Last year my wife Diane and I decided to visit my stepson and his lovely Turkish wife in Istanbul and then cruise the Greek Isles. The only negative to visiting Istanbul is the eight-hour, overnight flight to Amsterdam with a two-hour connection to Turkey. But, I had a plan. I got my friendly doc to prescribe Ambien so we could sleep on the flight. I usually take a little of the hormone melatonin before bed anyway, which helps you sleep, so I figured the Ambien would really kick it up a notch.
We climbed aboard at Hartsfield about 6 p.m. I couldn’t go to sleep at 6 o’clock, of course. I held my nose and gagged down the mystery meat and soggy veggies that passed for a dinner. Still not sleepy. Settled in to watch a movie. Played some computer games available on the back of the seat in front of me.
Time passes. I check the time. Yikes! We’re only about 3 hours from landing. I need some sleep. I find my trusty pill vial and shake out my melatonin and just to be safe — two Ambien.
“Don’t do that,” Diane says. “It won’t wear off in time.”
“Oh, pooh, I can handle it.” I quaffed down the pills.
My next recollection is the plane bouncing to a stop. I lifted my head. Wooooh….. I was instantly overcome with extreme dizziness and nausea. Oh….my….. God….
I can’t stand up. The world is spinning crazily.
“Get up!” Diane says. “We only have 45 minute to make our connection.”
I stagger to my feet, swaying from side to side. I can barely pull my carry-on. We had two other heavy bags. Diane is handling them both.
I stagger into the terminal, the world spinning, barely able to walk.
Just inside the terminal Diane props me against a wall and says, “Wait here. I’ll find the gate.”
As she stamped away (furiously, I might add), I slide down the wall like some kind of spineless eel and end up hunched over on the floor with my head between my knees in a nauseous, semi-coma. Needless to say, I began to attract a crowd. One very pleasant Dutchman says, “Sir, are you okay? Do you have chest pain?”
“Nah, I jus tooksomedrugs,” I slurred without looking up. “wife’saroiundsomewherreee.”
“Well I can’t leave you like this,” he says. I’ll get help.”
By now, several kind people are hovering over me wondering what to do with me.
Diane storms up, pushing her way through the mini-crowd.
“GET UP!” she commands. “We’ve got 20 minutes to get to the gate.”
The crowd is stunned, all staring at her like she’s Attila’s domineering wife.
At that moment a uniformed KLM person arrives.
“Sir, we can’t allow you on a flight in your condition,” she says. I’ll get a wheelchair and get you to the infirmary.
“No, no, “ Diane says. “It’s just a sleeping pill. We have to get to Istanbul on this flight.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The attendant shoehorns me into the wheelchair, where my head slumps between my legs so I can keep from throwing up the horrible airline dinner. She takes off about 90 miles an hour down the concourse. Diane is juggling all our luggage and running behind.
“Slow down,” she screams. “You’ll lose me.”
No dice. We screech into the infirmary where a medical team descends on me, stripping off my shirt and hooking me to an EKG to see exactly when I’m going to get my final flight on Angel Air.
Diane’s explaining, to no avail, that it’s sleeping pills.
EKG good. Heart sounds good. Pretty fit body for such an undisciplined mind.
Finally the doc says, “Ok, I’ll give him a shot for nausea. “
We get checked out and wander aimlessly into the cavernous terminal. I’m still staggering and weaving like a hopeless drunk. Our flight is long gone, of course. Next flight: 8:30 p.m. Current time: 9 a.m. Suicide was my only viable option. That would help Diane avoid a long stint in the lady’s hoosegow for first-degree murder.
Diane spots an in-the-airport hotel. Tiny little 8x8 rooms, but clean and rentable by the hour. (Don’t ask questions).
I collapse and pass out. She sits there and fumes.
When I come to five hours later, I’m my ole chipper self — except for some angst over a ruined marriage.
God bless that woman. We chatted. We went to a nice restaurant. (If you’re going to OD on a trip, be sure you’re booked into Amsterdam. Such nice people.)
We finally clambered aboard the last flight to Istanbul and cheerily met our aggravated but tolerant kids at about 1 a.m.
Next trip? I’m on the QE-2. Much nicer rooms to pass out in.