Sitting in Washington D.C. traffic is like nothing else. Olivia’s ponytail hung on the back seat in front of me. Olivia, my bright-eyed, energetic caregiver was exhausted as we all were.
“Should we look for other flights?” My mom asked.
“No, we’re going to make the flight, Jean. That is going to happen,” Olivia stated.
“We’re going to make it,” I said feeling weary.
We had just been at Capitol Hill in Washington D.C. and had literally walked (and wheeled) three miles that day. Going from congressional office to congressional office, telling my story, asking for funding was simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting. You can check out my video about it here.
“Mom, it’s okay,” I said. Getting an accessible taxi took 90 minutes. This was why we were so late to the airport.
“It’s about 10 more minutes away,” the taxicab driver well aware of our nerves explained.
When we arrived, I got out of that taxi like it was on fire. When it was time to stand in line for security, Mom told Olivia to go to the gate the second she could. What happened next was horrific. Olivia flew through security running to the gate while Mom and I entered the checkpoint. I stuck my arms out to start the process of getting patted down.
“We’re in a huge rush. We would appreciate it if you could keep that in mind,” Mom said. My poor mother was asking for some empathy on our part and the TSA agent replied, “We don’t do fast.”
Oh shoot. I definitely said a different word but you get the picture.
She then proceeded to tell me that we had to go about twenty paces to where she would pat me down. This agent had control over us, and she was pure evil.
“Can you give consent for the pat down?” the TSA agent asked me.
I nodded and said, “Yes,” with my communication device.
“I don’t understand you,” the agent said.
You did, you just want to make sure my life is brutally difficult. This was a power play and we both knew it. Mom finally came over and the agent started the process. I’m used to this, so I anticipated where she was going. The pat down was over quickly. She proceeded to check my chair for weapons by wiping a cloth on the arm rests; this was standard procedure. What was not standard procedure was the fact that she insisted on opening my carry-on, taking out my wheelchair charger and scanning it again. I’ve flown at least 50 times and TSA has never had to take out my wheelchair charger. She was the epitome of someone who abused her power and loved making people miserable. Once that hellish part was over, Mom said, “Go to the gate!”
Ladies and
gentleman, you have all seen me drive fast. In the summer, I may go my fastest when
Elmhurst University is empty. I crank the music up, turn the speed to max
volume and think, Just never go this fast around other people. If you
had told me last summer that I would go
this fast around other people, I would have thought you’d mistaken me for
another brunette that uses a wheelchair. Nope…I was the crazy woman who was driving
a wheelchair at a dangerous speed in Reagan National airport. I know dangerous
and this was dangerous. I broke every rule that I have for myself. Gate C33…Don’t
hurt anyone… Gate C33…Don’t hurt anyone…I made it to the gate. I saw
Olivia.
“Breathe, they understand. We’re fine.” Olivia said.
Olivia transferred me to an aisle chair which is a narrow wheelchair made to go down the aisle of a plane. She buckled me in and proceeded to start unscrewing the back of my chair. Mom quickly joined her. Once they got the back down, Olivia put a cup over the joystick and spun the duct tape around my joystick at least 10 times. That joystick was secure. It would have been comical if not for the circumstances. The wheelchair was as short as physically possible. Once we were on the plane, we laughed about everything but security. Little did we know the second act was coming.
The plane landed at O’Hare and we waited for the majority of the passengers to get off. There was a slew of kids leaving the plane too. They were very slow so the flight attendant told them to wait so I could walk off the plane. We entered the jet bridge.
“That wheelchair does not have a seat belt. She needs a seat belt!” Olivia said.
“We cannot let you use an aisle chair.” The airport employee said.
At that moment, my wheelchair that had the seat back folded over and resembled a mountain of duct tape came into view. They suggested we use it. Olivia muttered under her breath, “Use common sense.” Mom had called Dad and asked him to come to O’Hare and assist with assembling the wheelchair which was why we didn't want to do it at the gate.
“She can’t sit in that yet!” Olivia said exasperated.
You fools!
The pilot stopped the madness by saying, “Let her use the aisle chair. They can come to me tomorrow morning with questions.” The pilot was probably 50 years old and had a warmth about him.
Thank God!
Olivia sat me in the aisle chair as my mom brought the wheelchair accessories such as my knee blocks and my communication device. Nope, I couldn’t say a word to these idiots, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. I don’t have any kind words towards these people besides the pilot.
It’s a Hannah parade! The airport employee is pushing my precious wheelchair looking like a mound of duct tape, Olivia is pushing me in the aisle chair and Mom is carrying eight bags behind us. Olivia whispered down to me, “If someone gives us you-know-what about this not being a “wheelchair,” I’m going to lose my…”
“That is not a wheelchair!” One employee yelled across the airport.
Olivia is going to lose her…
“It’s fine! I’m with them.” The airport employee said.
As we entered the baggage claim, my thought was one, Able-bodied people are quite slow when walking and I can’t wait to go to bed!
When we saw my dad at baggage claim, he greeted us by saying, “Olivia, this is our lives. Isn’t it neat?”
That’s about right.
