Transfers In and Out of My Wheelchair: 38
Hours Spent in Airports: 7
Hours Spent on Airplanes: 2
Transfers On and Off Planes in an Aisle Chair: 4
Bodily Injuries Sustained While in an Aisle Chair: 3
Gawkers Staring During Use of Aisle Chair : 37
Airline Preboards for Wheelchair Users: 1
Medical Appointments: 2
Hours Spent at Medical Appointments: 3
Hours Spent Traveling to/from Medical Appointments (including Air Travel): 12.5
Cost of Medical Appointment Co-Pays: $178.36
Cost of Travel to/from Medical Appointments: $859.74
Taxis Summoned: 5
Taxis Actually Taken: 2
Hotel Beds Used: 1
Hotel Pillows Used: 11
Urine Collection Bags Used: 3
Embarrassing Incidents Involving Urine Collection Bags: 3
Birthdays Celebrated: 1
Birthday Good Wishes Received: 57
Other Birthday Celebrations Encountered: 2
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Even Two Bitchy Flight Attendants Didn't Ruin a Perfect Trip
It was bright and sunny in Puerto Rico on Saturday. In fact, the only dark clouds that crossed my path during my visit to my physiatrist wore American Airlines flight attendant uniforms.
This trip made up for all of the problems we had during my last two visits to my physiatrist, and then some. Great weather, no long waits anywhere, and we were in and out of the doctor’s office so fast (I was his only patient that day) that we were able to get back to the airport in time to catch an earlier flight back home! Making that flight cut two hours of waiting time off of our trip and got us home before dark You can‘t beat that with a stick.
Everything would have been perfect had we not been forced to deal with two obnoxious flight attendants -- one working the flight to PR, and the other deadheading our flight home.
Bitchy Flight Attendant Number One (BFA1, for brevity) was no stranger to me -- she worked a flight I took six months ago, and earned her moniker then. On that trip, she and I engaged in a battle of wills over where I would sit -- she was adamant that airline policy dictated I sit in the window seat (so my gimpy body doesn't keep my able-bodied husband from accessing the aisle and saving himself in the event of an emergency). I knew that was not policy, and I refused to move from my aisle seat (partly in principle, but mostly because it's not physically possible for me to drag myself in and out of window seats). I stayed put, and she's been pissed about it ever since -- she hasn't even made eye contact with me since she stormed off down the aisle when it was clear she'd lost the battle.
BFA1 recognized me as soon as I boarded the flight last Saturday, but continued to ignore me -- until it was time for me to get off the plane.
The aisle chair escort in San Juan was the evil opposite of the woman who helped me board the flight. He didn't speak with me -- he talked to my husband instead. He didn’t listen to my protests that I wasn't seated properly before starting to strap me into the chair. And he didn’t respect my personal space -- he kept grabbing my arms and trying to force them where he wanted them to go, even if it was physically impossible for me to move that way. BFA1 sat a few rows up, watching intently, as if my use of the aisle chair was the latest movie release and she was Roger Ebert on a deadline.
I was getting frustrated, fast, with my aisle chair escort and it showed -- those who know me well that I don’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. After my fourth attempt to make him understand he was not to force my elbows against my body, I decided that since he wasn’t listening to me when I used my normal tone of voice, I’d make sure my escort heard me. So I raised my voice, and stated unequivocally that he needed to stop grabbing at my arm *now*.
And that’s when BFA1 said it, under her breath, yet as clear as could be. “What a bitch.”
I let it pass. Her crappy attitude was not going to ruin my good day. The HipHubby wasn’t as quick to let it go -- he wanted me to report her immediately. (I didn‘t, and don‘t intend to.) Given how upset he was over her inappropriate comment, I really admire his restraint when he encountered Bitchy Flight Attendant - The Sequel (BFA-TS) later that afternoon.
By the time we were ready to board the flight home, our moods were positively buoyant. We’d been taken off stand-by and guaranteed seats for the earlier flight -- the only issue now was where those seats would be. The gate agent listened to my explanation of why I needed to sit in the second row from the rear, but refused to reassign anyone, so we decided to do what we always do in these situations -- take the seats that work best for me when we preboard, then tell the passengers assigned to those seats to take our assigned seats instead.
There was only one tiny, little flaw in this plan. The person assigned to my preferred seat was BFA-TS, and she was already settled in to it by the time The Hubby got on board to help me transfer when I made it onto the plane a few minutes later.
Although I didn’t know about this until we arrived back in St. Croix, it seems The HH had quite the encounter with BFA-TS. After getting past the shock of seeing someone already sitting where I needed to be, my DH asked BFA-TS if she would please move a few rows up so his disabled wife could sit here. She said no. The HH explained that sitting in this row would allow me to avoid the long, painful trip up and down the aisle on the poorly-driven people dolly. She continued to refuse, and no argument or appeal to her compassion would sway her. After all. she already had already taken out her papers. So I wedged my way into the very back row, and my DH wedged himself in next to me, and BFA-TS and her paper sat all alone, directly in front of us, where she could hear every whimper and word that left my lips.
I got a good laugh out of it when we landed and my DH filled me in on how self-centered BFA-TS had been. I had mentioned to The HH several times during that flight home that this was a perfect day except for that bitch of a flight attendant, and I know BFA-TS heard it all. Even though we both knew I was talking about BFA1, I’m really hopeful she thought I was talking about her.
This trip made up for all of the problems we had during my last two visits to my physiatrist, and then some. Great weather, no long waits anywhere, and we were in and out of the doctor’s office so fast (I was his only patient that day) that we were able to get back to the airport in time to catch an earlier flight back home! Making that flight cut two hours of waiting time off of our trip and got us home before dark You can‘t beat that with a stick.
Everything would have been perfect had we not been forced to deal with two obnoxious flight attendants -- one working the flight to PR, and the other deadheading our flight home.
Bitchy Flight Attendant Number One (BFA1, for brevity) was no stranger to me -- she worked a flight I took six months ago, and earned her moniker then. On that trip, she and I engaged in a battle of wills over where I would sit -- she was adamant that airline policy dictated I sit in the window seat (so my gimpy body doesn't keep my able-bodied husband from accessing the aisle and saving himself in the event of an emergency). I knew that was not policy, and I refused to move from my aisle seat (partly in principle, but mostly because it's not physically possible for me to drag myself in and out of window seats). I stayed put, and she's been pissed about it ever since -- she hasn't even made eye contact with me since she stormed off down the aisle when it was clear she'd lost the battle.
BFA1 recognized me as soon as I boarded the flight last Saturday, but continued to ignore me -- until it was time for me to get off the plane.
The aisle chair escort in San Juan was the evil opposite of the woman who helped me board the flight. He didn't speak with me -- he talked to my husband instead. He didn’t listen to my protests that I wasn't seated properly before starting to strap me into the chair. And he didn’t respect my personal space -- he kept grabbing my arms and trying to force them where he wanted them to go, even if it was physically impossible for me to move that way. BFA1 sat a few rows up, watching intently, as if my use of the aisle chair was the latest movie release and she was Roger Ebert on a deadline.
I was getting frustrated, fast, with my aisle chair escort and it showed -- those who know me well that I don’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. After my fourth attempt to make him understand he was not to force my elbows against my body, I decided that since he wasn’t listening to me when I used my normal tone of voice, I’d make sure my escort heard me. So I raised my voice, and stated unequivocally that he needed to stop grabbing at my arm *now*.
And that’s when BFA1 said it, under her breath, yet as clear as could be. “What a bitch.”
I let it pass. Her crappy attitude was not going to ruin my good day. The HipHubby wasn’t as quick to let it go -- he wanted me to report her immediately. (I didn‘t, and don‘t intend to.) Given how upset he was over her inappropriate comment, I really admire his restraint when he encountered Bitchy Flight Attendant - The Sequel (BFA-TS) later that afternoon.
By the time we were ready to board the flight home, our moods were positively buoyant. We’d been taken off stand-by and guaranteed seats for the earlier flight -- the only issue now was where those seats would be. The gate agent listened to my explanation of why I needed to sit in the second row from the rear, but refused to reassign anyone, so we decided to do what we always do in these situations -- take the seats that work best for me when we preboard, then tell the passengers assigned to those seats to take our assigned seats instead.
There was only one tiny, little flaw in this plan. The person assigned to my preferred seat was BFA-TS, and she was already settled in to it by the time The Hubby got on board to help me transfer when I made it onto the plane a few minutes later.
Although I didn’t know about this until we arrived back in St. Croix, it seems The HH had quite the encounter with BFA-TS. After getting past the shock of seeing someone already sitting where I needed to be, my DH asked BFA-TS if she would please move a few rows up so his disabled wife could sit here. She said no. The HH explained that sitting in this row would allow me to avoid the long, painful trip up and down the aisle on the poorly-driven people dolly. She continued to refuse, and no argument or appeal to her compassion would sway her. After all. she already had already taken out her papers. So I wedged my way into the very back row, and my DH wedged himself in next to me, and BFA-TS and her paper sat all alone, directly in front of us, where she could hear every whimper and word that left my lips.
I got a good laugh out of it when we landed and my DH filled me in on how self-centered BFA-TS had been. I had mentioned to The HH several times during that flight home that this was a perfect day except for that bitch of a flight attendant, and I know BFA-TS heard it all. Even though we both knew I was talking about BFA1, I’m really hopeful she thought I was talking about her.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Oh No, It Might Rain in San Juan Tomorrow
While I never really look forward to going to get my Baclofen pump refilled, I’m absolutely dreading tomorrow’s trip to Puerto Rico to see my physiatrist. It’s not because I’m worried that the airline will cancel our flight again, or because it’s an incredibly long day with a lot of exhausting transfers to and from my chair (which it is -- I average 26 transfers during every trip). It’s because the weather forecast says there there’s a chance of rain in San Juan tomorrow evening.
During my last trip to this doctor, I had the worst experience with boarding a plane I've ever had, all because it was raining.
We were waiting to board the flight home. A taxi to wheelchair transfer a few hours before had gone bad, and recovering from it had wiped me out physically and sent my pain levels soaring. Just as the airline staff member came to escort to the elevator that would take us downstairs for pre-boarding, the skies open up into an unrelenting downpour.
Boarding these island hopper prop jets involves walking/rolling across a couple hundred yards of tarmac to reach the waiting plane, then climbing the stairs or using an aisle chair and a hand-cranked lift to board the plane, so the airline ground personnel decided to delay boarding in an attempt to wait out the rain. This decision to wait it out made the ground crew -- the only people clothed head to toe in heavy rain gear, by the way -- feel great, but left us "special needs" passengers and our traveling companions grow increasingly antsy to get to our final destination.
Finally, the ground crew reluctantly acknowledge that the rain isn't going to ease up, so it's time to go for it. Even though passengers like me who need to use their hand-cranked lift to get on the plane are usually allowed to board before the able-bodied passengers, for some reason the crew decide that tonight, I’ll be the last one allowed to take my seat.
When it’s finally my turn to head out to the aircraft, the crew member assigned to be our escort hands me an oversized umbrella to hold while another airline employee pushes me. Since I have to hold the umbrella high enough that it won't poke the person pushing me in the eye or obscure her vision, it's pretty much useless in terms of keeping me dry. And wouldn't you know it, lightning starts flashing across the sky as we're walking to the ift. I'm thinking, "Great, I'm about to get loaded into an all metal cage and slowly cranked toward the sky in the middle of a thunderstorm. Yeah, this sounds safe." By the time we traverse the 150 yards between the terminal and the plane, I'm soaking wet and the night‘s being lit up by lightning every 90 seconds or so.
We arrive plane side to find that the aisle chair has been sitting out in pouring rain the whole time the rest of the passengers were boarding, and it is soaked. Since there's no way for the HipHubby and I to do a pivot transfer from my chair to the aisle chair under umbrella cover, we have to do it out in the rain. I land square in the puddle that's formed on the seat. The whole time we're doing the transfer, we're being told by the our airline escort to hurry up -- not because of the lightning, mind you, but because he's worried about my wheelchair cushion getting wet!
The rushed transfer causes me to land askew in the aisle chair, which was not only uncomfortable, it ended up biting me in the ass -- er, elbow.
As soon as my bottom hit the seat, the crew jump into action to strap me in the narrow aisle chair. Once I’m secured, the HipHubby scurries up the stairs to prepare to help me transfer while my escort tries to push me forward onto the lift. His aim is bad and the right front wheel of the chair drives off the lift’s access ramp, causing my right knee to bang into the edge of the lift gate. The airline crew member decides that since it's dangerous for us to be exposed to the lightning, he's going to turn me around, tilt the chair back almost 60 degrees, and load me onto the plane backward. As he does, airline employee #2 grabs me and forcefully attempts to tuck my right arm across my body, a position that it will not go into because that shoulder is dislocated. All the while, the airline staff are talking back and forth to each other in Spanish and not listening to anything I'm saying. The rain keeps coming down, and with me laying almost on my back in the aisle chair, I need to keep exhaling hard out of my nose to keep the rain water from entering my nostrils.
Sitting in the cold rain, strapped awkwardly into the hard, narrow aisle chair, it seemed to take forever for them to hand crank the lift up to the level of the plane door. The airline escort finally starts pulling me backwards onto the plane, but my right thigh, knee, and arm are scraped along the metal railings of the lift the whole way because I'm not sitting straight in the aisle chair. Cold and soaked to the skin now becomes cold, soaked to the skin and in pain.
The guy from the ground crew continued to drag me backwards onto the plane, and even tried to start up the aisle that way until he finally decided to listen to what I'd been telling him all along -- that I can't transfer to the seat if I'm facing the rear of the plane. After a lot of finagling between the tight corners at the back of the plane (it loads from the rear), including a lot of smashing my knees and feet into the walls and sharp corners despite theHipHubby's best efforts to protect me, I was finally able to head up the narrow aisle facing the right direction.
We're always seated in the second row from the rear, so it's a very short trip from the rear of the aircraft to my seat. Even so, I notice that I am the main attraction -- more than a few passengers have turned around in their seats to watch the spectacle unfold. That sense of forced exhibitionism is the main reason I hate being the last person allowed to board.
After the HH helps me transfer to my seat, we notice that there is blood on his hand and shirt, and on the wall of the plane across the aisle from my seat. Turns out that the source of that blood is a gash near my right elbow that's bleeding pretty profusely. Time to update my status to cold, soaked to the skin, in pain, and bleeding.
God bless the flight attendants, who somehow managed to wrangle me a blanket and some first aid supplies while we waited still longer to depart (we had to sit on the tarmac for another half hour
waiting for the inclement weather to clear), despite the airline's efforts to eliminate all amenities as part of their cost cutting measures. Thankfully it was not raining when we landed on St. Croix an hour after we took off from San Juan, and getting off the plane went without a hitch. American Airlines let me keep the blanket as a consolation prize. Whoop dee doo.
Wish me luck tomorrow. And a precipitation-free day.
During my last trip to this doctor, I had the worst experience with boarding a plane I've ever had, all because it was raining.
We were waiting to board the flight home. A taxi to wheelchair transfer a few hours before had gone bad, and recovering from it had wiped me out physically and sent my pain levels soaring. Just as the airline staff member came to escort to the elevator that would take us downstairs for pre-boarding, the skies open up into an unrelenting downpour.
Boarding these island hopper prop jets involves walking/rolling across a couple hundred yards of tarmac to reach the waiting plane, then climbing the stairs or using an aisle chair and a hand-cranked lift to board the plane, so the airline ground personnel decided to delay boarding in an attempt to wait out the rain. This decision to wait it out made the ground crew -- the only people clothed head to toe in heavy rain gear, by the way -- feel great, but left us "special needs" passengers and our traveling companions grow increasingly antsy to get to our final destination.
Finally, the ground crew reluctantly acknowledge that the rain isn't going to ease up, so it's time to go for it. Even though passengers like me who need to use their hand-cranked lift to get on the plane are usually allowed to board before the able-bodied passengers, for some reason the crew decide that tonight, I’ll be the last one allowed to take my seat.
When it’s finally my turn to head out to the aircraft, the crew member assigned to be our escort hands me an oversized umbrella to hold while another airline employee pushes me. Since I have to hold the umbrella high enough that it won't poke the person pushing me in the eye or obscure her vision, it's pretty much useless in terms of keeping me dry. And wouldn't you know it, lightning starts flashing across the sky as we're walking to the ift. I'm thinking, "Great, I'm about to get loaded into an all metal cage and slowly cranked toward the sky in the middle of a thunderstorm. Yeah, this sounds safe." By the time we traverse the 150 yards between the terminal and the plane, I'm soaking wet and the night‘s being lit up by lightning every 90 seconds or so.
We arrive plane side to find that the aisle chair has been sitting out in pouring rain the whole time the rest of the passengers were boarding, and it is soaked. Since there's no way for the HipHubby and I to do a pivot transfer from my chair to the aisle chair under umbrella cover, we have to do it out in the rain. I land square in the puddle that's formed on the seat. The whole time we're doing the transfer, we're being told by the our airline escort to hurry up -- not because of the lightning, mind you, but because he's worried about my wheelchair cushion getting wet!
The rushed transfer causes me to land askew in the aisle chair, which was not only uncomfortable, it ended up biting me in the ass -- er, elbow.
As soon as my bottom hit the seat, the crew jump into action to strap me in the narrow aisle chair. Once I’m secured, the HipHubby scurries up the stairs to prepare to help me transfer while my escort tries to push me forward onto the lift. His aim is bad and the right front wheel of the chair drives off the lift’s access ramp, causing my right knee to bang into the edge of the lift gate. The airline crew member decides that since it's dangerous for us to be exposed to the lightning, he's going to turn me around, tilt the chair back almost 60 degrees, and load me onto the plane backward. As he does, airline employee #2 grabs me and forcefully attempts to tuck my right arm across my body, a position that it will not go into because that shoulder is dislocated. All the while, the airline staff are talking back and forth to each other in Spanish and not listening to anything I'm saying. The rain keeps coming down, and with me laying almost on my back in the aisle chair, I need to keep exhaling hard out of my nose to keep the rain water from entering my nostrils.
Sitting in the cold rain, strapped awkwardly into the hard, narrow aisle chair, it seemed to take forever for them to hand crank the lift up to the level of the plane door. The airline escort finally starts pulling me backwards onto the plane, but my right thigh, knee, and arm are scraped along the metal railings of the lift the whole way because I'm not sitting straight in the aisle chair. Cold and soaked to the skin now becomes cold, soaked to the skin and in pain.
The guy from the ground crew continued to drag me backwards onto the plane, and even tried to start up the aisle that way until he finally decided to listen to what I'd been telling him all along -- that I can't transfer to the seat if I'm facing the rear of the plane. After a lot of finagling between the tight corners at the back of the plane (it loads from the rear), including a lot of smashing my knees and feet into the walls and sharp corners despite theHipHubby's best efforts to protect me, I was finally able to head up the narrow aisle facing the right direction.
We're always seated in the second row from the rear, so it's a very short trip from the rear of the aircraft to my seat. Even so, I notice that I am the main attraction -- more than a few passengers have turned around in their seats to watch the spectacle unfold. That sense of forced exhibitionism is the main reason I hate being the last person allowed to board.
After the HH helps me transfer to my seat, we notice that there is blood on his hand and shirt, and on the wall of the plane across the aisle from my seat. Turns out that the source of that blood is a gash near my right elbow that's bleeding pretty profusely. Time to update my status to cold, soaked to the skin, in pain, and bleeding.
God bless the flight attendants, who somehow managed to wrangle me a blanket and some first aid supplies while we waited still longer to depart (we had to sit on the tarmac for another half hour
waiting for the inclement weather to clear), despite the airline's efforts to eliminate all amenities as part of their cost cutting measures. Thankfully it was not raining when we landed on St. Croix an hour after we took off from San Juan, and getting off the plane went without a hitch. American Airlines let me keep the blanket as a consolation prize. Whoop dee doo.
Wish me luck tomorrow. And a precipitation-free day.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Are You Freaking Kidding Me?
I was supposed to go to Puerto Rico today to see my physiatrist and have my Baclofen pump refilled. The key words in that sentence, of course, are "supposed to".
Our flight from St. Croix was scheduled to leave at 11 am. Even though our local airport is so tiny that we can park the car, get me in my chair, check-in at the ticket counter, go through customs and security, and sit down at our gate no more than 20 minutes later, the airport staff refuse to issue boarding passes to anyone who doesn't check in at least two hours before their flight. So we dutifully hauled ourselves out of bed early this morning -- easier for me than the HipHubby because I didn't sleep again last night, got ready (which was riddled with problems and should have tipped us off that this was not going to be the good day we were determined to have), and made it in to the American Airlines check in counter at 9 am.
That's when we overheard the kind-looking older woman behind the counter tell the people who were attempting to check in that our flight was cancelled. The news hit me with all the force of a Category 5 hurricane.
My first thought was, "How many days before my pump runs out of medication?" Fortunately, my alarm date isn't until next week, so I wasn't going to be in any physical danger by not getting my refill today. We considered the option of trying to get on the 1p flight out and the 9pm flight home if the doctor was able to stay late today to see me, but quickly decided that wasn't an option -- I'd never survive trying to extend my travel day from 12 hours to 17 hours would do me in. So I got right on the phone with the scheduler at my doctor's office, told her what had happened, and asked her when he could see me. Being the wonderful (and talented) many he is, my doctor agreed to make a special trip into his office on Saturday to see me, so all we needed to do was get American Airlines to rebook our flights.
The kind, older woman at the ticket counter was surrounded by frantic travelers who needed to make connecting flights today, so we decided we'd call the AA reservations number and see if we could rebook that way. After a brief scramble to find the number, I rang them up and to my great surprise was talking with a real person in mere minutes. I explained that our flight was cancelled and asked her to put on on the same flights on Saturday.
Her reply: "What credit card will you be using for the $100 rebooking fee?"
"EXCUSE ME? Perhaps you didn't hear me -- *you* canceled our flight, making it impossible to see my doctor today. The doctor can see us on Saturday"
"Well we can only rebook you for free if you travel today. Other the standard re-booking fee of $100 applies."
"Buy my doctor can't see us today, he can only see us on Saturday. None of this is our fault, so why should we be penalized $100?"
"Ma'am, that's the policy. If you extend your stay, you cannot be rebooked for free unless you travel the same day."
"But we're not extending our stay ANYWHERE except home! We live here -- we're trying to go to Puerto Rico to see my doctor for a scheduled medical procedure and are enable to go because of you! Why should we be charged for your screw-up?"
"Hold please while I get my supervisor on the line."
Are you freakin' kidding me?
Fortunately we noticed the older lady had rebook all of the people traveling today and was ready and able to help us. We told her the story, and she immediately redeemed her entire company. Not only did she reschedule us for the same flights on Saturday, she issued a $100 inconvenience voucher to each of us. I was so grateful for her kindness after the horrible morning and lack of sleep that I cried. We asked her for her name so we could call AA and tell them what an outstanding employee she is, but she refused to tell us, saying that what she did was a no-brainer and we should just go home and get some rest.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Flying the Crip-Unfriendly Skies
This week, we made another of our quarterly journeys to Puerto Rico so I could get my intrathecal pump refilled with baclofen, have the dosage adjusted to try to offset some leg spasms and the new “MS Hug” problems I’ve been having, and pick up my next round of prescriptions for the pain medications that keep me functioning.
As I believe I’ve mentioned previously, air travel wipes me out. It is physically exhausting, causes increased muscle knots and discomfort in my legs (and now my arms), and can wreak havoc on the skin graft that covers my left shoulder blade -- too much resting against the seat and the friction creates an open spot that can take ages to heal properly. And that’s on the good trips.
We were fortunate that this weeks, everything was going right for us: the lifts were working at both airports for both legs of the trip. And best of all, they actually had big, strong men who listen on hand to drive the aisle chair. You’d probably be shocked at how often they send the 110 lb. women to do the heavy lifting while them men watch, and often criticize what’s going on.
Our last journey was not one of the good ones. In fact, I think we experienced just about every crip-related problem out there.
It started when we arrived at the airport and discovered that once again, the lift used to board passengers who cannot walk up the prop jet stairs was out of service. This is becoming a common problem -- this year the lift has been broken far more than it’ s been in service. That’s annoying in and of itself, but the truly frustrating aspect of it for me is that the lift itself isn’t malfunctioning -- it just has a flat tire that prevents the airline staff from rolling it out and aligning it with the plane’s door. Try as I might, I just can’t understand why it’s so hard for the airline to fly in a new tire or, heaven forbid, keep a spare tire on site. Perhaps extra tires have gone the way of the cheesy little paper-covered pillows and have been eliminated as part of their cost-cutting efforts.
For those of us who cannot walk, getting on board a prop jet poses a threat to our bodily integrity when the lift is functional. When it’s out of service, this process literally becomes a threat to life and limb because we must be carried up and down the narrow steps by whatever personnel are on hand while strapped into a horribly uncomfortable L-shaped metal dolly that’s narrower than the aisle in the coach section of the plane.
Here’s how the process works. The Hip Hubby and I are escorted out onto the tarmac first, where I’m met with the aisle chair. We position the aisle chair parallel to my wheelchair on my left.
If I were in charge of the world, it would be mandatory for all airline staff who might be called upon to hoist my cute little gimpy butt on and off of planes to experience what it’s like for themselves. Unfortunately, I’m not, and so the majority of people who wind up on aisle chair detail have no idea how to carry out this assisted boarding process without causing their passenger physical and/or emotional damage.
I’ve learned from experience that I’ll be able to tell what kind of ride I’m going to have within 60 seconds of transferring from my nice comfy wheelchair into the hard, narrow aisle chair, and it’s all based on the attitude of the people assigned to help me. If the boarding crew looks me in the eyes and talks to me instead of my husband (you‘d be shocked at how often that happens), there’s a good chance that it won’t be too bad because they will actually listen to my suggestions and preferences, and generally treat me like I’m a person instead of a piece of baggage. Those who don’t speak to me, or even acknowledge me, mean a bad time is ahead.
One of the reasons that the attitude of the staff makes such a big difference is that the Hip Hubby has been well-trained over the years. He knows my strengths, preferences, and “no touch” zones. He respects my preferences for how things are done instead of treating me like I’m luggage that needs to be “handled”. We have all the moves needed to get me from place to place down to science -- as long as good intentioned outsiders don’t try to impose help that’s not needed (nor wanted) into the process. We can tell from the moment we arrive whether or not it’s going to go well.
Last time was luggage handlers all the way, both ways. The personnel assigned to carry me up the ramp -- assigned, or course, actually means those who weren’t quick enough to scatter when they saw me roll up -- consisted of the aforementioned 110 lb. women and big burley male baggage handlers (literally). They were horrible listeners (who kept trying to “help” by grabbing me despite our ever louder protests), bad drivers (I kept getting jostled and banged up and down the steps, my feet driven into corners, and my hips rammed into the armrests and seatbacks. Thank goodness we always reserve the seats just two rows from the door -- I don’t think I’d survive the trip if we had to travel any further into the plane in the “care” of the airline personnel!
Sadly, it didn’t improve once we were seated.
Being claustrophobic and, before my catheter, a frequent visitor to the restroom, I’ve always preferred the aisle seat. That preference became a full blown need when my legs stopped working as well as they should. Try wrapping your legs together in duct tape, attaching 20 pounds of weights to your feet, then scooting yourself off of an aisle chair and all the way over to the window seat using your arms only to get an idea of why.
It’s clear the airlines’ policy writers have never done that, for the official rules say that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do. They try to claim it’s for my safety, but who are they kidding -- it’s so I don’t trap the healthy one who have a chance of escaping if the plane gets in trouble. (Ever hear the private briefing crips get when we fly? It explains in no uncertain terms that it’s my job to wait for everyone else to exit, and then it’s my husband’s job to get me out of there. I always respond by telling them that’s it’s just faster -- not to mention more honest -- to just say that I’m screwed if the plane gets in trouble. I finally got one flight attendant -- a great one, BTW -- to admit it on this last trip.)
Last time, we were stuck with by the book attendants on both legs of the trip. So after getting banged around by others getting to the seats, I then had to bang myself around getting over to the window. This time, we were blessed with flight attendants who either totally understood my situation, or felt sorry for me because of the cast, and let me have the aisle. It made a huge difference in my ability to recover from the trip -- I was only down for two days this week, as opposed to the five it took me to recover when we went in December.
Because this is already so long, I won’t even go into the lack of respect they show my $9000 wheelchair. It doesn’t register to them that they’re effectively stowing my legs, and should treat it with the same respect they show me…uh, strike that…they should treat both of us like we were their mothers!
Until the airlines are ready to retrain their personnel and either give crips the free upgrade to first class or redesign planes to make the seats and aisles wider (HAH!), the skies are likely to remain one of the more unfriendly places a crip like me can be. Thank goodness there are a few good ones working for the airlines -- I don’t think I could stand to fly if I knew that there weren’t a few out there who really get it.
As I believe I’ve mentioned previously, air travel wipes me out. It is physically exhausting, causes increased muscle knots and discomfort in my legs (and now my arms), and can wreak havoc on the skin graft that covers my left shoulder blade -- too much resting against the seat and the friction creates an open spot that can take ages to heal properly. And that’s on the good trips.
We were fortunate that this weeks, everything was going right for us: the lifts were working at both airports for both legs of the trip. And best of all, they actually had big, strong men who listen on hand to drive the aisle chair. You’d probably be shocked at how often they send the 110 lb. women to do the heavy lifting while them men watch, and often criticize what’s going on.
Our last journey was not one of the good ones. In fact, I think we experienced just about every crip-related problem out there.
It started when we arrived at the airport and discovered that once again, the lift used to board passengers who cannot walk up the prop jet stairs was out of service. This is becoming a common problem -- this year the lift has been broken far more than it’ s been in service. That’s annoying in and of itself, but the truly frustrating aspect of it for me is that the lift itself isn’t malfunctioning -- it just has a flat tire that prevents the airline staff from rolling it out and aligning it with the plane’s door. Try as I might, I just can’t understand why it’s so hard for the airline to fly in a new tire or, heaven forbid, keep a spare tire on site. Perhaps extra tires have gone the way of the cheesy little paper-covered pillows and have been eliminated as part of their cost-cutting efforts.
For those of us who cannot walk, getting on board a prop jet poses a threat to our bodily integrity when the lift is functional. When it’s out of service, this process literally becomes a threat to life and limb because we must be carried up and down the narrow steps by whatever personnel are on hand while strapped into a horribly uncomfortable L-shaped metal dolly that’s narrower than the aisle in the coach section of the plane.
Here’s how the process works. The Hip Hubby and I are escorted out onto the tarmac first, where I’m met with the aisle chair. We position the aisle chair parallel to my wheelchair on my left.
If I were in charge of the world, it would be mandatory for all airline staff who might be called upon to hoist my cute little gimpy butt on and off of planes to experience what it’s like for themselves. Unfortunately, I’m not, and so the majority of people who wind up on aisle chair detail have no idea how to carry out this assisted boarding process without causing their passenger physical and/or emotional damage.
I’ve learned from experience that I’ll be able to tell what kind of ride I’m going to have within 60 seconds of transferring from my nice comfy wheelchair into the hard, narrow aisle chair, and it’s all based on the attitude of the people assigned to help me. If the boarding crew looks me in the eyes and talks to me instead of my husband (you‘d be shocked at how often that happens), there’s a good chance that it won’t be too bad because they will actually listen to my suggestions and preferences, and generally treat me like I’m a person instead of a piece of baggage. Those who don’t speak to me, or even acknowledge me, mean a bad time is ahead.
One of the reasons that the attitude of the staff makes such a big difference is that the Hip Hubby has been well-trained over the years. He knows my strengths, preferences, and “no touch” zones. He respects my preferences for how things are done instead of treating me like I’m luggage that needs to be “handled”. We have all the moves needed to get me from place to place down to science -- as long as good intentioned outsiders don’t try to impose help that’s not needed (nor wanted) into the process. We can tell from the moment we arrive whether or not it’s going to go well.
Last time was luggage handlers all the way, both ways. The personnel assigned to carry me up the ramp -- assigned, or course, actually means those who weren’t quick enough to scatter when they saw me roll up -- consisted of the aforementioned 110 lb. women and big burley male baggage handlers (literally). They were horrible listeners (who kept trying to “help” by grabbing me despite our ever louder protests), bad drivers (I kept getting jostled and banged up and down the steps, my feet driven into corners, and my hips rammed into the armrests and seatbacks. Thank goodness we always reserve the seats just two rows from the door -- I don’t think I’d survive the trip if we had to travel any further into the plane in the “care” of the airline personnel!
Sadly, it didn’t improve once we were seated.
Being claustrophobic and, before my catheter, a frequent visitor to the restroom, I’ve always preferred the aisle seat. That preference became a full blown need when my legs stopped working as well as they should. Try wrapping your legs together in duct tape, attaching 20 pounds of weights to your feet, then scooting yourself off of an aisle chair and all the way over to the window seat using your arms only to get an idea of why.
It’s clear the airlines’ policy writers have never done that, for the official rules say that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do. They try to claim it’s for my safety, but who are they kidding -- it’s so I don’t trap the healthy one who have a chance of escaping if the plane gets in trouble. (Ever hear the private briefing crips get when we fly? It explains in no uncertain terms that it’s my job to wait for everyone else to exit, and then it’s my husband’s job to get me out of there. I always respond by telling them that’s it’s just faster -- not to mention more honest -- to just say that I’m screwed if the plane gets in trouble. I finally got one flight attendant -- a great one, BTW -- to admit it on this last trip.)
Last time, we were stuck with by the book attendants on both legs of the trip. So after getting banged around by others getting to the seats, I then had to bang myself around getting over to the window. This time, we were blessed with flight attendants who either totally understood my situation, or felt sorry for me because of the cast, and let me have the aisle. It made a huge difference in my ability to recover from the trip -- I was only down for two days this week, as opposed to the five it took me to recover when we went in December.
Because this is already so long, I won’t even go into the lack of respect they show my $9000 wheelchair. It doesn’t register to them that they’re effectively stowing my legs, and should treat it with the same respect they show me…uh, strike that…they should treat both of us like we were their mothers!
Until the airlines are ready to retrain their personnel and either give crips the free upgrade to first class or redesign planes to make the seats and aisles wider (HAH!), the skies are likely to remain one of the more unfriendly places a crip like me can be. Thank goodness there are a few good ones working for the airlines -- I don’t think I could stand to fly if I knew that there weren’t a few out there who really get it.
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