A Word From the Weiss

        My nephew, an aspiring young fiction writer, can’t fly home for Passover this year because he's taking an LSAT prep course, in anticipation of applying to law school. He also aspires to earn a steady income, I guess. My son’s good friend Andrew, a gifted artist and marketing whiz, will enter Yeshiva University’s Cardozo School of Law this fall. He wants to earn an advanced degree.
        All around me, people keep coming up with reasons to go to law school, other than the most obvious, yet most mystifying to me – that they actually want to practice law.
        Now here’s a reason that actually makes sense, or as much sense to me as any:
        Yale is initiating a pilot program next week. Along with boning up on jurisprudential procedures at the school library, law students will be able to check out a therapy dog named Monty for half-hour sessions, in order to counteract their rabid stress.
        Why is Yale suddenly going to the dogs?
        “It is well documented that visits from therapy dogs have resulted in increased happiness, calmness and overall emotional well-being,” Blair Kauffman, the school’s law librarian, wrote in a recent e-mail to students, according to The New York Times.
         The school has yet to specify what breed of dog Monty is, the paper said. Neither is it clear what they will do to help Monty keep the muzzle on his own mounting stress during this revolving door of play dates.
        Hmmm. I may not be in the market to become NiceJewishMom.com Esq., but I could sure use help with stress, not to mention an occasional canine escort, right now.
        I especially could have used both of those things last Sunday night, when my daughter called to report that her flight home was delayed due to raging thunderstorms.
        Have I managed to write a full 10 paragraphs without mentioning yet that I worry about my kids? The only thing that makes me more anxious than having them in potential danger is flying – especially flying in a thunderstorm, about which I have a serious phobia.
        This stems from a horrific flight my husband and I took 25 years ago this week. We were flying home from a wedding in Washington, D.C. when lightning began to flash all around us. The plane repeatedly plummeted in midair, as if it were an elevator dropping 5,000 feet in seconds. It was so traumatic that I swore if we ever landed -- which seemed dubious -- I would never leave the safety of earth again.
        By some miracle, we made it out alive. And yes, I have dared to renege on that vow many times since. But the very thought of flying in a storm makes my teeth sweat.
        The prospect of my beloved daughter being subjected to my worst fear? Seriously? Just shoot me now.
        As I reported last week, Allegra (pictured here, second from right) was destined to spend much of her spring break in Austin, Texas, singing with her boyfriend’s rock band at a mammoth music festival called South by Southwest. She called daily to report that she was having the time of her life. They played two shows daily, met countless other musicians, and attended all sorts of concerts and other raucous events. And although it turned out that they weren’t actually opening for the well-known band Counting Crows, as she’d been told, they did play directly after its famed lead singer, Adam Duritz (below) – a not-so-nice Jewish boy known for his great mane of dreadlocks and gravelly voice – and hung out with him night and day.
        So I was feeling delighted that I had subsidized this trip for her and urged her to go, rather than traveling somewhere with us or coming home for Purim, as she’d been inclined to do. At least I was delighted until she called from the airport in San Antonio on Sunday night. She was flying home via Chicago, but had just learned that there were severe thunderstorms in the Midwest. Her first flight was delayed two hours, making it likely that she’d miss her connection home. She'd probably have turbulent flights both in and out of Chicago, as well – if she managed to get out, that is. More probably, she'd end up stranded there overnight.
        Hearing this, I flew into full-blown panic mode. Unfortunately, she’d called just as my husband and I were walking out the door. Some friends had invited us over for pizza. When I get anxious, though, I lose all perspective. Then I lose my appetite. Hang out with friends? Eat pizza? All I wanted to do was sit at my computer tracking her flights. But we had accepted and were already late. Canceling would have been rude.
        While en route, my husband urged me not to mention my duress to our friends. He knew how people tend to ridicule me for being both a nervous Nellie and a Nice Jewish Mom. But I figured that I needed to explain my agitation, as well as my lack of appetite. Plus, I was too manic to keep mum. So I just blurted it out the moment we walked in.
        Our friends happen to be both nice and Jewish, and to have children themselves. In fact, we originally became friends through our daughters, who have been close since childhood. The wife, Amy, immediately requested the flight number and raced to her computer, not caring if the pizza grew cold. She reported back that my daughter’s flight, contrary to the dire news I’d heard, had actually just taken off, nearly on time after all.
        I texted my daughter, but got no response, so I could only assume this was true.
        It was wonderful to have the distraction of good friends chatting amiably around the table. But to be honest, I spent the next two hours forcing myself to down a single slice of pizza while trying not to keep checking my watch. The moment dinner was over, and the other couple there made their exit, we excused ourselves and raced home.
        Home sweet home, to where my computer was. Sadly, that was now the full extent awaiting me there of what I’ve long considered the comforts of home.
        As I reported a month ago, we recently lost our beloved dog Zoe, after 12 years, to liver disease. Since then, I've come to realize even more fully the extent to which having her near me, to see and to touch, was the only thing that truly calmed my nerves. To be honest, I’ve always been on the anxious side. And by anxious, I mean ANXIOUS. Zoe was my personal antidote to this problem, far more effective or reliable than Prozac (not that I’ve ever tried it).
        Ever since she left us, though, I’ve become a mass of free-floating anxiety. I worry about almost everything and am no longer able to come close to sleeping through the night. My doctor even speculates that I may be somewhat clinically depressed.
        OK, so he based that assessment mostly on my own description of how I’m feeling. Plus what happened when I went in to discuss my bad (make that very bad) cholesterol last week.
        My triglycerides and whatnot appear to be much higher than they should be. But I don’t want to take Lipitor, Zocor, or anything else that might lower my cholesterol, I said. I'd prefer a drug that might raise my cholesterol. Otherwise, I’m going to start eating eggs and butter round-the-clock. Why take anything that might prolong my life, when it will just mean living even longer without my dog?
        Hearing this, my doctor decided to table the cholesterol discussion for a few more months, in favor of more pressing issues. Then he prescribed Ativan, an anti-anxiety medication. To help me sleep, he said.
        A doctor friend once prescribed this for me to temper my fear of flying when I had to take several successive flights to attend a funeral. It did help me drift off on the plane. But I only took it that once. And being staunchly anti-medication, I had yet to fill my new prescription. Besides, assuming my daughter would still make it home, I'd have to pick her up at the airport after midnight. I didn’t need something to make me sleepy. I needed something to keep me awake.
        Soon after 9, my phone rang. “I just landed in Chicago,” Allegra whispered. She was still on the plane and said that the flight had actually been fine.
        Phew! One down. One to go. She phoned again to say that the next leg was delayed. Then she called to say it was back on track and boarding. So I logged onto an online program called Flight Tracker, which allows you to track almost any flight if you have the airline name, flight number, place of origin or destination.
        Mysteriously, for the next hour, it kept telling me that my daughter’s flight was en route but hadn’t left the ground. Finally, she called with an explanation. It had boarded as scheduled, but then remained sitting on the tarmac for 55 minutes.
        I groaned. “No, wait, we’re taking off!” she crowed, then hung up instantly.
        It was nearly 11 p.m., Eastern time. I'd gotten little sleep, as usual, the night before, then performed that morning in our temple’s annual Purim shpiel, for which I’d written the lyrics, in front of about 600 people. I was now exhausted beyond words, yet also so wired that I couldn’t sit still. Where was Monty, the therapy dog, when I needed him? Instead, I did the only thing I could do. I kept checking my daughter's status on Flight Tracker, refreshing the page every 30 seconds or so.
        Despite what she’d said, her flight still didn’t appear to have left the ground. Then, finally, the little plane icon on the online map began to move, wending its way oh so slowly across the country. I studied the stats like they were a gift from God. 
        “She’s at 5,000 feet,” I informed my husband.
        “Now 6,000 feet!” I said shortly after.
        “They're up -- 30,000 feet!” I announced.
        My husband was calmly watching TV. “You’re insane,” he replied.
        I agreed. Then I made myself wait three minutes before refreshing the screen again. “She’s over Ohio,” I said.
        The whole time, I kept picturing her gripping the seat rests on either side, turning green as she hurtled through stormy skies. Would the plane be safe? Would she?
        Due to the delay, the plane was now slated to land at 1:02 a.m. I’d watched as it had inched its way all the way up. But we live half an hour from the airport. I wasn’t going to be able to watch it come down. So around midnight, I took off, bleary-eyed, letting my husband stay home. He had to work early in the a.m.
        The terminal at Bradley International was darkened and nearly deserted. I waited in baggage claim, as we'd planned. I'd arrived half an hour early. Even so, I kept checking my watch. The Connecticut skies were overcast but calm. Yet I remained in an anxious dither. I may not have studied law, but I know the laws of physics. Whatever goes up must come down. But must it come down in one piece?
        Just after 1, my cell phone buzzed. “Mom?” a hushed little voice said. “We’re down.”
        It took 15 minutes before a cluster of people appeared at the end of the corridor. I studied them for a familiar face. When I saw it, I began to run.
        “I had so much fun!” she gasped, grinning radiantly as I crushed her against my chest.
        “Oh, I’m so glad you went!” I exclaimed. But what I was really thinking, I must admit, was, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re back!”
        Sorry. Just shoot me now.
        Getting older means learning to let go, again and again, of the people and things we love. I know that, and I'm trying. But when your world is getting smaller, inch by inch, it's hard to let go, again and again, of the people and things you love. 
        By the time we had retrieved her bags and driven home, it was past 2. Then she was starving. And bubbling over with tales of her trip. We got to bed shortly before 3.
                     
        I emailed Amy when I woke up to thank her and apologize for my nervousness. She said she understood, having been through flight issues with her own kids. Then again, her daughter spent a semester last year studying in China.
        “If you get this jittery when she’s only flying from Texas to Chicago to home, then you would not survive Hartford--Chicago--Shanghai and then a bus trip to Hangzhou,” she wrote.
        She’s right. The next time my daughter flies anywhere, maybe I should take some medication and let my husband drive. Then again, the next time she flies will be to Israel; she’s going on Birthright with Amy’s daughter early this summer. I may still suffer from fear of flying, but there are no thunderstorms in Israel, to my knowledge. Plus, I have total faith in El Al. (Flights for Jews, run by Jews. Now, that is flying done right!)
        Meanwhile, I'm wondering if anyone has ever considered having dogs fly on planes as a form of therapy, for passengers, the crew and/or those anxiously awaiting their arrival. I also am tempted to sue the airline or the entire aeronautics industry for pain and mental anguish -- inflicted during my favorite Jewish holiday, no less. Seriously. It could be a class action suit. First class as well as coach.
        So, tell me. Does anyone know a good lawyer?