Another milestone on my personal odyssey in Geriatrica, the land in which I now dwell.
The Christmas holidays were brightened by a family trip totally arranged by my daughter to a lovely resort on a small Caribbean island. There were 15 of us, all from the frozen North or arid Southwest and all looking forward to a beach vacation. Air schedules meant an overnight in Miami but this too was arranged for. (No you cannot adopt my daughter!)
The outbound journey was tiring but survivable. It’s getting harder for this citizen of Geriatrica to stand in lines that are always long but seem worse on holidays. There is also the problem of really long walks in airports bigger than our small but user-friendly TUS. But we managed in both Dallas and Miami. My son and grandson arrived in Miami on slightly earlier flights and waited to help us with our bags. I didn’t have to use my usual ploy of looking as old and helpless as possible while pointing to my suitcase on a carousel.
It was a delightful week spent either lazing in a beach chair reading my Kindle while being plied with mango or passion fruit-flavored ice water, walking on the beach, talking one-on-one and en masse to family, piña coladas, and eating food that was too superb. (By the time you read this I hope to have lost those three pounds).
But the return trip was a challenge. First a boat ride to get to the airport on another island, followed by a 3 ½ hour plane ride to Miami. Then our troubles started.
I am sure the walk from the our arrival gate to Customs equaled at least a half-marathon in length. It was so crowded that night we were pulled out of line and sent one way while the rest of the family were pointed in another direction. First we were directed to a computer by a nice airport worker who wanted to make sure we could use them. The computer read our passports and then took a photo of our faces to be checked at Passport Control. (My face pic looked so pale and haggard I worried it might not match my healthier looking passport photo.)
Next we were directed to wait in a Long Line From Hell and none of the rest of our group were anywhere to be seen.
I felt awful and knew I looked awful from the photo I clutched along with my passport. When my companion saw my visible exhaustion he sought out wheelchairs for us. We were safely tucked into our chairs and kindly coddled (“We will help you get through”) by two motherly chair pushers. As I might have predicted Companion looked glum and said, “Well it has finally come to this. I need to be wheeled around like a baby. I knew this day would come.”
I had a different take on the wheelchair situation. I was very grateful to be out of pain (my creaky knee was acting up), to get expedited service as our “mothers” cut though a line that seemed to stretch to infinity, to be wheeled into a magical uncrowded special services line at Customs and Border Patrol, to be reunited with the family at baggage claim where they had retrieved our luggage, to be led to waiting transportation and our destination hotel. We declined an invitation to go out to dinner, ordered ice cream from room service, and went to bed. Did not get a chance to say goodbye to my little grandson whose family had to catch a redeye but that’s what FaceTime is for.
The next morning when we checked in for our flight (all family members live in different cities so we all had different departure times and gates) I had the good sense to inquire from the agent at the desk if the gate was far. She rolled her eyes and said very far. Without batting an eye I asked for two wheelchairs. Fortunately we both look more than old enough to be wheeled. We were whisked through the first security checkpoint, had to disembark to go through the see-all cubicle (my hairpins set off the machine, a travel snag for old ladies with archaic hair styles), and had to wait a bit for our wheelchairs to be cleared like baby carriages which also have to go through security. We sat down, were wheeled to the gate, and allowed to board early.
My first airport wheelchair experience was positive. I didn’t feel, as I had thought I might, one bit older or more decrepit than when I left home. If a wheelchair means I can be with my family or watch a grandchild graduate from college I consider it a blessing. Looking one step further, when travel with wheelchair becomes too arduous, I am happy my family frequently travels by air so they can use airline points to visit me!
