Terror, by Gillian

I don't understand terrorism or terrorists. I mean, intellectually of course I do. I understand what psychiatrists say about the factors causing people to become terrorists; but I can't get inside their heads. I simply cannot feel what it is they are feeling. With an estimated minimum of a thousand young people a month from different parts of the globe currently rushing off to join forces with ISIS, however, it's clear that creating terror holds an attraction for a significant number of people.

Not only am I completely mystified by that desire, or compulsion, to bring terror to others, but I am fortunate enough to be able to say that I have never felt true terror myself. That is not because I am remarkably brave and tough. Neither am I in denial of some unacknowledged terror. It is simply that I have lived my life in a place and time that has been terror-free. For me, that is. Not, alas, for everyone.

I can only imagine the utter terror I would feel, hiding in the bushes in Rwanda, waiting to be discovered and hacked to pieces by my erstwhile friends and neighbors. Or hiding in a room in Nazi Germany, waiting to be turned in to the Gestapo by my erstwhile friends and neighbors. Sadly, the list is endless. I would know what real terror was in Stalin's U.S.S.R and Mao's China: the Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge and on and on to today's North Korea and most places in the Middle East.

I say I can only imagine, but in truth I'm sure I cannot. I have lived so far from the horror of so many people's lives that I cannot begin to imagine what it would be like. I have lived in my own little warm and cosy cocoon, safe and secure. Oh sure, I've been a bit afraid occasionally. For instance, long before the advent of cellphones, on business in Florida, I got lost in Miami in the dark and pouring rain and my rental car broke down in a part of town which looked seriously uninviting. Walking home in Denver one night after dark someone followed me step for step. When I slowed, the footsteps behind me slowed; they kept pace if I walked faster. Nothing bad resulted from these minor incidents, and the most they made me feel was a bit nervous: just a frisson of fear. I've had health issues that made me feel much the same, but that's nothing approaching terror. They call it a cancer scare, after all, not a cancer terror, though I'm equally sure that being diagnosed with some horrific Stage Four cancer would certainly invoke terror.

The most frightened I have ever been, I think, were two instances involving airplanes.

One was on a flight from New York's La Guardia to London Heathrow. It was at the height of the Falklands "war," so it must have been 1982. I was working God knows how many hours a week at the time and as soon as I settled to watch the movie, which was Tora Tora Tora, I fell into a deep sleep. Over the mid-Atlantic we hit some really rough air, and even that didn't wake me, but a combination of things suddenly did. We were bouncing around so badly that one of the overhead bins bust open - it must not have been securely latched - and a hard-sided case fell out onto the woman directly in front of me. It must have been heavy as blood started pouring from her head and she began to scream. At precisely the same moment, a voice from the cockpit announced with regret that the H.M.S. Sheffield had been sunk with heavy loss of life. Well, you know what it's like when you are rudely awakened from a very deep sleep. You lust can't get your bearings. I was awash in confusion. My last memories, from the movie, were of air battles; planes crashing into the ocean. The name Sheffield bothered me because that's where I went to College. Were we at war? What was happening? Why was that woman screaming and bleeding?

Why was the plane pitching and reeling? Were we going down in the ocean? I'm sure this complete lack of any grasp on reality was very short-lived, but it seemed like forever and I was truly scared. But I think I was too confused to be really terrified, and I realized well enough that I was confused. Had we really been going down, yes, then I'm sure I would have felt undeniable terror, for real. I think, now, of those doomed passengers on that flight that went down in Pennsylvania on 9/11, and more recently the one that wandered off course around the skies for several hours before, they think, ending up at the bottom of the Indian Ocean; some terror involved there, I would guess.

The other time was when my husband of the time was flying us back from California in our little four-seater plane. There were the two of us and my two youngest step-children. We had just cleared the Sierra Nevada summit, heading East back to Colorado at about 8,000 feet in a clear blue sky. Suddenly an invisible hole in the sky opened up and we fell through it like a rock. My stomach hit the roof. The clipboard securing the navigation charts, which I always held on my lap, shot up and the metal clip gouged a big gash under my chin. My step-daughter started screaming. The hillside was coming up to meet us at a really frightening speed. The plane stopped falling as suddenly as it had started, and we landed at the first available spot to make sure there was no damage. There was a crack in one wing and in the tail, but not enough to stop us flying on home. We later calculated that we had dropped about 6,000 feet in very few seconds.

And it was scary, but it was all over before I had time to work up to real terror. Maybe it's just that my reactions are too slow!

I had planned to end there, but you know how these stories go. Sometimes they seem to take on a life of their own and go off on a tangent you had not planned to take. So we'll just follow.

Some of you may remember that several months ago I wrote about my dad, who, lost in a daze of dementia, created havoc by trying to liven up their electric heater, which was made to look somewhat like a real fire, by jabbing at it with the old metal poker. 

I was writing this current story, last week, on a very cold day, around zero outside. Somehow when it's that cold, it seems to seep into the house regardless of how you have set the thermostat.

I was cold. I huddled closer to the cozily-glowing gas insert fireplace and noticed that there was a considerable gap between two of the "logs." No wonder it's cold in here, I thought, and unbidden the next thoughts leapt into my head. I need to get the poker and rearrange those logs a bit, that'll warm things up.

Now that truly terrifies me.

© 24 Nov 2014 

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me by Phillip Hoyle

Several years ago I developed an unusual medical condition that stumped my doctor and both interested and frightened me. One morning I discovered a growth on the index finger of my left hand. It first appeared to be a long splinter the length of the finger next to the thumb. Unlike a splinter, it seemed articulated and bent when my finger bent. I was fascinated but also knew I needed to show it to my doctor. I couldn’t get an appointment that first day but set one for the next. Overnight the splinter-like protrusion expanded a little bit beyond the finger, and looked like a kind of lobe, like a smaller finger attached to the index finger.

Many things went through my mind on the bus ride to Dr. Pierce’s office. Was this some kind of exotic infection from Africa? I had any number of African friends. Was it from the high Himalayas, the original home of my friend Ming? Or China where my friends Rong and Fong originated? Or Korea from which Chong immigrated? I decided not to worry and just kept my hand on my lap covered by my other rather normal appearing right hand. But I did worry. Would I ever again play the piano? Could one even play with six fingers? Would I have to give up my massage practice? I’d already cancelled half a dozen massages. Would I still be able to shuffle a deck of cards?

At the doctor’s office I watched as my physician examined the oddity. He said it was not a splinter but rather a buildup of fluid and proposed to extract some of it for further examination. Out came the needle. Into the finger it reached. Out came dark red blood. Doctor looked concerned and marked the sample for the lab to examine STAT. He asked me to wait and showed me to an empty room. I wondered what he’d find. I had wanted to excise the dark line that invited ideas of demon possession, an idea I had long excised from my mind. Couldn’t I simply cut it off like I once did a mole? I examined myself. I thought about the many projects I was planning. I made a list of friends to call, especially those I had lost track of over the previous couple of years. I checked my phone messages, listening to all those I’d not heard, erasing many, many voice and text messages, and otherwise filled my time with distracting tasks. After about an hour, a nurse brought me a bottle of water and some magazines apologizing for the long inconvenience. My one hour wait turned into two hours. Finally Dr. Pierce returned. He told me I would have to enter the hospital. My heart rate rose. “We need to keep watch over this.” He frowned; I wondered why. “The CDC wants you isolated,” he explained for their computers had matched the sample with something dreadful. My fears shook me.

I entered a world of sterile isolation. There all was bed rest, confusion, and fear. The staff members were nice to me yet cautious and also afraid. I was also amazed for when in my long life had anything I had ever done become of national concern? Finally I awoke from the dream that morning, December 29, 2010.

Morning Pages entry from 12-29-2010

Woke up from a dream in which I discovered a growth on my index finger. It looked like a long splinter the length of the finger but protruded a little bit beyond in a separate lobe as if the whole thing were growing alongside my finger. I used it as an illustration that, like this splinter, most folk in the room (were they UUs?) would like to excise the mythological elements from their minds. I wondered if it really was a splinter and thought I’d like to find out. The stuff that came out was liquid like pussy blood. The CDC said to contain the liquid and get it to a hospital for examination. The medics were to isolate me because their computers had matched it with something dreadful. Sterile concerns all along towards the end of the dream. Keep samples sterile, etc. keep the fluid isolated. Isolate me, too.

© Denver 2014

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com