Talk about phobias.
My daughter-in-law was always a little bit uncomfortable flying on airplanes. Made sense, if you think about it. It’s the rest of us who think it’s normal being cooped up in a machine flying higher than the clouds and no safety net if this machine decides it doesn’t want to fly anymore. But anyway, this teensy discomfort didn’t stop her. Until one trip back from America to Israel, when she and my son were sitting with their toddler in the back of the airplane when the aircraft dipped alarmingly, causing terrific turbulence. Maybe she would have attributed it to bad weather conditions and went back to sleeping; but when the pilot, white-faced, and visibly agitated came rushing to talk to the stewardesses and refused to answer questions, my daughter in law got more than a bit uncomfortable flying. I mean, makes sense too; if the pilot doesn’t know how to keep the machine up in the air properly, why risk her life?
Now, this was causing a problem because she now she didn’t want to fly back to America for with her two children. Look, if she and my son preferred to remain in Israel for Succos, that’s their decision. Except, of course, they would first need to drop off my grandchildren in America. So my daughter-in-law calls me up, and basically makes it clear that since I’m her mother-in-law, and a social worker, and she talks to me every day anyway, she want me to give her therapy over the phone so she can overcome her fear of flying. And since I spend much of my time on the phone sending kissing noises to my newborn grandchild, I agreed we could probably fit therapy in.
And we did.
We did cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) in which we addressed faulty cognition, used desensitization, and did homework assignments (she was a perfect client! No surprise there; she’s a perfect daughter (in-law), too!).
And while my daughter-in-law traveled with two children a much more relaxed person, her phobia decreased significantly, she pitied her friend who hyperventilated while flying because of her phobia of germs.
Enter Part 2 of this saga.
Did I mention that I have claustrophobia?
That I’m scared of being closed into a space where my oxygen will be cut off? That those tiny elevators people build in their homes are my enemy? Okay, so now you know. I have some distant, hazy memory of a dark, stuffy closet filled with heavy coats, of being locked inside, of a game of hide and seek gone awry, of the relief of light and air when the door opens suddenly and I tumble out sweaty and scared.
We traveled for holidays to Israle, where my daughter-in-law (and daughter) were cooking up a storm so we could enjoy our vacation, so that left a day for us to go touring in Jerusalem. The children chose the Me’arot of Chizkiyahu. And because we are on vacation I forgot the English translation of me’arot (tunnels!). And when I went to bed, I suddenly couldn’t sleep, because in a brilliant flash of memory, I remember what me’arot means; but it was too late to cancel our plans, to disappoint the children, to back out without seeming like the most awful mother in the world.
And I thought of my daughter-in-law, and our therapy phone sessions (no, I didn’t charge; daughter-in-law privilege), and how it worked. And I thought that maybe I need to—you know—talk the talk, walk the walk and do the same. And so there in bed I repaired faulty cognition used visualization to desensitize myself, and assigned myself a bit of homework.
Yes, the tunnels were fascinating, and except for some deep breathing relaxation techniques I needed to use when suddenly a whole group of children showed up right behind me in the dark, narrow tunnels, closing me on all sides, the hour went by pretty quickly.
Like daughter-in-law, like mother-in-law (isn’t that how the saying goes?).
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BINAH MAGAZINE
My book, Therapy, Shmerapy, can be found in bookstores or online