Jackie Wells-Fauth
My grandsons came this week. The first thing the 11-year-old
did was empty one of my smaller cupboards and climb in and shut the door. The
13-year-old enclosed himself in a box which didn’t leave a lot of room for him.
This leads me to a sad but indisputable conclusion: these children are not
related to me.
I have suffered with a rather debilitating fear of close
places and crowded rooms for all of the life I can remember. I have accused my
two older sisters of locking me in a dark closet or a tight space in the house
attic, causing this horrible fear of small places. They deny any complicity in
this phobia of mine, but it had to come from somewhere; right?
I remember my grandmother asking me to squeeze into a small
corner in her attic to retrieve something. “I can’t,” I apologized, “I’m too
afraid of small spaces.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, adding, “I’ve got a little
bit of claustrophobia myself.”
Claustrophobia. Being afraid of being shut in a box with
someone sitting on the lid has a name! And a fancy one! From that point
forward, I was set. I can’t be in close places; I am claustrophobic! And what’s
more, it’s an inherited condition! I was so self-important with it, I figure
every time I came out with, “I’m claustrophobic, you know,” somebody would like
to have shoved me into a small space and walled me up!
But living day-to-day with claustrophobia can be a little
problematic. I was sitting in the living room of my house one extremely warm
day and my husband walked in. He looked at the curtains, blowing in the warm
air from the open windows and then he looked at me, sitting in the chair,
wearing less than a nudist at a clam bake and said, “Why don’t you turn on the
air conditioning?”
“Because I would have to shut up the house and it makes me
feel squeezed in. I’m claustrophobic, you know, just like my grandmother.”
“All I really know is that in November, you’re going to be a
mighty cold claustrophobic,” he said, shutting windows and flipping on the air.
I never shut the door when I use the bathroom at home and by
the time I have locked myself into one of those little stalls in a public
bathroom, I’m breathing so hard and whimpering so loud, I’m sure people in
other stalls are wondering if I’m giving birth in there or something!
The rug beside my shower is very damp all of the time
because there is no way I can shut myself completely in a little space that
resembles an upright coffin and allow water to pour on me. I at least have to
have a crack in the door so I can see the outside world.
Even my students knew about the claustrophobia. I always
left the classroom door open to the hall and with my loud voice, I’m sure the
teachers in neighboring rooms suffered more from my claustrophobia than I did.
On the rare occasions when I shut the door, I got so worked up and “itchy” as
the students called it, that they would, without permission or instruction, go
and open the door. Ah! That air, smelling of damp winter clothes and incomplete
hygiene, flowing in my room! What bliss!
I never go in caves. The one time I tried, I got as far as
the ladder that would take me down a small hole into the cave. Then, with my
shoulders touching either side of the opening, I suddenly remembered that I had
claustrophobia. I looked up at the lady about to start down the ladder on top
of me and said, “You have two choices: Let me back up out of here, or watch a
meltdown that will make Chernobyl look like child’s play.” I’m sure she
concluded she was dealing with a madwoman, because she mercifully chose the
first option and let me out. My husband,
unsurprised by my defection, had only one question when he returned from his
completion of the whole cave tour: “Did you get a refund of your ticket?” My reply: “I don’t think they reward cowardice with a refund.”
So, you can see why I believe those two boys purporting to
be my grandsons can’t actually be related to me. They can close themselves into
spaces which make coffins look big, and I’m claustrophobic. And it’s an
inherited trait, you know!
dropsinthewell 