One Sick Parent, One Baby, 20 Hours of Chaos
A Tale of Traveling Trials and Tribulations.
A year ago, a good friend of mine recommended to me the book Breath. It took me a whole year to finally dive into its pages. This week, that book saved me.
It's 20 hours door-to-door between my parents' home in Norway and my home in the US. This week those 20 hours became the ultimate test of my endurance. 20 hours of me wanting just to lie down and die to relieve me of my agonizing, gut-wrenching stomach cramps that felt like an internal demolition derby. No, I wasn't giving birth. This experience turned out to be worse than my two deliveries combined. Why, you ask? Well, let me introduce you to my trusty sidekick: My almost one-year-old energetic baby. Who found pure joy in one simple activity: jumping. On. My. Belly. I was sick. While traveling intercontinental with him.
Alone.
I had fallen sick five days prior. I caught a stomach virus. Just not the kind with the "happy ending" where you get your (literal) shit out and feel better after 24-48 hours. No, mine was the kind that thought pitching a tent and camping out in my gut was a brilliant idea, like an obnoxious guest who overstays their welcome without a hint of shame.
The relentless nausea, excruciating pain, lack of food, and inevitable sleep deprivation had left me utterly drained. My existence had been confined to a bed for five long days, and as if my stomach wasn't causing enough suffering, my back had joined the party, unleashing its own brand of torment. When I tried to walk around, I looked like an old granny who'd served her life as a mailman, hunched forward from carrying too much mail from her neck. It wasn't a pretty sight, I assure you.
I was visiting my parents while attending a wedding in my hometown. In my grand scheme of parenting brilliance, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to bring my youngest along. You know, quality grandparent-grandchild bonding time without the sibling rivalry stealing the spotlight. Plus, he flies for "free" as a lap child until age two. Considering this was his fourth intercontinental flight, I naively assumed I had become a pro at traveling with him. Just not alone. And sick.
Traveling while sick was no novelty to me. In the pre-COVID era, I returned to the US after catching the flu at a conference in London. I vividly remember the fever-induced hallucinations that compelled me to accuse innocent individuals of cutting in line during a grueling two-hour immigration queue. This time, I intended to keep a low profile and avoid such dramatic scenes.
Throughout our previous travels, there were always superheroes disguised as fellow passengers, ready to embrace their destiny as human jungle gyms and champions of drool-covered playdates for my little munchkin. But alas, on this fateful flight, it seemed like the universe had conspired against me, depriving me of even a solitary soul enchanted by my baby's undeniable cuteness.
Damn.
I estimated that if I counted to 40,000 during the last and longest flight, I'd make it.
I had a bassinet seat where my baby could sleep. It was just that he had other plans. He had slept soundly on the way to Europe, using up all the accumulated sleep karma I had saved. I could even draft my prior essay during that flight! However, this was a day flight, and the cabin was never dimmed. The tiny bassinet failed to provide my restless baby the comfort he desired while I struggled to alleviate my agonizing cramps using every trick in the book. Ignoring the potential judgmental glances, I attempted to soothe him back to sleep thanks to the widespread use of noise-canceling headphones. Eventually, he dozed off for a precious two hours, only to be rudely awakened by the snack cart.
When I couldn't hold my bladder anymore, I called on one of the flight attendants to play with him. Later she told me: "I hope you get some sleep." Safe to say, I looked like a mess.
My saviors came in two strange forms. The first was the miraculous extra life vest bestowed upon parents traveling with lap children. Since I had a bassinet seat, I was in the front row. The front row has a pocket to store your iPad and necessities since you can't leave your backpack there during take-off and landing. As I stuffed the extra life west into the pocket in front of me, it transformed into a temporary footrest, leveling my feet and offering stability and respite for my weary legs.
The second was funneling what I learned while reading the book Breath a few months ago. I took a deep breath and counted 1 - 2 - 3 - 4. I held my breath. 5 - 6 - 7 - 8. I tried my best to release my breath slowly. 9 - 10 - 11 - 12. I held my breath again for 13 - 14 - 15 - 16. And then I started all over. I would make it once I arrived at a whopping 2500 of those deep breaths! Deep breaths, diving deeper into my belly, attempting to tame the pain that threatened to overwhelm me. I wish I had read Breath before giving birth...
Reflecting on this week's flight, from here on out, I will always proactively offer up help to other parents traveling alone with kids. My younger, child-free self may have been guilty of rolling my eyes at parents with screaming monsters onboard flights. But now, as a seasoned warrior in the realm of parenthood, I harbor no judgment, only empathy, knowing that it's a rite of passage that follows the arrival of our own mini-me's. The shameful feeling you have as a parent trying to soothe your child and stop bothering other passengers is never-ending.
We just taught Bryce to say “Breathe” and he follows up with the action. Great for children to learn!
As a mom who has traveled 18 hours with a toddler once, I had flashbacks as I read your piece. I loved the rich detail and how you captured the counting for breath. Thank you.