Not long ago, anything from fever to depression was attributed to the so-called roaming uterus, she explained. Surgeons performed “hysterectomies” to remove the offending organ. But the globus sensation is caused by the autonomic nervous system activating a fight-or-flight response to stress. The glottis expands to take in more air while the muscles of swallowing press against it. It’s almost as if the body were choking itself.

I could have hugged Dr. Sinks, rubber apron and all. Once I knew the muscles, I could fight for control over them. It has been no small feat, but I have learned how to breathe through the feeling, to wrest the little fingers off my airway.

Passengers rise to their feet and pull bags and jackets from the overhead compartments. Bits of Dari and Pashto conversations swirl around me, filling my ears faster than I can process any of it. Mom and I arrange our headscarves, letting the ends fall over our shoulders and pulling the fabric down to our foreheads. A crush of bodies move toward the exit, down the stairs, and onto the tarmac. We’re greeted by a bright but brisk day.

We find our luggage on the conveyor belt and pass through checkpoints. Clay hails a yellow taxi, and for a second it feels like we are back in New York. We ask the driver to take us to the Intercontinental Hotel. He is not the least bit flummoxed by his English-speaking passengers.

“Intercontinental. Yes, sir. Yes, madam. Very nice hotel,” he says approvingly.

Mom and I slide into the backseat of the cab. Clay sits in the passenger seat up front with the driver. He sets his bag between his feet and looks back over his shoulder to ask us if we have a preferred route.

“Do you want to go through Wazir Akbar Khan?”

The driver glances in his rearview mirror, from which dangles a tasbeh, amber beads and a burgundy tassel. He looks back at Clay and smiles.

“You are many times in Kabul?” he asks.

“Many times, friend,” Clay replies.

We head west, down the long road that leads out of the airport and into the city. My sleep-deprived eyes move slowly across the landscape, as if I’m submerged underwater. Billboards. A shopping center with sale signs in the windows. A braying donkey. The ding of a bicycle bell. Cars pressed bumper to bumper.

“You are businessman?” the driver asks Clay. I am grateful Clay is here to absorb the driver’s attention, to distract him with conversation until I can collect myself. Clay tells the driver he’s a journalist in a way that implies we’re all journalists.

“Just look at this,” Mom says softly. Kabul is a jungle of juxtapositions. An internet café practically shares a wall with a mosque. Men with mobile phones pressed to their ears buy vegetables from the back of a wooden wagon.