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19 if language fails us, or body I. Adrenal Glands When will this wick of fear burn off? I wonder. November, and 6 am, and I was on a plane. A plane bucking and weaving and bumping its way through cold and early air, the spine of the Rockies vibrating into view through the windows. The two propellers valiantly fought to keep us aloft, and the fumes of jet fuel filled the cabin. * * * We humans are mercilessly subject to our own body chemicals. Just let the brain suggest to the body that it release certain compounds —testosterone, progesterone, dopamine, adrenaline—and we are prisoner to the results: lusty or furious, terrified or blissful. The adrenal glands perch atop the kidneys like a head atop a curled fetus. Along with the thyroid gland, they have the greatest blood supply, per gram of tissue, of any organ in the body. Named for their proximity to the kidneys (renes), these glands bear 20 primary responsibility for regulating our body’s stress responses. At the core of the adrenal gland, the adrenal medulla creates and releases adrenaline, and its partner noradrenaline, directly into our bloodstream. Our response? Hummingbird heart. Rapid breath, a pale or flushed countenance. Pupils widened to dark plums. More blood to muscles, less blood to the stomach. Dry eyes, cotton mouth? The lacrimal and salivary glands are inhibited. The world tunnels in: loss of peripheral vision, and a loss of hearing called auditory exclusion. Pee your pants from fright? Acute stress response can cause relaxation of the bladder, even relaxation of the colon. Jettison anything that might slow us down: this is fight or flight at its most potent. Though nowadays, it often misfires: we suffer from so many stresses that physical arousal can’t solve. * * * I was trying desperately to meditate on my breath, and trying desperately not to think about the breakfast I’d imprudently eaten before embarking. Also, I was battling to keep out of my head every story I’d ever heard about planes hitting huge pockets of turbulent, variable-pressure air and dropping a thousand feet in a matter of seconds. The day before, on the phone Dave cooly reported falling several thousand feet in a helicopter that lost power while attempting a windy, challenging toe-in landing, and regained control only after they thought it was all over. Certainly if he could survive that, I told myself, a two-hour flight in a small twin turboprop into Wyoming wasn’t going to kill me. My adrenal glands had other ideas. In the forefront of my mind were the words I’d heard David Sedaris speak on NPR the evening before, reading from his new book When You Are Engulfed in Flames: 21 The young woman was lovely and flirtatious, and as she pressed herself against the gate I imagined her lying upon an autopsy table, her organs piled in a glistening heap beside her. I now looked at everyone this way, and it worried me that I’d never be able to stop. This was the consequence of seeing too much and understanding the horrible truth: No one is safe. The world is not manageable. The trick-ortreater may not be struck down on Halloween, but sooner or later he is going to get it, as am I, and everyone I have ever cared about. The plane heaved and swerved along; my ribs seemed to have a life of their own, curling inward like irony vines, sending out tendrils around my lungs and stomach. I held onto my breath for all I was worth: in, out. In, out. As much as I could narrow my world down to that one action. Either I was breathing, or I was not. As long as I was alive, I would have breath. As soon as I was not alive, no breath. Neither one of those options was particularly horrible to me. What was terrifying was the space in between: the terror itself, the seize of the iron bands, the conscious transition time from one state into the other. Studies have shown that today’s humans are not very accurate at identifying risk—actual risk versus perceived risk. We think nuclear power a greater hazard than driving a car. Rock climbing more life-threatening than riding a bicycle. Flying laden with the danger of mechanical failure. Most of us do know, however—at least intellectually—that statistically flying is much safer than driving. While I can tell myself this...

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