Flying

I don't want to ever fly again. Last week, I flew from Portland to NY with a broken leg, my dog and my mother. It was a trying experience. I am ready, I think, to write about it.

Airlines are required to make room for you if you have an injury. My Mom booked the flight, securing roomy seats for me and space for my pup underneath. I was taken by wheelchair through security (not through the metal detectors, although I'm sure my metal leg would have set it off) while my Mom shouldered the burden of three, full bags. My first crutching experience began, sideways, in the journey to my back row seats. I fell asleep for almost the entire four hours, clutching my teddy bear, only waking to notice glances from strangers on the way to the bathroom. At this point, I could barely move leg since my knee had been cut open during surgery. Going to the bathroom was dicey. The small amount I could bend it was, just barely, the exact amount needed to fit into the tiny enclosure.

In Chicago, we were ferried to our next gate, my leg sticking straight out with no support, in a wheelchair driven by a worker filled with contempt and boredom. I was exhausting myself by shear exposure to the hustle and bustle. Again, my Mom with the three bags. Our gate and the surrounding area was overly full, but we managed a few seats, I think, by our lost and frantic expressions.

We prepared. Our flight was a small one, as it was heading to White Plains, NY, not the city. It was raining so my Mom secured a trash bag from a janitor. Any water and my cast would tighten about my cut-up and bruised leg. Wheelchair ordered. Ramp called for. There were many flights leaving from the same gate, people scurrying and impatiently awaiting their turn. Others stared blankly at a computer screen of some size.

Instead of loading me in first, they forgot. The entire flight had boarded and the gate was closing. My Mom and I were freaking out. The wheelchair was there, but no one was with it. Some random airline worker agreed to take me in the elevator, but it was her first time, so my leg suffered a blow. Down by the plane, we all realized the ramp had not arrived. There was no way I could crutch up those steep, removable stairs. No way. Millet was already on the plane and I was convinced they would leave us. But they didn't. Twenty-five minutes later, I was pushed up the ramp and then hobbled to my seat, everyone starting at the interloper that caused the delay. Only two seats this time: my leg stuck out in the aisle for the entire two hour flight. No one moved. The stewardess went by twice with the drink cart, both times sweetly warning me and otherwise narrowly avoiding my toes with her thighs as she swished past.

I know that I will fly again. It's inevitable, really. But I have choices. I will avoid a layover in Chicago at all costs. I will wait to be healed to fly. For, I can not deal with relying on strangers to transport me ever again.