Pandemic Problems

 So, it's been almost exactly a year since the world shut down for COVID 19. I was on a cruise ship when that happened, with spotty internet and no real idea what the rest of the world looked like while I planned my days around trivia quizzes, lectures and movies. We came home to a very different world than the one we'd left.

We all remember, I think, the last time things were "normal" before they changed. It's a shared experience; we all understand it.

As is usual, though, I find that I don't really understand how some other people reacted to the new reality. I mean, on an intellectual level, I can tell you how they feel, and why. I just do not emotionally relate to it.

Some people, when I'd post photos from my own back yard online, would say, "You went outside!?! Why? It's dangerous outside!" Well, look, being exposed to other people was potentially dangerous, but there's nobody in my back yard except me, and maybe someone who lives in my house with me. I didn't understand the extreme fear of simply existing in the world.

I went anywhere in public only once in that first month, to get groceries. There's three of us in my house, so in the first three months, each of us went to the store once. Maybe if I had a job outside my home - I don't - I would have been a bit more prepared for this, but when I finally went somewhere in mid to late April, I could not get over how many people were on the road. It looked like any other ordinary day. "Where are all these people going?" I wondered. 

After a month at home, I went driving to a lake just outside of town, hoping for fresh air and the chance to take photos; those are two of my preferred ways to relax. And all across town, the streets were full. When we got to the lake, the parking lot was almost full. Luckily, most of the people were out on the lake, wind surfing, so we were all distanced, and I got great photos. Still, I was a bit surprised by how many people were out and about. And how one of them wanted to walk RIGHT UP TO me to talk; hey, I don't even like that when I'm not worried about germs.

Which brings me to the other people that I don't understand, the people who experienced fear and anger and pain in being home all the time. I started to see all kinds of things online about how "humans aren't meant to live like this!" and predictions that violence and suicide would increase - and they did! This was a surprise to me.

Because I was, sincerely, happy as a clam. I woke up every day, especially in the first three or four months, thinking, "Yay!" I had no schedule, no expectations, no obligations, and it was delightful. For most of my life, I rarely watched TV during the day, but now, I had no problem with sitting down in my jammies and watching TV any time I felt like it. I read books, I painted, I stayed up late (for me, anyway) and slept in. I'd look online and see that people were taking online classes, cooking from scratch and making sourdough, and FaceTiming daily, and it just sounded exhausting. I was not organizing my closets and deep cleaning. I was rewatching old TV series - hello, Stargate Atlantis; I'm always going to gloat a bit that I knew how cool Jason Momoa was years before everybody else figured it out. I should have done more cleaning, really, but it felt like vacation, and who deep cleans on vacation? Not me. Everybody likes vacation - how were they not as happy as I was? Really, I was puzzled; I am puzzled.

But, because I was puzzled, I thought about it, I read about it, I talked to people, and I tried to figure out what people were thinking. I feel the need to repeat here that I don't look at differences as being an intrinsic case of, "who's wrong, who's right?" Right and wrong are for moral issues and the laws of physics, not for the fact that the world contains infinite variety, especially in humans. I'm also deeply puzzled any time someone sees that they're out of step, and immediately agonizes that they're wrong, or judges that everyone else is wrong and probably stupid. Some flowers are yellow, and some are red. Some dogs are small, and some are large. Some people prefer things that make me miserable, and vice versa. The point is to understand, not to relegate everything to two little boxes.

I also need to be clear that I am not speaking about about families or individuals who were experiencing job loss, illness, death of a loved one, lack of food, or anything else that is actually tragic. Those people deserve every bit of help and love and empathy that we have, and more. Their pain should, always, be our own. I also understand that most people were having some kind of empathy response, feeling for those who were experiencing these things. I'm speaking from my place of incredible privilege, about people whose homes looked a lot like mine - plenty of food (and TP), income, secure housing, good health, and loved ones who are mostly in that same boat, people whose lives are physically comfortable, but who now had to deal with being home (in comfort) almost all of the time, and were feeling uncomfortable about it.

The things that didn't resonate with me were things like, "How many times can you organize your sock drawer?" or actual angst, like the woman who said to me, "Was I always this friendless, and I just didn't notice?" I had to roll that around in my brain for a while, because it made no sense to me. How can you have fewer friends, just because you're at home, not out and about?

I think I've figured that out; it has to do with who we perceive as a friend. My definition is very broad and encompassing. If I like you, if I have positive thoughts about you or feelings for you, you are my friend. Unless I specifically dislike you, you're my friend. That means that you, personally, are in luck if we've ever met; I would be hard pressed to name more people than I can count on one hand as being people that I just do not like. Even then, even counting the very few people on the planet whose presence I avoid, I don't wish harm or misery on any of them. I hope they're happy and healthy, just not in my presence. If they were to be in my presence, I would be polite, unless pushed pretty aggressively.

Sure, I understand the concept of "close" and "casual" friends, but it's become fairly clear to me that I don't categorize the same way some other people do. There are people who have never been in my home, who have never hosted me in their home (despite living in my community), whose numbers are not stored in my phone, who are absolutely my close friends. Some I've known for decades. 

A few years ago at a funeral, I saw someone with whom I hadn't been in contact for over 20 years. But we were kids together, we understand a lot of each other's backstory, they could have my organs if they ever need them, so the first words out of my mouth were, "I love you!" accompanied by a hug. And they said, "I love you too! How have you been?"

I'm often sincerely puzzled by people who see each other several days a week. I don't understand that; I don't do that. My parents didn't do that. My parents had family, neighbors, friends that they liked, that they did things with, but there were no weekly bridge games or girls/guys nights. There were no daily, or almost daily, phone calls. I'm the same way. Seeing someone 3 or 4 times a year feels "often" to me.

I also sincerely cannot make sense of the idea, "Well, I did like you, I thought you were fun, but then we didn't see each other for a while, so now we're not friends anymore." When I talk to people who only feel close to someone if they see each other all the time, it feels artificial and needy. I can be outside of your presence and still feel that you're my friend. One of my close friends, who I've known since we were kids, described it this way: "I don't need to see people every day to know who my friends are."

Other people have called me and my relatives like me "anti social." I prefer the wording of a professional counselor that I once saw - "You just function with a very high degree of autonomy. Most people don't." I'm not afraid or unhappy, I'm just self contained, and I can't imagine why that would be a bad thing.

I remember being puzzled when I was a newlywed moving to a new town. I'd be hundreds of miles from the only city I'd ever lived in, moving to a city in which I knew no one but my husband. Someone who truly was concerned about me said something about how hard it would be, because "you won't have any friends!" I replied, "I'll have the same friends that I have right now."

"But there won't be anybody to hang around with, day to day!"

"I don't hang out with my friends much now." I was 20, only two years out of high school, but I considered frequent contact to be something that kids with a lot of free time did. Several of my best friends had moved away, others were in school full time, some were like me and working two jobs. There was not a lot of time or money for hanging out, and our schedules were no longer similar, nor did we all live in the same neighborhood anymore. Getting together was a 'special occasion" kind of thing. I thought that was normal; I still do. I liked them, they liked me, I still wrote long, newsy letters, but now I put stamps on them instead of handing them off between classes. I didn't feel the need to audition people for Frequent Contact Buddy, because I wasn't lonely without one.

And yes, sometimes being with other people feels very much like an audition. They're trying to figure out if they want to spend time with you. Sometimes, the answer is no; sometimes, that's a good thing. Not too long ago, a dear friend - someone else I've known since we were kids - told me about someone who phoned them and said, "I'm sorry, it just takes too much work to be your friend, and I can't do it." The reason? An invitation was extended, the answer was, "Let me check with the rest of my family, and see what the work schedules look like," and that took until the next day to accomplish. That sounds so very normal to me. My husband's in bed at 6 PM, and works 12 hour shifts; if it's not an emergency, I may not discuss it with him for about 24 hours, because I won't see him for about 24 hours. Apparently, the Invitation Extender felt that things can, and should, be determined quickly, and arranged via text almost immediately. Having to wait overnight stressed them out.

I have to say, if that's the case, then I couldn't really fit into their circle, which means that "we can't be friends," since their definition of "friend" looks different than mine. Theirs sounds exactly like "too much work" to me. I tell people, truthfully, that I don't often carry my phone, especially at home. Calls, texts, or emails are usually answered within 24 hours. If that doesn't work for you, then no hard feelings, but we should not plan on doing things together.

So, the pandemic doesn't feel all that different to me. In fact, I often see or speak to people more than I did before quarantine. I spent weeks taking Porch Portraits, because people were home and available, and I love to have subjects to photograph (and I could stand out on the sidewalk, no close contact). I took the first family photos for friends with a newborn. I took "first home" photos for young couples. I learned how to Zoom. People occasionally call just out of the blue, to see if we're OK. I do not feel ignored at all.

Do you know what has happened? I hate driving. I sincerely hate driving. I have been on the freeway only once in about 9 months, and I hated every second. It takes 15 minutes on the freeway to get to our favorite pizza place; I drive through town, taking 30 minutes. The first time I drove out of town since quarantine began, I had a little panic attack on the highway. It was a familiar road - I've driven it since I was a teen, and I was only going an hour away. I've driven it twice in a day before. Now, I just came unglued. That was ten months ago. I haven't driven on the highway since.

I've never been really comfortable with traffic or high speeds. Even as a kid, I was not a speed demon. I grew up during a time when 55 was the national speed limit, and I drove a clunky, slow VW van, and I really resent being asked to drive 75 now. It feels dangerous. It always has. So does traffic. My husband and I have always had a deal: on road trips, I will drive for hours through open country and small towns. He will drive in cities. I once had to drive home through LA when he was sick, and I spent at least an hour yelling at other cars and saying, "YOU OWE ME!" to my sick husband.

My brother lives about 10 hours away by car (at or near the speed limit). It's a familiar road; I've been on it, as a passenger and a driver, since I was a kid. Most of it is flat, straight, wide open road like you see in car commercials, where your visibility is 50 miles. But there are two mountain passes, steep and curving, that I hate. I'd be OK if I could drive them at 45 or 55, but I'm told that I can't, that someone will hit me from behind, so I cringe every second I'm there. I'm going too fast, other people are going WAY too fast, there's little visibility, there's no margin for error. I hate it - and that's on a good, normal day. I hate being a passenger there, too. Now, I do not know when I might ever be able to face that again. Certainly not now.

And I hate talking to people about it. I say, "I'd be fine if there were no other cars. I could mosey at 45, and everything would be fine." Then other people say, "What are you talking about? If there were no other cars, you could cruise at 120, and do 150 on the straightaways!" That just sounds like death. Speed is dangerous, speed turns small rocks into something that will spin you out or puncture your tire, it makes you likely to lose control, it will send you hurtling over edges and off of curves and tumbling down the mountain until you explosde. I hate speed. As a teen, I once got up to 65 downhill, and it felt like the Daytona 500 and a very bad idea. That means that other people do not "get" me.

Still, I coped well. Only a few years ago, I drove, by myself, on a 6+ hour round trip, on the highway, just to get photos for a niece's school Flat Stanley project. I left town headed north, and hours later, returned to town from the south. I had fun; the solo driving was a kind of meditation time. Now, I cannot muster up the courage to drive 10 minutes outside of town to take photos of the wild horses. Oh, I'll go one direction, on the old highway, because the new highway bypasses it, meaning there's almost no traffic on the old highway. But I will not get on the interstate.

Six months ago, I gritted my teeth, and was a passenger while my husband drove us an hour away, on smaller, state roads, for a tiny vacation. I didn't worry too much about the virus, but I worried A LOT about traffic. It felt as if I nearly had a stroke when he passed a highway department vehicle on a downhill curve. The drive was misery.

You're supposed to visualize doing things that you want to do, or get better at. I want to eventually drive on the freeway, and leave town on the highway, so I visualize it. I'm fine and calm until I visualize other drivers on the road. Then I freak out. I don't like other cars. They're deadly weapons, driven by impatient, distracted people. They could kill me.

Doing something frequently smooths out the edges of the anxiety, desensitizes you to it, so it becomes more doable. During this quarantine, I have lost all of my desensitization to traffic and speed and curves. I am a raw nerve ending.

I want to fix it. I eventually will fix it. But when people talk about what makes them sad right now, it's being home, and what makes them happy is leaving. I'm happy at home, and leaving makes me sad. Then people feel compelled to tell me that I'm "not normal," and need to work at being normal, because normal is a life goal. That's misery, too. "Normal" and "average" are just math. And I'm entitled to feel however I feel.

But in a society that considers sameness to be a bonding experience, I'm outside of the loop.

Don't Look

My son is a naturally, consistently considerate person. I've come to count on him, because I can.

I've shared before an instance in which he helped me manage one of my worst fears, deep, dark water (in "Water, Water Everywhere").

I started sending my family into the rooms ahead of me. "Come back and tell me if there's anything I have to avoid." They always came back and said, "It's fine," until we neared the end of the exhibit.

The doorway showed a narrow room, almost like a hallway, that turned to the right. There was a wall, about waist high, on the right hand side. "Go check it out," I told my son. I've never been there, but I hear that in the Holocaust museum in Washington DC, exhibits that might be too disturbing for young children are behind waist high walls. The room gave me the willies.

He came back with wide eyes. "I can't even tell you about it. Just close your eyes and I'll guide you through."

Closing my eyes was too awful; it was pitch dark, with the ship moving and the creaking, groaning sounds on the tape getting louder. My blood pressure went up. "I'll look straight down at the ground, OK?"

"OK. Just don't look up."

...Heart attack averted. Thank you, Son. I am ridiculously grateful for his handling of the situation.

When we went to see "Life of Pi," I had to leave the theater when the storm that would sink the ship hit. Even looking away didn't help; I could hear it. It was too awful. I went out into the lobby, used the restroom, and came back. The ship had sunk by that point, but the life raft was still caught in the nighttime storm. I still couldn't watch. I stood in the back, near the door and away from the screen. My husband came looking for me and said, "It's OK. We're above water."

"Nope. Too dark," I said. "I'll come back when day breaks." When the storm stopped and the sun came up, I could go back to my seat.

When we went to see "Unbroken," I knew that there would be a plane crash in the water. It was in the previews; everyone knew. I wondered if I'd have to leave the theater again. I tried to brace myself. Still, that plane hit the water, and I yelped, leaning back in my seat. I leaned forward and looked straight down at the floor.

I tried to guess by the sound and the light level if it was safe to look up. When I did, and we were above water, but inside the plane. Louie, the main character, was tangled in something and trying to pull free. I looked back down; the next time I tried to sneak a glance, the plane was entirely underwater and sinking. I made a strangling sound.

My son was next to me. "Don't look," he said. He reached out and put his hand on me, so I'd know when it was safe. I looked down at the floor.

"Don't look," he cautioned a moment later. I just knew that somebody had to be trapped in that plane. I kept looking down. The hand stayed on me.

Finally, the hand gave me a squeeze. "OK," he said. He gave me a pat. "You can look now."

It was such a simple thing, but it meant so much, that reassuring hand and the voice - "Don't look." It felt safe.

Knowing that someone's looking out for you, and making sure you're OK, mitigating the fear, is a huge thing.

Yep. We raised a pretty terrific human.

Sailing the Seven Seas - Or At Least One

Did you ever wonder what it might have been like to sail with Columbus, to head out to sea with most people telling you that you'll sail off the edge of the earth or be eaten by monsters, but your own conviction tells you that you'll find a new route to known lands? Or what it would be like sail an outrigger canoe between Pacific islands with only the stars to guide you? Have you imagined what it must have been like for so many of our ancestors to leave the place of their birth, and board a ship to a new land, with no reason to believe that they'd ever return to the place of their birth? Or wondered what it would have been like to travel during the era of grand ocean liners, when the rich and famous sailed across oceans on ships with fine dining rooms and waiters in tuxedos?

Of course, I've wondered all those things. I wonder about them for all the usual reasons, and I wonder if I would have ever had the courage to attempt such a thing because water terrifies me. Crossing the American continent with a handcart sounds easier to me than sailing off across the sea.

As my family spent two weeks on a transatlantic ship recently, I told my son that I hoped that I'd gain a tiny bit of insight into what it had been like for travelers and explorers of centuries past.

His reply was succinct and characteristic. "Yeah, Mom. With the buffet and the pool, now you really understand Columbus."

Smart aleck.

On the one hand, he's completely right. We took our trip for entertainment. We knew exactly where we were going, and kept a schedule. Our ship bears little resemblance to most ships of years past, especially wooden sailing ships. We were well fed, comfortably housed, clean and climate controlled. Still, the most important consideration for me was not the vessel, the destination or the schedule; it was putting my life in the hands of the open ocean. It has swallowed so many of our ancestors, and so many ships - how could I trust it not to swallow ours? Even if it kept us alive, what guarantee did I have that it wouldn't keep us sick and/or terrified, the entire way?

I like guarantees. I will never, ever be a gambler.

The hardest part of the entire trip, for me, was making up my mind to go. It took me months to get to the point that I was OK with going - because, if I went, I had to be prepared for the worst case scenario. I had to have an actual, concrete plan for what I would do, and how I would feel, if I drowned in a shipwreck, or if it was nothing but storms all the way across. I have to be prepared.

I'm actually very good in a crisis - I become very calm, very efficient and very articulate - but I hate having things sprung on me with no warning, even good things. I must prepare.

How did people do it in years past, I wondered. How did they face the uncertainty? I have the luxury of living in a day when losses at sea are rare, and nowhere on the planet is uncharted. How did anyone ever look out at the ocean and say, "I'm not sure what's out there, but I'm going to go find out"? How did anyone decide to make any sea voyage when "lost at sea" was a common cause of death, and architectural features were named things like "widow's walk," because so many were used by actual widows? I don't think I could do it.

Even when I was on the other side of the ocean, standing at Europa Point, having had a safe crossing, I looked back out to the Atlantic and wondered how they did it. It seemed too scary.

Even men who loved the sea knew that she can turn on you in an instant, that she's merciless when angry. Then there were the maps marked, "Here, there be monsters." Forget about the water itself; underneath it were creatures who could, and did, swallow humans without blinking an eye.

As much as I'm a lifelong Star Trek fan, I used to think the same thing while watching the TV show - how did they head out INTO SPACE, knowing that they were surrounded by something that would kill them in an instant? Icy cold, zero atmosphere space is more frightening, and more deadly, than water. Much as I wanted to be a crew member on the Starship Enterprise, I wasn't sure that I could do it.

So, before we left for our 14 days at sea, I spent time imagining; how would it look, sound and feel to be caught in a storm? To have to board the lifeboats? I planned what I would say and do. People who don't prepare, I think, are the ones who degenerate into a**es and begin shoving and screaming. I got to the point that I could say, "Well, if we go down, it's been a good life, and the last thing I did was let my kid choose the graduation gift that he wanted." You have no idea how difficult it was to make peace with the idea of drowning.

Ironically, thinking about airplanes and spaceships made me feel better. I'm not afraid of air travel, and I thought about how hard it is to keep a plane in the air, relative to keeping a ship (or anything else) afloat. The Titanic had gone down "quickly," in "only" 2 1/2 hours; no airplane could fall for 2 1/2 hours. A small, slow water leak would give us days of safety, but any breach in the hull of an airplane at cruising altitude can be catastrophic. I thought about all those battle sequences in every Star Trek episode and movie - the ship herself, and most of her crew, survived. Even when things were bad, you just had to live through the moment, then the next and the next. Bite sized goals are good.

Sometimes, my family made it more difficult to be calm. My husband read, OUT LOUD, a review that someone had written about their voyage from Florida to Ireland. "We encountered 29 foot waves that lasted for days. The captain ordered us all to stay indoors and off the decks."

"Why would you read something like that to me? Do you want me to stay home? Because I will! Just say the word!" He could not understand why I was so shrill. I wonder sometimes if my loved ones have actually met me.

I hardly slept the night before we left. I nearly flew home halfway to our embarkation point. I walked onto the ship in tears. Sailing out of Galveston and away from land was tough - I watched the land get farther and farther away and thought, "Well, here we go. Too late to back out now."

As the sun went down that first night, all I could hear in my head was the voice of the elderly Rose in the movie "Titanic" saying, "That was the last time the Titanic ever saw daylight."

When I told my son, he said, "Why would you even think that?" Well, welcome to my brain.

On the other hand, I had to practice, and I got very good at, living in the moment. I like to plan, I like to reminisce. I'm not very good at being in the moment. I had to learn to shut off the parts of my brain that wanted to play footage of sunken ships, sinking ships, trapped humans, waves, disaster... if I let it run, for even a minute, it would undermine weeks of work. So, I had to forcibly turn off the projector, as it were, every time it wanted to start up. I also had to enjoy every moment while it was happening - "Right now, I am safe. Right now, my kids are safe. Right now, we're having fun. Right now, life is pretty good."

And it was good. The sea was calm, and the ship was full of delightful things to do. I wasn't seasick at all, and I'm prone to motion sickness. My family was having a great time. I was having a great time.

I knew on the first morning aboard that I'd be OK. My son's alarm, on his phone, was set to something that sounded like an air raid siren from WW II. It was still set to go off at o'dark thirty, in another time zone, so that we could make it to the airport. It went off in the early hours of the morning, and I woke up sure that it was the ship's emergency signal. I started calmly running through the list in my head - put on warm clothes, get life vests from closet, head to Deck 4 - before he shut it off and I realized that it was the phone. It says something about how calm I was that I was able to fall immediately back to sleep.

There were still a few things that I worried about. I'd been afraid that waking up in the dark, in our inside cabin, would undo me, with the combination of dark and the feel of the waves. It didn't - it didn't bother me at all. Score one for me.

We spent three days in the Gulf of Mexico, and the water was calm. I worried about heading out into the Atlantic, though. Two places on the ship showed a "you are here" video screen, with a satellite view of our route and a little yellow arrow indicating our current position. The photo, of course, showed the different shades of water, indicating depth. After a stop in the Bahamas, we headed almost immediately over a defined line where sheltered, turquoise water turned into open, almost black water. Crossing that line made me very nervous. As we sailed away from our Bahamas stop, a storm was brewing - dark clouds rolled in, wind blew and rain began to fall.

Worse, you could sense the difference in the water almost instantly. After four days on the ship, it was now creaking. I know, of course, that the creaking is actually good; the ship had to react to water the way that buildings and bridges react to wind. There has to be give. Still, it was slightly unnerving.

The waves got bigger immediately. My husband and son seemed surprised by this. "I'm amazed. Do you know how much energy it takes to cause that? You'd think it would be flat."

No! No! I wouldn't think that it would be flat! It's the freakin' Atlantic Ocean! Had they never read any history, never seen any movies? Did they have no idea at all what the reputation of this ocean was? Did they think that it was only dangerous centuries ago, but it had somehow magically calmed down now that we technically savvy modern humans occupied the planet, that our "advances" somehow tamed the planet itself? Of course the waves were bigger! Of course it was stormy! How could they possibly have imagined that it would be otherwise? I said as much, and more; they looked at me as though I was some kind of experiment gone wrong.

That night was the hardest one so far. I knew that if I had to get into the lifeboats in that weather, especially in the dark, I would not handle it gracefully. At best, I would vomit and whimper. At worst, I would have a heart attack before I was ever loaded into the lifeboat. Still, there were no panic attacks, no tears, and I slept well. That was huge.

I'd also worried about the midpoint on the journey. Being dead center of the ocean, hours away from any help, sounded scary. The day came and went without me experiencing any anxiety at all. Wow, I thought. I got this!

Most of the time, the weather was gorgeous. Even the cruise director remarked, night after night, "Can you believe this weather? This isn't a typical Atlantic crossing." ("Your mother is so watching out for you!" my husband said. Thanks, Mom!)

We had one day of bad weather, so bad that the crew had to empty the pools, and the captain announced over the loudspeaker, "The ship is in no danger."

This is what it looked like before they drained the pools.

By then, day 10, I was rock solid. The only thing that annoyed me was the seasickness. I had to spend most of the day on deck, in the fresh air, and I felt it the exact moment the wind started to calm down. Even sliding back and forth on the bed while I was falling asleep didn't bother me.

By the time we had to leave the ship, I missed it terribly. We're already wondering when we can take another cruise. My husband keeps talking about taking another transatlantic cruise, going in the opposite direction this time, so that we gain an hour every time we cross a time zone. I do worry that, if we did it again, there would be more bad weather. I don't know how I feel about that possibility.

Do I understand those ancestors and explorers better now? Maybe a little. (Even though I had the buffet and the pool.)

I do know that I'm very proud of myself. I took on the fear, and I stared it down.

And I had a great time doing it.

We Have Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself

"This is the bravest thing I have ever done," I said to my son. He looked at me skeptically, to see if I was being sarcastic or ironic or blatantly exaggerated; I was, after all, standing on a cruise ship. I was not joking; I meant it.

I like the explanation that Will Smith's character delivers in the movie "After Earth" about fear. "Do not misunderstand me. Danger is very real, but fear is a choice." Bravery, we know, is not the absence of fear, but the ability to work through it or past it.

Everyone likes to believe that their own fears are reasonable, and everyone else's fears are silly. I will readily admit this in myself. My fear is water - specifically, being trapped underwater and drowning. Dark water, deep water and submerged manmade objects intensify these fears. I feel the same way about this as the explanation of fear of heights from the TV show "The Big Bang Theory" - "Fear of heights is irrational and silly. Fear of falling, however, is prudent and evolutionary." Water can kill you.

I am not afraid of spiders, snakes or germs. I realize that under some circumstances, these things can kill you, but most times, they do not. If you put a person inside a sealed box of venomous snakes or spiders, it would be possible to avoid being bitten for an extended period of time. If you are still and don't startle them, chances are that they'll leave you alone. Even if you are bitten, chances are that you won't die. Germs don't care how calm you are, but a reasonably healthy person can fight off most germs automatically, without even knowing they're there. That's the entire job of the immune system. If you put a person in a sealed box full of water, on the other hand, they will die. Not "might" or "could," not "under the right circumstances," not "if you thrash or frighten it," but "WILL, " within a matter of minutes. They will die.

I try to be sympathetic and nonjudgmental when dealing with others and their fears. Still, I sometimes find myself being impatient when the fear is not life and death. For instance, I know that the fear of public speaking usually ranks higher than the fear of death for most people, but I cannot imagine why. I don't understand fear of rodents, or fear of insects. I know someone whose biggest fear is public humiliation; that barely makes my radar. I mean, everyone will face public humiliation many times in their lives. I certainly have, and I'm not dead yet. Sometimes, I'll watch someone struggling to avoid situations they think might be embarrassing, and I'll find myself barking, "Will it be fatal?" I mean, if the answer is "No," how bad can it be? One of the first things I tell my theater or speech students is, "Don't be afraid to look silly. You'll look worse trying to avoid it than you will doing anything else."

I manage to keep my fear reasonably in check. I swim, I go on boats, I once went in an actual submarine with viewing windows. Go, me.

On the other hand, darkness outdoors has never frightened me, ever, even filled with animal howls and bats. It's soothing, it's gorgeous. Indoor darkness, though, can be entirely unnerving, because it looks too close to being in a sunken ship. Not rational, but hey, there it is. So, although I recognize that my fear manifests itself in exaggerated ways - for instance, being unable to look at certain photos or film footage - I find it to be a perfectly reasonable fear.

My son wanted to go on a cruise for his high school graduation. We're only 4 hours drive from the Pacific, and he wanted to go on an Alaskan cruise. We chose one from Disney; we love anything Disney.

Then my husband found a transatlantic Disney cruise - 14 days for less money than the 7 day Alaskan cruise. Plus, we'd get to see Europe. Sounds like an easy choice, right?

And it was an easy choice, for the rest of my family. For me, not so much.

Ten of the fourteen days would be spent entirely at sea. Not just any sea, not my calm, placid Pacific, but THE NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN. That just sounded like days of seasickness followed by death, hours away from any help.

Before I do anything, I have to ask, "What could potentially go wrong? Could I live with that?" If the answer is "Yes," I do it. If it's "No," well, I don't. Any time I leave my house, I am aware that I could be hit by a car, contract a disease, be robbed - all sorts of stuff could happen. Things could happen in my house. I know the risk is there, and I accept it.

Don't try to tell me that that's the "wrong" way to look at things. I don't tell you how to live your life. You know how everyone always says, "Live each day like it's your last. Some day, it will be"? It's true. The last time I saw my dad, my mom, friends and relatives who have passed away, it was an ordinary day. Tomorrow, anyone I know might be gone. Tomorrow, I might be gone. The only guarantee is that I'm here now. None of us will leave here alive. Live like you were dying, my friend.

Death and I made our peace years ago. When he comes for me, I will greet him as an old friend.

I have, of course, put in requests with the Almighty. I would rather be shot to death in a burning building than have my death have anything to do with water. I have also requested that I not die in a flaming ball of shrapnel falling from 30,000 feet. The Good Lord is not obligated to honor these requests, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

(My husband, on the other hand, has to be almost positive that nothing bad could possibly happen, or he is paralyzed. If he considers what might go wrong, he will be unable to make any choice at all. He is therefore, from my perspective, frequently caught off guard and left floundering. "This shouldn't have happened!" he'll say. "How could this possibly have happened?" He has no plan of action at the ready, because he never considered the possibility that he would need it. I have contingency plans for my contingency plans.)

So, in order to sail off into the Atlantic Ocean for days on end, I had to say to myself, "Am I OK with four of my seven family members, including me, drowning at sea on this trip?" Answering "yes" to that is a difficult thing to achieve.

People tried to be helpful, but they didn't "get" it. They'd say things like, "Just stay indoors. Don't look at the water." I knew they meant well, but I wanted to say, "Oh, yeah - then I'll totally forget that it exists." I'm not a toddler. I know that things exist outside of my sight. Plus, if the ship sinks, being trapped indoors is far more terrifying than being on deck. During the emergency drill, they don't tell you, "Run into an interior space and you'll be fine." No, they teach you to go out on deck to the lifeboats. Being indoors does not mean being safe - in fact, it usually means the opposite.

"It's a cruise! It'll be fun!" they said. I know that; it doesn't help.

Think of it this way - what is your very worst fear? Your "Dear God, PLEASE don't let it be" fear, the one that will wake you up in a cold sweat. I'll use my daughter's as an example; hers is needles.

She avoids medical care until it's critical, and even then the worst part of any procedure is the needle. When she had surgery, they kept trying to talk to her about the procedure itself, how safe it was, how comfortable she would be, how necessary this was. She didn't care about any of that. She only cared that the anesthesia would be administered by IV, and that thought made her frantic and combative.

So, let's think about medical needles - how often will you need one? Vaccinations, surgery, blood tests, dental anesthesia - let's say a few minutes a year on average, for 30 to 60 seconds at a time. Most people will be exposed to them less than that. I had surgery this year, and enough blood drawn that my veins are scarring from it, and all told (including the surgery itself) it probably added up to 4 or 5 hours, over 365 days.

Now, imagine being stuck by needles every minute of every day for two solid weeks. That's 168 consecutive hours, or 10,080 consecutive minutes.

If you're afraid of public speaking, imagine being onstage with a microphone for 10,080 solid minutes.

That's the equivalent of what I was facing.

And I did it.

Yes. I did it, with a smile. And I had fun!

There were a few distressing moments, like walking out onto a lower deck at 10:30 at night during a storm, looking out at waves that seemed 10 to 12 feet high in the rain and blackness and saying, "If we have to get into the lifeboats tonight, I will die of a heart attack before I'm ever off the ship. I just thought you should know."

Yes, indeed, I had fun. Here's me, my husband and our host:

I warned people: I will now be insufferable. I am congratulating myself. I am very proud.

I don't expect people to congratulate me. In fact, I expect eyerolling: "Yes, yes, you handled a luxury experience. You. Are. Incredible. I am in awe." Still, I am feeling pretty bulletproof.

One of my kids noticed that I wasn't stressed at all while facing something that usually ties me in mental knots. I just smiled and said, "Fourteen days at sea."

Bring. It. On. I can handle anything. I am Chuck freaking Norris.

Don't Let the B******* Win

I know people who pride themselves on being contrary; I know people for whom conformity is paramount. I find it difficult to avoid being disdainful of both types; very little good comes from turning your brain off and functioning mostly on knee-jerk reactions. Every situation needs to be evaluated on its own merits.

Sometimes what seems to me to be the only reasonable course of action is one that smacks of defiance. I'm OK with that if the situation warrants it.

In the fall of 2001, while we were still reeling from the new reality of a world in which actions like the 9-11 attacks were possible, the news carried stories of people cancelling plane reservations. They either dropped their travel plans entirely, or they went by car if it was an option. People were fearful.

I had a different reaction. I booked coast to coast plane tickets for my entire family of 6.

My oldest was 15; the other kids were 14, 7 and 3. With a child in high school, we were realizing that soon she'd be out of our home, followed by her sister. I'd recently come through a health scare. We'd all always wanted to go to Walt Disney World, and there seemed to be no better time than the present.

We'd fly in and out of San Francisco and Orlando. The idea of cross country flights still seemed frightening to many, but I refused to be frightened into submission.

The idea of Disney World seemed unnerving to people, as well. More than one person told us, in worried tones, "Theme parks are considered high risk targets." Terrorists wishing to strike at the heart of America were likely to mount an attack in a place crowded with people seen as infidels, we were told, and Disney World has the largest attendance of any theme park destination. "They're likely to strike there next," they said.

I didn't care. The chance that I was painting a giant, theoretical target on my entire family was remote, I was sure, but I knew that it was there. I also knew that we were statistically more likely to be struck by lightning.

Do you remember those commercials that ran through a lot of 2002 and 2003 – "I fought terrorism by going to my sister's wedding." " I fought terrorism by attending my class reunion." That's how I felt – my own version of "give 'em hell." "I WILL put my family on cross country flights to high risk targets!" In any crisis, my strength is keeping things as normal and calm as possible. It was just inconceivable that we'd let evil keep us from doing what we wanted.

We had a great time. (And I have no regrets.)

Why am I thinking of this now? Because my husband and I had planned to see The Dark Knight Rises on July 20, 2012. We didn't go to a midnight showing (although I have friends who did). With our two youngest children out of town, we had rare time to do couple stuff. We had plans to go during the first day of the movie's run.

We did not change those plans after what happened in Colorado. Again, intellectually it was clear that the risk to us was small, but mostly, we were both angry enough to attend simply to thumb our noses at anyone who tried to ruin something as universally loved as attending a movie. Our family loves the movies – we refused to let the experience be tainted.

There were, perhaps, eight people in the afternoon showing we attended. We passed more security personnel on the outside of the theater.

That's a shame.

I do appreciate the efforts being made to keep me and others safe, don't get me wrong. Thank you, security personnel everywhere. It's just a shame when we let fear make too many of our decisions.

If I am ever harmed by going somewhere that others were avoiding, please know that it wasn't ignorance. It was defiance. They can come after me if they want, but in the Big Scheme of Things, they cannot win.