One of my phobias happened. Twice, in under two weeks.

I got stuck in my condo lift, and I don’t like confined spaces.

I live on the 30^th floor. The first time, the lift stopped on level 25. My destination was level 7. Fortunately, the lift door stayed open. I immediately got out and walked down to the 7^th floor, only to find that I couldn’t open the door to that level. I had to continue walking to the lobby/ground floor.

For context, there are four lifts to level 7, and two lifts from level 7 to the lobby. Level 7 is the changeover/transit floor where the management office, pool and gym are all located. In total, there are six lifts serving 142 units. Plenty when they are all working properly. Unfortunately, there’ve been frequent breakdowns over the last month.

The second time, I got stuck on 6U, one of the car park levels. I rode from the 30^th to the 7^th without incident, then got trapped on the second leg from level 7 to the lobby.

The morning of the lift misadventure, my plan was to walk over to my husband’s office to hand over an oatmeal apple pie breakfast loaf that I had baked. He had forgotten to take it with him. I know, I thought the same at first. It wasn’t the taste and it wasn’t on purpose because he was happy for me to bring it over. I arranged to meet him at 11am. And, because the lift stalled, I sent a message mentioning my ‘inertia’ knowing I was going to be late. I like to keep to my appointments, official and social.

Wrongly assuming that it would be a short malfunction, I told him I’d be fine. But, he, very aware of my claustrophobia, arrived at the scene almost immediately. And, grateful, I was. His presence and his constant push to the management staff to get the lift technician to urgently arrive at the site, and address the problem, were invaluable. I could hear him asking for constant updates. He was not prepared to accept the infamous Malaysian ‘on-the-way’ fobbing off. ‘On-the-way’ could mean any number of things from ‘I just got out of bed,’ ‘I will leave after I’ve had my breakfast’ or ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’

He assured me that he was just on the other side of the lift, which was nice-to-know but didn’t really comfort ‘already sweaty-panicky’ me. My initial confidence began to erode when I realised my release might take longer than I’d optimistically assumed. First the sweating. I was hot and I felt like I was running low on oxygen. This was despite the whirring sounds of a fan inside the lift. Then frustration. At the slowness and almost insouciant attitude of everyone not trapped inside the lift with me. Excluding my husband, who understood my condition.

Then anger. I was livid. I pressed the alarm button and refused to let go. I announced my discomfort and displeasure. I wanted everyone outside the lift and in the building to know that the lift had jammed, yet again, and someone was in it, me. Via the intercom, I was reassured by the guards that help was on the way. Apologies were also extended to me. Even a photo of me inside the lift was sent to my mobile. Not sure why. Maybe to let me know ‘they were visually in the lift with me.’ I appreciated the gestures but it didn’t change my status. I was still inside the lift, alone.

After what felt like an interminable 36 minutes, and many telephone calls later, the technician eventually arrived. He manually opened the lift door, which was in-between floors, and stared blankly down at me. I tried but I couldn’t prop myself up to get out. My husband then jumped into the lift. Interlocked his fingers, palms facing upwards, formed a makeshift stirrup, and asked me to step into them (I removed my shoes first) and gave me the boost I needed to scramble out of the lift. He then jumped out. The technician stood spectating. The lift straddling two floors with wires hanging about and a void of darkness was reminiscent of an episode of the ‘whodunit’ Netflix series, ‘Only Murders in the Building.’

Being outside the lift made me feel a lot better. I promptly told my husband I can’t do prison. Why? Hmm. After a short walk around the block, a sit-down in an air-conditioned café, he rode back up with me via the fire lift to our home.

I’ve expressed my fears and concerns to the Management Committee, who are working to solve our communal transport problem. In the interim, I’m not particularly comfortable using the lift but what to do. Yes, the staircase, which is a bit of a hike.