Crammed In, Cracking Up, Holding On

Friday nights are girls’ night at my sister’s place; men exiled, takeout on speed dial, cards on the table, and the week’s drama unpacked. This week, we were laughing about an incident that occurred a number of years ago. Mom’s side of the family announced their 80^th annual family reunion in Indianapolis. Big milestone, and since she hadn’t been back in many years, my brother Den, my sister Kami, and I went along. August in Indiana: where a breeze exists, but only to remind you it’s hot…too hot.

We toured the usual memory-lane stops: Mom’s childhood home, her grandparents’ place, and of course the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, where her grandfather’s company provided and laid the brickwork. All very nostalgic and being an avid genealogist, I loved every minute. One of our stops was downtown’s Soldiers and Sailors Monument - the tower that honors Indiana veterans and, according to its history, stands just a bit shorter than the Statue of Liberty. It has a museum at the bottom, and for those curious enough to try, a lookout tower at the top.

The elevator to the observation deck only held two people at a time. Kami and I went first. The rickety box creaked upward into a narrowing stone tower while the heat rose to sauna levels and the air started to feel like a hot towel slapped over my face. Small detail I’d forgotten to factor in until about halfway up: I have severe claustrophobia. The kind of 'severe' where I avoid turtlenecks! Too late. This wasn’t a tourist attraction; it was the setup to a low-budget horror film.

Quickly approaching full-on panic mode, I told myself it would be fine once we reached the windows at the top, where I could see out. It was not fine. The elevator did not go to the top - it stopped three-quarters of the way up, dumping us into a dim hallway narrower than the middle seat on a budget airline. The only way forward was several flights of creaky wooden stairs through a human-sized hamster tube. Kami saw this and wisely texted Mom and my brother: Don’t come up here! Too late.

Cornered in the world’s tiniest waiting room, I could feel the anxiety climbing faster than the elevator was. When the doors finally opened, Mom and Den were inside, instantly clocking the sheer panic plastered across my face. Kami and I didn’t care about personal space; the four of us crammed ourselves in like clowns at the circus, minus the red noses but with the same level of dignity. The moment the narrow door opened at the bottom, we exploded into the lobby. I ran straight outside into the blessed open air, gasping like I’d just chased down my Amazon package in slippers.

Den, being the 'classic little brother' that his, thought it was hilarious, of course. Once I could breathe again, I joined them back inside, where I spotted a tiny 3x5 card taped to the wall: Not recommended for those with claustrophobia or fear of heights. Seriously?!? A warning that important, printed in 12-point font and taped at toddler level? There should’ve been a neon sign, a loudspeaker announcement every five minutes, and maybe a guy in a safety vest handing out waivers. Instead, passengers got a Post-it note after-thought.

Later that evening, in the hotel elevator (big enough to host a family reunion of its own, I might add) Den decided to corner me just for fun. Standing over six and a half feet tall, he loomed over me and taunted, “You better now? You OK?” Because nothing says “loving brother” like triggering your sister’s claustrophobia for sport. I survived the monument, but let’s be honest - Den nearly didn’t survive that elevator ride.

Ever since I started writing publicly about my perspectives on grieving, I’ve started paying closer attention to the way even silly incidents can mirror something deeper. While laughing about this one, I had a thought: profound loss can feel a lot like that elevator: hot, airless, and much too small for any of us. The only way out is down, and sometimes the only way we make it is crammed in with the people who love us most. No one hands you a neon warning sign that says, “this ride will be rough!” You only discover it while you’re already inside. And if you’re lucky, you’ve got a brother cracking jokes in the corner - not to erase the weight of it, but to remind you that you’re still here, still breathing, and even in the middle of it, laughter still has a place.