Getting to the Friendly Skies - The Thin Edge of Dignity

Photo by Robert B. Miller

We have been told that the skies are friendly – at least those belonging to United Airlines. To me, an 80-something, disabled person in a wheelchair with only one hand that somewhat functions, finding a way to get up into the blue is a process of decision making.

I recently flew to Chicago. First I had to find a way to get to the airport. And while I was at it – find a way to get back onto the city from which I had come, following the return flight in the friendly skies.

When I know that I have to be air-bound, I have two choices:

1) Ask a friend to drive me the 85 miles to the airport, return without me; wait several days city, then drive the 85 miles to pick me up, and return with me to the city from which we have come.

That’s 340 miles, four one-way-hours of driving, turning around and driving another four hours. To compensate for the driving, my friend will have scintillating conversation with me half the time, unless I fall asleep on the return.

2) I can luxuriate in the airport shuttle, spread out on wide, leather seats, close my eyes and lie back, knowing my luggage, including my wheelchair, is safely stowed in the belly of the bus. And there’s Wi-Fi for me and my laptop.

But, it’s a solitary ride, devoid of the crackle of conversation between friends. Moreover , I still need a friend to drive me – probably in silence - to the location of the airport shuttle, and to pick me when I return home

Moreover, the shuttle service ends outside the terminal – I’m dropped off at the pick-up/ drop-off traffic island. I’m on my own to maneuver inside, squeeze into a crevice in the revolving door, push through the crowd to find the check-in kiosk, try to rise from my wheelchair to reach the keys of the kiosk, feebly type my confirmation number - with my disabled hand.

There has to be a better way: I’ll drive with a friend from our friendly city to the friendly skies.

Once I’m taken into the terminal, my friend pushes me to the airline’s counter to meet the friendly employee who checks my confirmation and prepares my boarding pass. S/he helps me select a seat, and requests another friendly airline employee to take over from my friend, who then walks away to the parking garage to take the long, lonely drive to our friendly city.

The friendly employee, once s/he accustoms her/his ear to English, and we understand one another, pushes me to the security check point . If I’m wearing a coat, the pusher takes it off me and places it on the moving counter, as s/he does my backpack and carry-on.

But, I am exempt from the turmoil of personal inspection. Being 82, I (actually we – the airline assistant and me) cut the line, avoid the body scan, escaping the TSA’s peek at my underwear. The security guard lifts aside the line divider, and pusher and I pass through.

Once on the other side of the inspection point, I am patted down and wanded, as is my wheel chair. (I feel I should make some wise-ass remark, but airline security is a serious business.)

When I have proven the only reason I have to be in the terminal is to ascend to the friendly skies, I’m given the TSA go-ahead. My pusher wheels me to the boarding gate, where s/he points me out to the friendly employee, cool looking amidst the hullabaloo. When it’s time to board, s/he will escort me down the chute to the open door of the plane, where I will stand and, hold hands with the waiting flight attendant, walk through the door, as the first passenger on board. S/he supports me as I baby-step to my seat – hopefully chosen close to the front row.

I ease into my seat. The flight attendant puts my carry-on in the overhead bin, places my back pack under my seat, and locks me in. My wheelchair has been folded and placed in on-board storage. I’m ready for the friendly skies. And don’t even think about the return – to the friendly city from which I left.

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