Claustrophobia became an issue some years ago when I took a window seat in a flight to LA. As we buckled up, I felt the walls closing in. I asked the man next to me if he’d mind talking to me to distract me. “No problem,” he said. “I’m a psychiatrist.” “What luck! Wow! This is wonderful,” I said. His wife leaned over and whispered, “I’m a licensed therapist. Please feel free to talk to us at any point.” I had to laugh. My fear vanished, and I didn’t feel the need to say a word after that knowing help was only a seat away. Powerful thing, the mind.
Several months later I told a dear friend that I’d visit her in Spearfish South Dakota which required a puddle jumper from Denver to Rapid City.” Coincidently, I learned that Kaiser would soon be starting a series of classes on dealing with phobias —eight weeks, once-a-week. A good opportunity to get this monkey off my back before my trip.
In a class of about 25 there were myriad phobias — about parts of the body, fear of flying, of crossing bridges, of driving through tunnels, of spiders, of bears. You name it we were afraid of it. The teacher was a real piece of work — in a good way. A man of a certain age and his wife who were eccentric, effective, and, get this, professional ballroom dancers. They started each class with a lively jitterbug performance.
At our first class, Dr. J. handed each of us a picture relating to our particular phobia. Mine was a photo of a telephone booth crammed with about a dozen people. Up at the head table were a weird assortment of phobia triggers: a fake snake, a giant rubber rat, a humongous spider, a model airplane, any other horrors. Collectively, it was our worst nightmare, and I had to avert my eyes. The idea was to slowly expose us to our bete noire, get comfortable with it, and then move on to a greater risk.
My initial assignment was to lie down under a low coffee table. Went home and rolled under my mahogany table and waited for a reaction. Nothing. That was easy. I was ready for the next step. My homework for the second class was to sit in a small dark closet with the door closed for 15 minutes — boring but not claustrophobic.
At about the halfway point, I was to get in a big garbage can and pull the lid over my head. Picked up one of those brown rubber ones at Home Depot. The hardest part was climbing in. I tried standing on the couch and putting in one leg at a time, but my legs weren’t long enough and I couldn’t keep it upright. Finally, placing it on its side, I scooted in backwards, like an inch worm. Then I rocked back and forth until it was firmly vertical, grabbed the lid, and pulled it closed. I felt some unease at first, but after a few run-throughs I was ready for my final exam.
My assignment was to ride in a small plane — a four seater. Yikes! The teacher had made arrangements with a friend who had her own plane to take me and two other class members up. Their phobia was fear of flying. We met at the Napa Airport. I sat behind the pilot with my knees on my chin. We taxied down the runway and lifted off. My seat mate and I clutched hands. It was okay. It was actually fun! I felt giddy and started laughing and then we all began shrieking with joy and relief. The air traffic controller asked us to pipe down so he could hear the pilot. The pilot circled around a few times, and we taxied home. We had aced it! There was champagne.
When I went in last week for an MRI, it was with some trepidation. Had the phobia class 25 years ago stuck? I had refused the Ativan to relax me, and decided to trust the process.
“You’ll be in the machine about 35 minutes and given about 12 different instructions,” the technician said.
“Will you be giving the instructions or will it be AI?” I asked. “AI,” he said.
“Would you mind speaking instead? A human voice will be more relaxing, I think.”
“Sure. I”ll be at the controls the entire time.”
They strapped me to a pallet on a track and gave me a rubber bulb to squeeze in case I needed it. Was afraid to ask why I might need it.
“Okay we’re going in.” I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see how close my nose was to the top of the tube. It sounded like someone was hammering on the outside of the machine and then a giant blast like the honk of a Peterbilt truck that had lost its brakes. This continued throughout.
“Take a deep breath and hold it until I say to release it.”
This happened 11 times. On the 12th I had to hold it for 30 seconds.
“He’s got to be kidding,” I thought. “If you need to exhale, do it very slowly.” I took a giant breath and made it to about 25. Close enough.
“Only five more minutes.” It felt like I’d been in there a couple of hours.
Finally, it was over. “I didn’t care for that, ” I said sitting up.”
“Yeah, that’s a rough test. I had to go in there once and told them never to put me in there again.”
For some reason that made me feel better. I hadn’t panicked. I could deal with simply not liking it.
“You’re the perfect size for the machine. My next patient weighs 450 pounds and I’m worried about how that’s going to go.” I envisioned sausage being stuffed into a casing.
“I hope he’s not claustrophobic,” I said.
Letters From Benicia 