I found it – the original copy of Aisle Chairs and Landing Gears (a more polished version is in our book)!
The original version back from 2007 was written literally as we were experiencing the most crazy adventure. (Warning – the original version has a few word choice language instances and one very funny but probably not quite so public scene).
You can’t make this stuff up!!!!
And then, that’s most of our lives together. I should have known before we got married, when I met Barton in Maryland driving / sliding down frozen sheets of ice. Moving during Katrina yep. 5th year anniversary driving through flooded waters being evacuated off our one visit to the Outer Banks, check. Van almost hit my lightning multiple times, you got it. Car wreck where should have died but didn’t, done that. Thought we were going to die in an airplane – that’s this one!
What is an aisle chair? The torturous looking contraption for a person with limited mobility to get on an airplane. We were used to the system – had it down pat. One trip, when we knew that they were stuffing/breaking Barton’s wheels as it went in the plane we came up with taglines – “Pedestrian in Freak Accident Struck by Falling Wheelchair Out of Plane.”
After last year, we knew all of the flight attendants, security pups, and personal care guides at RDU. Now, we don’t know who is left, when we will get on a plane again, or what the system will be.
Posting this adventure here because my page is about reminders of living, sucking the marrow out of life and –
- We need a bit of laughter this year and no matter how many times I re-read this one, it sends me into fits of belly laughter.
- This story in particular is a reminder of our tenacity, fluidity of independence and interdependence, and on the fly spontaneity that makes for so many amazing stories – and there are plenty.
- Reminder that our lives are born in adventure, and resting is imperative to live through the next one, ‘cause wow – they take a lot of energy.
- Oh, how we have lived!!! It’s messy, it’s fun, it’s living and loving life!
Our anniversary is in November, and we are still debating on whether to take a quick few hours drive to the beach. Being grounded at the front door sucks – going from 8 trips last year, 4 bucket list items, and 10,000+ miles an hour to emergency parking brake 0 has given major whiplash.
And, we know no matter what, we are toasting with sake at the one sushi place that will deliver it!
Yes, we are hibernating and the back porch is our cave. It’s imperative that we take care of ourselves during this time. While our bubble is incredibly small with only a few trips out, we are recovering and gearing up for whatever life adventure God has in store for us.
And, don’t worry, there’s more to come!!
So pour a cup of coffee and enjoy this one insane wild ride!
Aisle Chairs and Landing Gears
We sit in an embrace, forehead to forehead looking into each other’s eyes. A scene from Titanic flashes before my eyes with a couple embraced floating in their cabin, succumbing to the fact that they are going to die together. Barton and I say “I love you” over and over as we look into each other’s eyes while the lights and power flicker and an alarm buzzes. Three to four times, the power falters before becoming stable again.
Five hours ago we were frantically trying to make this flight. Sitting at the DMV to renew Barton’s state id, the lines poured out the door. “Just think, in six hours, we’ll be relaxing in San Diego,” I told Barton as I sat in his lap to make more space for others waiting in line. Two and a half hours later, we dropped all other errands and rushed to the airport. Now we wish we had missed our flight and stayed home. Still, we had no idea just how bad it would get.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have received word that there is bad weather in Dallas. The Dallas airport has been shut down for the last hour. We have been circling Dallas for the last fifteen minutes. We have about eight minutes before we will look at options to divert to another airport.”
When we emerge from the clouds, the alternative airport below looks like a poorly erected Lego construction with battery-operated runway lights. Two personnel stand outside in the rain to direct five planes, twice the size of the terminal.
“Welcome to Longview, Texas.”
“Where the fuck are we?” Barton mutters.
I call Barton’s father, who is already waiting for us in San Diego. “We’re in Longview, Texas. We don’t know where we are. We don’t know when we’ll get to San Diego, or even Dallas for that matter.”
I hear Barton’s dad repeat, “They’re in Longview, Texas, wherever the hell that is.”
People rumble about the cabin talking to each other about the possibility of reaching their own destinations. A woman curls up, trying to get some sleep.
I don’t know how long we waited; it seems like forever. As the lights come up in the cabin, and the seat belt sign is turned on, the vaguely harmonic sound of power tones from numerous cells give a transparent ring of joy throughout the cabin.
I call Barton’s dad back, “We’re going, leaving right now.”
A flight attendant blares, “We’re leaving now. Turn it off!” I click off the cell phone, as all the passengers wait patiently for the aircraft to begin moving.
Fifteen minutes later, we aren’t moving. I whisper to Barton, “We’re not leaving.”
The pilot announces, “Well, there were two planes that took off before us trying to make it to Dallas. However, the storms were just too rough on the planes. They were diverted to another airport north of us. Air traffic control is working on another flight plan that will bring us hopefully south so that we can make it into Dallas. We should be off the ground shortly.”
Now we are flying through what appears to be a monsoon with torrential rain, wind and lightening. I look out the window to see four-fingered lightening streak across the sky and fall to the earth like fireworks. Normally, such an incredible light show would have brought us immense peace from each blessing, yet at this very moment, it only succeeds in scaring us shitless.
Descending into Dallas, the skies are clear. As the tips of the wheels touch the runway, everyone begins clapping and cheering. In only a few minutes, however, everyone will emerge into chaos and be caught in never-ending lines.
We watch the last passengers scoot between the aisle and off the plane when the pilot walks down the aisle. Behind him, a man brings the silver aisle chair.
The pilot says, “That’s what they pay us the big bucks for.”
I reply, “Yea, that was a rough trip.”
The pilot continues, “I was all right with being hit by lightening & the generator going out on us. But the problems with the landing gear, that was where it got rough.”
“Thank you for flying and getting us here.” A man lifts Barton out of the seat and straps him into the aisle chair.
We walk out into a sea of people in long lines. The line we pick just outside the gate does not move for an hour. A mother kneels down to give her five-year old son a teddy bear. The child is dressed in pajamas and tennis shoes. He holds the teddy-bear tightly under his arm. I run to the bathroom and Barton stays put just to hold our place. We don’t move, at all. A man in front of us talks on the phone, “Someone said there was a tornado and had to evacuate the airport. Do you know if it’s true?”
“There’s a line a couple of gates down that only has two or three people in it,” says someone walking by to the girls behind us.
I get back a moment later, and Barton says, “Let’s go. Follow them.”
As we wait in a line of five people, I also call the rebooking number on my phone. Wait time. Thirty minutes.
Finally, I hear a voice on the phone, “American Airlines. This is Betty. How may I help you?”
“We are one of thousands of passengers stuck in Dallas. I need to know what are the flight options to get to San Diego?”
After hearing the clicking of computer keys, the woman replies, “We can’t get you to San Diego until Monday.”
“Monday! We’re supposed to return home on Monday!” I shriek as I fumble putting Barton’s earpiece into his ear so he can call his father. We all talk at the same time.
“I need to know what to do. What do I do?”
“Why don’t we stay in Dallas? We’ll just go back to Raleigh on Monday,” Barton suggests.
I cancel the leg of the flight from San Diego to Dallas. Everyone hangs up the phone. With one person now in front of them, we decide to wait in line just to confirm our options.
“Why don’t we put you on stand-by?” the representative asks. “You can show up on the earliest flight, and then quit whenever you want during the day. Let me print out a schedule of the morning flights.” She hands up a piece of paper with flights up until 3:30 in the afternoon.
“My husband will need assistance on the plane, with an aisle chair.” She nods and types on her computer screen. We thank her and step out of line. I call Barton’s father one last time.
“If you make it to San Diego on stand-by, will you be able to get home?”
“Oh, shit. Let me ask.” However, the representative is all ready assisting another irate passenger. We wait until the representative notices us and pulls up our return flights on the screen.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this for you. It’s the way our computer system is set up. You’ll have to call reservations, and they can make this change for you. Do you have their number?”
Resigned, I pull Barton over to a seat and slump down beside him, tired of pushing buttons on her cell phone yelling the confirmation code for the fourth time, and still the automatic voice spells their name wrong. Carter. Piper. “Cutter!” I yell in the receiver. Wait time. Forty-five minutes.
While I am on hold, a man rolls a cart filled with orange juice, cokes and sprite, a bowl of ice and plastic cups. I walk over and juggle two cokes and a cup of ice. Barton sips on an ice chip as I finally reach a human who reinstates the return flights.
1:30 AM. We have no idea what the fuck we are doing at this moment. Megan is tired; I’m tired and pissed off. It’s time to find a corner of the floor to sleep. I haven’t peed since 6:00 AM this morning. So we find a family bathroom. The toilet seat is soaked, but I don’t care. Megan tries to put a seat cover on, and it sucked down immediately by the automatic flusher. She puts another one down and I look at it wondering how I’m supposed to pee as it covers all pathways to the toilet bowl. The toilet flushes automatically again.
“Don’t worry about it.”
I sit down and finally relax enough to pee after several interruptions from people outside trying to get in while we’re in the bathroom. I finish and the toilet flushes as I can feel the hair on my butt being yanked down the pipe along with the toilet’s contents.
We leave the bathroom and walk down the gate where we are on stand-by for the flight leaving at 8:30 AM. The McDonald’s is right beside it and is open. We walk in between the tables only to find a line of twenty people has formed along the cash registers. We order and sit down to wait. When we get our food, I notice a girl at the table behind us weeping. When Megan sits down the food, we pray together for the woman behind us, for everyone in the airport, and for a safe return home. When we finish, it is 2:30 AM. We look around, and in the early morning hours, people seem to warm up a bit.
Walking to our gate, we find a piece of floor near a television and watch the reports of Saddam Hussein’s execution. The CNN reels play all night. Megan sits me on the floor, between two aisles of waiting seats. She curls up next to me, and we use backpacks for pillows and a jacket as a blanket. At 4:30 AM Megan gets up to use the bathroom. The MacDonald’s did not sit well. People are still pacing the airport floor.
At 5:30 AM everyone who has been able to sleep begins to wake up. I go for coffee at Starbucks as lines begin to reform. Once I have gotten coffee, we move to a line at gate C19. I sit on the floor as the line grows longer. We wait.
“We are on stand-by for the 8:30 flight. If we make this flight, we just need to make sure there is an aisle chair for my husband,” I say.
A voice comes over the PA. “Flight #1439 has had a gate change to D27.” Megan begins moving before the announcement is finished, because we both know it will take us time on the elevators where ever we are going.
“Where the fuck is that?”
We race to the nearest elevator and find our way to the Skywalk shuttle to Terminal D. As the Skywalk shuttle takes off, Barton’s wheelchair slides around on the floor. Another passenger puts the brakes on as I hold him across the chest so he won’t slide out of his seat.
Finding gate 27, we stand in line again. We look up to see our names on the stand-by list as numbers 51 and 52.
“Oh, shit,” I exclaim.
We sit down as there is nothing else to do. Behind us, a woman clutches her tickets with seat numbers printed on them. She turns to us, “Stand-by?”
“We’re never going to get out of here.”
She began telling us her story, stuck on the airplane for eight hours, with irate passengers. They were not allowed to use the bathroom. They arrived in Dallas at two, and she got in line after line until they gave her a ticket with seat numbers. The difference, she was getting to her destination. We are stuck, here.
The plane boards. Eighty three stand-by passengers wait for their names to be called. The four to five passengers that receive seats cheer like they have won a golden ticket. While their fellow stand-by mates are happy for them, anxious passengers know it is once less chance they have to make it to their own destination.
“All names have been called for stand-by passengers. The next flight is #1674 leaving from gate D37 at 10:20 AM. Your names have automatically been rolled over to the stand-by list for this flight.”
We believe we have a chance since we are now 33 and 34 on the list flashing on the screen. We race to the next gate bypassing everyone else, and we make it to the front of the line.
A flight to Cozumel flashes in front of us.
“Is this the right gate?” someone behind us asks.
“This is what they told us.”
A woman’s voice booms over the intercom, “If you are here for the San Diego flight, please sit down. We must board the flight to Cozumel before San Diego. I repeat, do not get in line. Do not get in line. Do not get in line.” We form an informal line just beyond the straps in front of the counter. No one is moving out of the way.
A couple of men from the 82nd Airborne gather in a corner, joke with each other as they wait for their flight to Cozumel. We sit and watch as passengers board their flight.
By the time we get to the counter, our names have already been bumped back to the mid-fifties on the stand-by list.
“What the fuck? I don’t get this,” Barton mutters.
Finally, we are able to question the gate representative. “I don’t like to give out numbers because there are a lot of factors, and they constantly change.”
What bullshit, but there is nothing else to do. “If we are on this flight, we will need an aisle chair. But if you don’t have one, I can walk him down the plane. We will do anything to be on this flight.” The representative nods, ignoring our plea.
Over the next three hours, the 115 stand-by passengers for flight 1674 create a microcosmic web connecting pieces of information together.
“The plane leaving at 10:20, it’s now 11:15. That plane hasn’t even left Houston yet. It’ll be an hour in flight and an hour to unload and reload passengers. It’ll be at least two hours.”
“They just cancelled the 11:30 flight, #465.”
“The 11:15 plane has a mechanical problem. It’ll take them three hours just to get here.”
“Is this the right gate?”
“Yes, there was a gate change. D37.”
“I talked to a woman who said it won’t be any better tomorrow.”
We have had enough. Exhausted, we ask Barton’s parents to help make a hotel arrangement for us. After some more back and forth on the phone, we walk out the exit doors.
We reach the hotel at 2:15 PM. Megan yanks off the bags from the back of my wheelchair. She sits in an oversized leather chair, calling my dad on the hotel phone, and finally reaching her own father and the American Airlines representative’s one more time to confirm flights to get back to Raleigh.
Even worse, the storm that came through Dallas is headed to Raleigh, and storm warnings are in effect for Monday night. Great, we’ll get stuck on Monday night because of the weather in Raleigh, and I have to be at work on Tuesday. We look up the weather on the station, and believe it or not they aren’t reporting any delays in Dallas. Another set of unknowns.
Megan types on her laptop. She turns to me as asks, “Does this sound okay? I’m so delirious; I can’t read the words anymore.”
Sarah,
We are stuck in Dallas. Did not make it to CA. Don’t know when we will get home. If we can get through tomorrow, I’ll come in Tues. Chances are slim. We’re staying at a hotel in Dallas, we were at the airport last night. Nightmare. Don’t expect me until Friday. I’ll call if I make it back in time.
Thanks,
Megan
After three more e-mails to our supervisors and to make sure our dog is cared for at home, Megan slumps in the chair.
“We’re going to bed,” I say.
“I’m taking a shower. You can either come in with me or go to sleep,” replies Megan. The water washes dirt and grime from the wheels of my wheelchair into a pool on the floor.
3:45 PM. We climb into bed. We have been awake now thirty hours with two hours of sleep.
7:30 PM. A banging on the door wakes us from our slumber. It takes Megan a few minutes to get oriented as she cracks the door open and peeks out.
A woman stands in front of her with a bottle of champagne. “Cutter? This is for you. You’ll find out who it’s from!” She hands Megan a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She pours a glass of champagne and lifts me up. “It’s from Nancy’s parents, the party, where we are supposed to be? They sent us champagne.”
“Can’t we just go back to sleep?”
“We can’t let this go to waste. It’s champagne! You should call your dad to thank them.”
I turn over, “Maybe we should look at flights to Charlotte.”
Megan’s nerves now frayed, snaps, “I know you have to get home. I know you are waiting to get that phone call for work. What do you want me to do? I can’t fly the damn airplane!”
I rebuke, “I’m not asking you to. I just have to make that call on Tuesday, no matter where we are.”
For twenty minutes we argue about getting home. Our cell phone batteries were both on empty after hours of waiting with airline representatives. After Megan drained her own cell phone, she started using mine. What she doesn’t understand is I am waiting to hear back for an interview, and that phone call on Tuesday could mean a better job.
“I can’t fly the freaking airplane, but I can find a fucking cell phone charger!” Megan exclaims and grabs my cell phone and drags me out of bed.
10:30 PM. Blurry eyed, she asks the font desk, “Excuse me, we are one of the thousands of stranded passengers here. Is there any way, do you know of how I can charge up our cell phones? My husband is expecting a very important phone call on Tuesday, and neither one of us have any battery left.”
The woman standing behind the counter replies, “Sure. Guests leave their cell phones behind all the time. The box is in housekeeping; if I could take your phone, I’ll find one that fits.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” As we wait, Megan slumps down on a magenta couch.
After six hours of real sleep, I still feel groggy. I have my second shower, but put on my same clothes from Friday, which reek. As we pack up to leave, Barton notices the near half empty champagne bottle.
I pour a glass, “We can’t throw this out; besides, I cannot go back to that freaking airport without something to take the edge off!”
We toast to “getting home alive” and drink until the bottle runs dry. We enjoy breakfast in the hotel. Barton has Huevos Rancheros, and I get my usual French Toast. Does this count as a real meal?
We cringe as we approach the counter for our tickets. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. It’s 8:30. There’s a nine o’clock flight. It’s worth being on stand-by. You may be able to catch the 12:30 out of Chicago. If not, you will be on the 3:30 flight. Let me print out tickets of the flights you are on, and the stand-by tickets,” says the man behind the counter; perhaps the first truly considerate airline representative we’ve run into so far.
I put the tickets in an envelope, along with the other eighteen airline tickets we’ve collected since the beginning of our trip. My voice cracks, tired now from the repetition. “We’ll need an aisle lift to get my husband onto the plane.”
The line for security is full of strollers, bags and people peeling off their shoes, jackets and other clothing. One more time, I roll Barton off to the side, and we are separated as they take off his shoes, and I mash our bags through security.
Finally, we make it through. I am running, pushing Barton in the wheelchair, and Barton is yelling, “Excuse me,” as loud as he can. A man, looking at the back of a book, stands in front of us in a daze. The edge of Barton’s wheelchair catches the man’s pant leg, and he glares at us as if he doesn’t know what has hit him. We apologize, but don’t have time to stand around. Nothing is going to keep us from this flight. Nothing.
At the gate, we embrace, and I mumble, “I just want to go home,” when our names are called to go ahead and board. “Yes!” Barton whispers.
We are leaving the gate twenty minutes late, but there’s a chance to make the 12:30 flight.
Once level in the air, Barton puts a pillow on the tray table, so he can lean over and take a nap. The man in front of him reclines his seat, squishing Barton’s head. Irritated, Barton cries out. I make sure he is alright and start scheming.
“Why don’t we split up to save time? We know you’ll be the last off the plane. Why don’t I go find out what gate we need to get to, find out where the plane is leaving, make sure our names are on the list and come back to get you? I won’t go to another terminal. Just if it’s nearby.”
Once the plane reaches a complete stop in Chicago, I jump up and burst out of the plane, racing down the airport to the gate. By the time I get to the gate, I can hardly breathe.
“We have tickets for the three-thirty flight, but we’re supposed to be on stand-by for the 12:30.”
“You are not on the list, but let me put you on. Just one moment. Do you have bags?”
“We don’t know where our bags are. San Diego. Dallas. Somewhere. We don’t know,” I huff. “If we make this flight, my husband will need an aisle chair to get on the plane. They are getting him off right now. Let me go get him.” I race back down the airport to find Barton.
As a man lifts him into the aisle chair, I pop back on the plane. “Our names are one and two on the stand-by list, and we have ten minutes to get there!”
One pilot and two flight attendants stand to the side of the ramp up to the gate. “Good luck!” they call out as we race past them.
The man pushing Barton’s wheelchair is swift and calm as they navigate smoothly through O’ Hare’s mass of humanity, parting the waves so that I can follow easily behind. Once we have reached the gate, the man continues onto the jet bridge. “Wait! We don’t know if we got on-” I intercede.
The airline attendant interrupts, “You can board. Here are your tickets.”
“What seats?” The man asks me.
“3A and 3B. First class? That is right, isn’t it?” I show him the tickets, and he nods.
Barton asks the flight attendant, “Are you serving drinks? I’ll have a rum and coke.” We enjoy our first-class meal, our first real meal since Friday morning, gliding in a bit of luxury. I sigh after all of the mayhem of the weekend, but am somewhat embarrassed at the utter stench from my three-day worn clothes.
“I’m gong to kiss the ground when we get home,” I say in delight.
Barton laughs, “What a sight that would be!”
We arrive home, after days of going nowhere.
Our luggage arrives two days later.
Recent Comments