Moving From Fright to Flight

She Couldn't Shake the Turbulence, but Refused to Be Grounded by Fear

My hands are clammy, my stomach is queasy, my legs are shaking and my mouth is dry. But I have just decided, after eight anxious years, to try to overcome my fear of flying.

Here I am, an immigrant and a food and travel writer who used to think nothing of flying around the world. Then one day, en route to Atlanta, the plane hit an air pocket. It bounced up and down and sideways. My laptop fell and broke, a guy ahead of me hurt his head and I threw up.

When we landed, I swore I would never board a plane again. When I couldn't avoid travel, I popped Dramamine and drank wine. I would take Imodium so I would not have to go to the bathroom. I would sit still, not eating or drinking.

But with the recent birth of a second child, I have to see my family in India: nine hours from Washington to Vienna and then another nine hours to Delhi.

We are going. Dramamine and wine are no longer an option with a baby to care for.

For three weeks before the flight, I barely slept. I bought Duane Brown's "Flying Without Fear," figuring one of the best ways to deal with a problem is to acknowledge it. I began to tell anyone who would listen:

"I hate flying."

"I feel like the plane will go down."

And the responses I got were similar to those I received when I first told people I was pregnant; they shared their bad stories:

"You? Afraid to fly?"

"Why don't you ask your parents to visit you?"

"I would be terrified, too; such long flights."

I return to the airline Web site. I move my mouse over the cancel button. And nausea sweeps over me again.

No, no. I have to go.

I bury my head in Brown's book. It says, "I challenge you to identify one U.S. plane that has been knocked out of the sky due to turbulence. There haven't been any."

I make 10 index cards like these:

¿ Turbulence is not a safety issue; it is a comfort issue -- Duane Brown.

¿ Your chances of being involved in an aircraft accident are about 1 in 11 million. Statistically, you are at far greater risk driving to the airport than getting on an airplane -- Fearlessflight.com.

I read the cards every hour. I read the book four times.

Until the day to fly arrives.

Baby and I are on the plane. I stare at everyone around me. They smile at the baby. I strain my ears for every word the flight attendants say. I stare into my baby's innocent eyes. What have I gotten him into? He is giggling at my seat companion. The plane takes off. I begin to cry.

I ask for a glass of water and watch the ripples. If the water stays in the glass, the turbulence is level 0. Duane Brown says so. The water ripples, and the glass shakes; I begin to tremble. "Baby, this is a comfort issue, not a safety issue. The book says so." I repeat it 100 times, and the baby falls asleep.

My tears dry up.

Then the baby poops.

I have not gotten up in a plane in eight years. I wish I had brought the Dramamine. I stare at the wine cart. The baby begins to cry.

As a former engineer, I ought to know that my footsteps cannot cause turbulence. But fear is not logical. I get up and walk. Very slowly.

I change his diaper. Tears are pouring down my cheeks. The plane begins to shake. I race back to my seat.

The flight attendants approach. "Can we hold the baby?"

I stare at their faces. What do they know that I don't? The plane is shaking, and they want to play with him? I give them the baby, repeat my safety/comfort mantra and then do something I have never done on a plane (without medication). I fall asleep.

We wake up in Vienna.

I disembark with wobbly legs and a slight hint of confidence that allows me to board the next flight, to watch the ripples in another glass of water.

We hit turbulence. My water does not spill. But I have had enough. I pick up the glass and drink the water. The baby takes the glass to play with it.

We hit more turbulence. I sing to the baby. The lady next to me says, "Oh, you are so brave to sing. I hate planes."

We land.

What goes east must come back west, and here I am back in the States to tell my story. I did it all without Dramamine or wine. Thirty-six hours of drug-free flying.

Inspired, I make reservations to go to Arizona to show my older son the Cardinals' stadium, and I enroll myself in a cooking school in Marrakech in April. I call my friend to tell her of my accomplishment.

"You know, the chances of something going wrong increases, the more you fly," she says. "It is simple math."

I collect my fearless flying index cards, flip through them and paraphrase a motivational speaker:

I can either live my fears or live my dreams. ¿

Monica Bhide, author of "Everything Indian," writes regularly for the Food section. Comments:health@washpost.com.