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It began innocently enough, or so I thought. After getting off of a delayed flight, I had to run to Terminal B to catch my connecting flight. Breathing hard, I felt a sudden tickle in my throat at the gate.
We’ve all experienced this before — an intense respiratory system twinge without warning, as if one has inhaled a speck of dust, a tiny gnat or a clipping of hair. Instantaneously, the lungs are triggered to expel the foreign irritant.
These coughing fits seem to happen at the most embarrassing times. Never when one is without witnesses; but rather, in public places with the maximum potential to make a disruptive, alarming, teary, snotty scene. In my youth, coughing fits happened in class or church, and nowadays, I embarrass myself during Zoom calls, military balls and teacher conferences.
When I feel the tickle, I begin a dialogue with myself. “No, please don’t do this now! Quick, swallow! It’s not working! Here she blows!” I try to mask the coughing, but there’s no hiding it. I heave and honk, as others look on, horrified.
At my boarding gate, the coughing began. My body contorted with each spasm of my diaphragm, my eyes watered and I emitted guttural, gravelly croaks in rapid succession. Unable to catch my breath between hacking coughs, tears streamed down my face, and my hands shook as they shielded my mouth, catching spatter, sputum or whatever blasted forth from my lungs.
Boarding Groups A and B stared at me from their neat queues behind the gate. A waiting flight attendant offered me a bottle of water. A passenger from another gate offered me a handful of cough drops. An alarmed passerby asked, “Are you all right?”
I raised a finger up to signal, “Gimme a sec,” but was unable to croak words before the next cough seized my vocal cords. I partook in the remedies offered to me, and gestured my sincere thanks.
Ten minutes later, precariously under control, I boarded the plane and found my seat — the very last on the plane, row 27, window. In the middle seat sat an elderly woman who gave off that she was looking forward to getting to know me during the flight. I would normally welcome a friendly chat during a boring flight. However, the coughing fit had left me feeling like something wasn’t right. Deep in my lungs, I felt something viral brewing.
Before, during and after takeoff, the little old lady beside me chatted away softly to herself. “I’ll tighten this belt in case there’s turbulence. Oh, I don’t like turbulence. Looky here, a list of snacks and beverages. I’ll order the apple juice ... ,” her mindless, but charming, prattle went on.
I, too, have always been a talker. Countless thoughts are spawned in the fertile recesses of my mind, and are only given a few moments of incubation time before I give in to the irresistible impulse to birth them into the world in the form of unsolicited speech. The poor people who happen to be within earshot of me tend to get a glazed look in their eye, the telltale sign that they are bored, praying for the end of the story, trying to find a point or just simply thinking, “She never shuts up.”
“Am I beholding my future?” I wondered as the old lady muttered away, and sincerely wanted to avoid that fate.
The next morning, I was offered a helping hand in the form of laryngitis. I awoke with an upper respiratory infection, and no voice. “[I]mmediately rest your voice by avoiding talking and whispering,” online medical resources advised.
“Easy enough,” I rasped to myself, immediately violating good advice. “Oops — dammit! No talking!”
I tried to control my natural loquaciousness to no avail. I learned that the same people who bust my chops for talking too much, rely on me to keep conversations going. When I did manage to keep my trap shut, it produced the most excruciatingly awkward silences begging me to fill them.
Despite its lack of rest, my voice box survived laryngitis. If that chatty traveler in 27B was my future self, I think I’m at peace with her — apple juice, turbulence and all.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
