The nicest thing volume 1

A commercial aircraft to myself

Photo by Archivio Automobile on Unsplash

Several years ago, I injured both shoulders in a car accident—my second within nine months. Neither was my fault, for your information. I am a very good driver.

Medicine is finally agreeing with me that there were likely underlying issues, but the accident definitely surfaced issues requiring major surgery. Because I am nothing if but complicated, there was no surgeon within hundreds of miles equipped to handle the surgery it was deemed I needed. Making a very long story very short, I ended up in a small town in Nebraska of all places. There a family member of a family member was able to perform the surgery I needed.

After five days of pre-op, surgery, and initial recovery, it was finally time for me to fly home to Las Vegas. Gilbert Blythe would call me a ninny for thinking I could handle out-of-state surgery by myself, and he would be right. The surgeon and his family took really good care of me, but it would’ve been very welcome to have my friend or family member there for moral support and for navigating the flights home.

Alas, it was just me. The surgeon’s wife dropped me at the postage-stamp sized airport and made sure I was situated. Checked in with ample time, I settled in to await boarding. To distract myself from post-op pain and nausea, I pulled out my laptop to watch a familiar movie. This was 2007, so my HP laptop was approximately the size of a cafeteria tray, needed to be plugged in, and came complete with turbo jet engines doubling as lap warmers. I’d just started watching While You Were Sleeping when I was summoned in all my slinged glory to the ticket counter.

There I was informed that the aircraft assigned to my flight was having mechanic problems, the back-up aircraft was on a charter flight, and there was no other option for getting me out of Nebraska that day. Apologetically, the nice man told me they’d put me up in a hotel and give me meal vouchers. I didn’t protest much, but, on the verge of tears, expressed how sub-optimal that arrangement was.

Navigating a hotel and restaurants in an unfamiliar Nebraska town in the dead of a midwest winter and IN MY CONDITION was 110% daunting. Especially because I was not traveling light. Not appreciating I needed just few changes of clothes, basic toiletries, and a laptop, I’d packed a military-grade tactical duffel bag as if I was going into witness protection for several weeks. Duffel bags are not awesome for even the most physically well and able-bodied person to carry, unless said duffel is packed with, I don’t know, goose down. Mine was not packed with goose down.

How far I’ve come. I This is what I packed for exploring Europe and perhaps beyond for several weeks and possibly months.

My size 8 foot thoughtfully included for scale.

Returning to my seat and my movie, I blinked back my tears. I was feeling and I’m sure looking certifiably pathetical. About the time I’d decided—as much as a person on strong pain medication can decide anything—that if I had to stay an extra night, the ticket man approached with an update.

The last plane out, the one that had departed just 30 minutes before I checked in for my purported flight, was actually going to return from Denver to collect me. Just me. This meant that somewhere along the line someone had compassion enough to get I’m sure hard-to-come-by permission, and that the crew was all going to work overtime and put off their personal lives to get me back to mine. I get misty-eyed just thinking about it.

Yes, I had to wait a little bit, but they returned as soon as they could, and boarded a short line of one person. The memory is still surreal: I had my own flight attendant and a pilot and I assume an FAA-required co-pilot. Even if it wasn’t a 747, I nonetheless had a commercial flight for just little ol’ pathetic me. In my legal-drug-induced compromised state and bewildered confusion that this was really happening, I’m sure my expressions of gratitude were inadequate. But I sure tried.

We landed in Denver and they let me de-board on the wintery runway WITH my Uncle Mike’s bag. Don’t tell the FAA, but that probably should’ve been run through baggage claim; the exceptions they make for especially pitiable cases are quite wonderful. I remember entering the airport and getting comments from gate agents: “Just you??” and “Were you the only one on the plane?” almost like they don’t see this very often.

Being warned that I was cutting it very close to my connecting flight to Las Vegas, I knew I had to run for it. With one arm strapped to my operated-upon body and lugging a duffel bag in which I could’ve fit a dead body—and which felt rather like I had—I ran as well as I could through the sprawling airport, arriving at my gate in the nick of time. Unlike my Nebraska flight, this one was packed but I didn’t even mind. I knew better than to expect my own aircraft every again.

With my ginormous duffel bag checked, I settled into my seat, exquisitely grateful to know that I’d be HOME that night, thanks to the nicest thing several people orchestrated for a fellow human in distress. Please don’t tell those kind people to whom I remain indebted what happened next as they may think less of the object of their charity.

With my computerized cafeteria tray stowed somewhere inaccessible and the screen a mere 15 inches from my face, I couldn’t help but watch the commercials playing on the back of the seat in front of me.

A beautiful, dark horse was running in a field backdropped by mountains, when a sudden thought pierced through my pain and adrenaline. You should know that never in my life have I ever eaten horse and I don’t plan to start. You should also know that all I’d had was a banana and some crackers since the shake I’d had four nights before when the surgeon’s wife brought home Sonic treats for us all to enjoy while watching Scrubs. Probably not too many patients watch a medical show with their surgeon the night before surgery.

It was probably due to the emotional turmoil of the day and the knowledge that I was really headed back to safety, that my appetite suddenly returned with embarrassing fervor. I am not proud of this, but I also recognize that some thoughts we just don’t control. As I watched this majestic animal gallop across the screen, the very clear thought entered my mind, not “I am as hungry as a horse,” but rather “I want to eat that horse.”

Isn’t life cool and aren’t some people so kind and aren’t I weird? See you in the next one…