myself for my first-ever overnight flight delay. My dog had been picked up from the kennel and was at home waiting for me, and while I had made arrangements for him to be watched over until I returned, I hadn't made arrangements for an extra night.

I stood in the very slow-moving line for about twenty minutes, and then, just as they were announcing that everyone in line would be put up at the hotel and fly out at 6 am the next morning, my dad called me and told me he'd gotten me on an American Airlines flight (thanks again, Dad!). My luggage would come in on that one last United flight into Detroit, which was scheduled to arrive at the same time as my American Airlines flight, almost to the minute, so I would be able to pick up my luggage in Detroit as if nothing had happened and make it home to Jin, just a couple hours later than previously planned.

The American flight went without incident. In fact, we made it into Detroit early, and I went down to the baggage claim. I was happy to see that the United flight had come in early, as well, and I sat down in a chair and waited.

And waited. And waited. And waited. 

Over an hour later, and after a trip to the office to make sure both my bags really had made it onto the flight, the smaller of the two bags, the one I gate-checked for free back in Los Angeles, finally made its way to the carousel. This gave me hope, and I waited patiently as the rest of the bags from the cancelled flight were unloaded. And waited. And waited. 

And then the bags stopped coming. 

I went back to the luggage office and the woman at the desk seemed dubious when I told her my second bag hadn't made it. "It says it was scanned on this flight," she said. "You do realize that if it's over there at the carousel, we can't deliver it to you. You'll have to come out to the airport and pick it up." My bag is distinctive - I have not yet encountered its twin - and I was positive it had not come off the carousel. It bothered me a little that she doubted me, and she seemed annoyed as she processed my paperwork, like I hadn't looked carefully enough. I understand that working in the luggage office must not be the most pleasant job, but I thought I was being quite civil and friendly, cheerful even, especially given that my luggage seemed to have been lost, not just detained. I checked the carousel again as I walked out, checked very carefully, and there was clearly no sign of my bag.

I finally made it home around 1:30. All in all, I guess 3 hours later than the original plan isn't that bad, but I was exhausted, and felt kind of bad for Brian and Seth, who had to wait through the delay and then the whole luggage ordeal (thanks again for picking me up!). Now I am safely at home, and writing this blog at great sacrifice because my computer's power cord is in the missing luggage and the (1:58) currently showing on my battery bar is all I've got until it comes back. 

And I really hope it comes back - most of my clothing was in the smaller bag, but the big bag contained my winter coat, running shoes, cell phone power cord, computer power cord, a borrowed book from Brady, a borrowed book from Jessica, all the Christmas gifts I received from my siblings, several of my Christmas piano books, my laundry from the week, and a chocolate bar. The chocolate bar is probably easily replaced, but nothing else is, and some things (the power cords, the running shoes, the winter coat) are essential items that I really can't go without.

So I guess that's all. Moral of the story, crashing is not the only part of flying to be afraid of. I know some of you probably have even worse flight stories out there (though hopefully not over this break), and so I think I will try to get over my day-after despondency and feel grateful that I can now join the ranks of experienced travelers with good stories to tell.