Flying? Seems I just can’t stomach it

I DIDN’T ease my way into international travel.

There was no trip to New Zealand or Bali to work my way up to the long-haul flights. The longest plane trip I had been on before my overseas debut was to Cairns; for my first passports-tamping experience I went straight to America.

In the months leading up to the six-week adventure my mum would reply to my occasional lack of gratitude for her cooking, cleaning and wisdom with “you’ll miss me on November 14”. To which I would say, “That’s the day I arrive. I might miss you by the end of the trip, but not on day one.”

As it turns out the “mothers are always right” rule applies internationally because to get to the holiday of a lifetime, I had to endure the flight from hell.

As someone who gets travel sick driving to the corner store, I was armed with enough Quells to get everyone in economy through the flight nausea-free, but, distracted by the novelty of the food service and in-flight entertainment I made the fatal first-timer mistake of forgetting to redose. Eight hours into the flight, at the half way mark, I got one waft of the mini pizzas and went reaching for the barf bag. And anyone who has experienced motion sickness will tell you, it can only be prevented, not cured. To make matters worse, we began to encounter what a flight attendant would later tell me was the worst turbulence they had experienced in five years, forcing everyone to remain seated — and preventing use of the toilets. As a result of taking every “free” food product offered me at the beginning of the trip, I was showing no signs of slowing down and whispers spread for people to pass their spare bags down to the girl in row 36.

It got to the point where I was administered some of the plane’s limited supply of oxygen to try.

Failing that, the pilot’s 2IC approached me to discuss the possibility of gastro, telling me there was a small window of opportunity to land the plane that they would have to take if this was the case.

I was able to reassure them otherwise but was moved to first class to “limit the impact”, just in case.

It then became one flight attendant’s sole job to rub my back and change my sick bag as I threw up every 15 minutes for the next eight hours. I’ve never missed my mum more.