Fly away with me: is it time to try an airport wheelchair? Here's how (Part Two)
Taking a flight shouldn't mean two or three days of agonizing recovery
If you haven’t tried using an airport wheelchair, here’s the truth: you’re going to hate the idea of trying it way, waaaay more than actually trying it.
Before trying it, you’re going to tell yourself you “can” still walk through the airport. You’re not going to consider that “can” is actually “can’t” if it causes the first three days of your trip to be bedbound screamy agony.
Then you’re going to cave, glide through the airport in so much less pain, and save the spoons you would have spent standing in line willing bloodflow to your head while some numbnuts tries to get bear spray through TSA (#MontanaProbs).
(But first: have you seen Part 1? In which I teach you to how to buy a plane ticket if by buy I mean hopefully get it for free.)
How to know when it’s time
Said with love: if you’ve read this far, it’s probably time.
I know. Traveling is hard on everyone. Yes, a mom getting three toddlers to Tulsa is going to feel kinda worn out the next day. Even jetsetters get jet lag on a big trip.
What the average traveler doesn’t get is full-body burning pain. They don’t risk permanently making their ME/CFS worse with a crash. They aren’t planning two or three solid days of nothing to recover post-flight.
In my experience, it’s time when:
You’re so lightheaded standing at the ticket counter you draw a blank on the “do you have any explosives” question. (BUT DO I??)
You want to cry when you see those cattle-call line separator things when there isn’t even a crowd because they add more steps to your rapidly dwindling limit.
You wake up on night one of your trip and your entire body is en fuego. It takes three days to get back to baseline.
You already know things like grocery stores mess you up, so you’ve been scared to travel at all and this is your first sickie trip.
You tried a trip and panicked when your numb, slow legs refused to walk faster on a tight connection, nightmare style.
The tradeoffs of embarrassment, inconvenience, and loss of autonomy are starting to look pretty good compared to the resulting misery of walking.
When you can but really can’t
In my active mountain town, normies pound out 10-mile hikes (or runs or bike rides or cross country skis) casually.
What they don’t do is hike or walk or ski to our airport, 10 miles from town.
They CAN. But also: they CAN’T. There are a lot of small reasons (traffic, bags, time), but the main one boils down to: it would just monumentally suck.
The difference is, no one thinks twice about not walking to the airport even when they can. That’s not culturally (*cough* ableistly) expected. Walking through the airport is expected, and that makes it harder to contemplate, even when it monumentally sucks for you.
I know it’s baffling to you to admit at your young age that you truly can’t walk through the airport anymore—because it was baffling to me—but in illness, baffling things are often true. The best thing we can do is accept and work with them.
But what will people think?
I’d love to say “who cares” but we’re all human, village is survival, we’re wired to care. So. Some reassurances:
Yeah, a few people are going to look at you funny, briefly. Then they’re going to fly to Croatia and forget you ever existed.
There are articles about able-bodied people using wheelchairs to get through security faster, so yes, someone might passingly think that’s you. Then they’re gonna pound an $8 mini-bag of Fritos and forget you exist.
As far as other people’s vocalized opinions, the worst thing to happen to me is: pity compliments. People recognize that a younger (even middle aged) person in a wheelchair is probably going through something. They just want to say something nice. Then they land in Puerto Vallarta and forget you exist.
I was acutely aware of the weight of other people’s opinions the first few times I airport wheelchair’d. Then, I huffed a rose garden with my Mom in Oregon, survived a hurricane in South Carolina, zoomed around in an Audi with my Dad in Denver, and forgot they existed.
The sooner you try it, the sooner you too can be a similarly hardened sickie who actually has the spoons to enjoy her (his/their) trip. Let’s get you booked.
How to even get a wheelchair
Here’s how it works: ya check some boxes as you buy your flight. On Alaska, you hit the tiny “request assistance” button right under your passenger info to open up the options above.
Bought your flight already? Log back in, and add “assistance” or “services” to your ticket. It takes maaaaaybe 27 seconds. Really can’t find it? Chat an agent.
I check “assistance through the airport” and “assistance down the jetway”. I do NOT check “aisle chair” or “assistance to transfer.” Aisle chairs are for people with the kinds of disabilities that prevent them walking 10-25 steps to their seat. It requires a special chair and handling. If you have SMA, ALS, para or quadriplegia, very severe ME/CFS, or any other inability to handle the last few steps, you need the aisle chair.
It’s okay if you don’t get it perfect on your request! You can just talk to the agents when you get there and they’ll fix it for you. The main thing is getting the gate assistance requested.
Next episode, we’ll talk about how to actually find the wheelchair in the airport, navigate security and the airport in a wheelchair, tip, and more—for now, just booking it is the right next step. Good job! Confetti cannons.
“I still hate this wheelchair idea. Is there any other way?”
VALID. And I won’t even say “internalized ableism is real” (even if it is) because it’s FINE to grieve things like “thoughtlessly navigating an airport.” And “not worrying about funny looks.” And “walking up and down the concourse gripping a Starbucks like a very important romcom boss bitch before she meets the sweet apple farmer who enables her sundressy soft girl life despite her losing her clearly superior income although that’s not really addressed just go with it okay.”
There are some alternatives—use the conveyor belt walkie thingies, take lots of breaks, look for the hard-to-spot elevators (they do exist!) to save on steps—but you’re shit outta luck if something’s out of service or the airport is doing big construction that reroutes you on a long walk.
I wish airports had scooters, but AFAIK, most don’t…and scootering with a lot of the same mental baggage as using a wheelchair, anyway. I still have not figured out how to catch a ride on one of the four wheeler thingies (anybody know?)
You CAN take your own mobility equipment. Both my Liberty Trike and my Glion Mini* are technically fly-able…but airlines frequently damage mobility equipment and these devices are rare enough they’ll probably introduce extra complication and admin, plus muscling them around at your destination. It’s almost worth it for the pure autonomy, but there are enough workarounds with an airport wheelchair (that I’ll teach you next time) that I haven’t used either.
Using a wheelchair at the airport only gets easier
Full confession: my first time wheelchairing while flying was hard. Emotionally, at least. Physically and mentally it saved a lot of much-needed spoons.
My Dad—who I ski patrolled with—teared up as he walked and I wheeled past the ski displays at the Denver airport on a medical trip. I cried frustrated sobs at the Airbnb, reading a shitty article about how a minority of doofnorfs were pretending to be disabled to cut security lines.
There’s been some blood-pressure-rising snags where I’ve gotten stranded at the wheelchair corral and then had to hustle through the airport, but I’ve never missed a flight.
Now, I just climb in and ride…but I’m still learning hacks, and have a brand new one to share next time.
In the end, my resistance to using an airport wheelchair was dramatically overblown…and also very human. If I can save you the agonizing trips it took for me to finally “break”…this is your sign to try the wheelchair.
Enjoy the ride—and your trip, for once.
*My BF says “Glion Mini” sounds like a sex toy to the uninitiated and context-unaware. Goodness. It’s a lightweight mobility scooter! While it’s no longer produced, here’s the nearest thing.
Have you tried a wheelchair? What’s holding you back?
Don’t hold out on us now. Maybe you know something I don’t?
Make sure to pack a Meatscon!
I use mine as a handy-dandy screenshot. Confession: I can never remember what my numbers mean (brain fog!), so I keep it on my phone for quick reference. It jogs my memory into what usually works at times like these.
Substack is just the nicest.
In the spirit of letting good things happen, I gleefully accept decaf Americanos at Venmo kira-stoops, any payment you like on the Meatscon, and useful gifts here.
PS. Because we could all use a break right now:
• Get $100 when you open a new Ally account using this link. (I’ve maxed out referrals, so nothing coming back to me, but enjoy!) This one’s my fave for the buckets feature, which works very well for my apparently bucket-y brain.
• Take $60 off an Electric Liberty Trike like mine with this link (I think it gives me $60, too?) For the cheapest deal, get the “Classic” (aka, old, aka, mine) model or a refurb. I gotta do a post about how good this thing is for low-stamina folks like me!
• Take $10 off Instacart (and give me $10 too!) with this code: KSTOOPS109C5. (My hot tip for good Instacart service: tip above 15%!)
Love this article. I was sooo hesitant to getting a wheelchair to travel, but that hesitancy prevented me from sitting on a porch with my sister in California, or touching my the sand with my toes. The emotional things that came up for me were the hardest. I still struggle with seeing myself as sick or disabled, and I sure as shit didn’t want people going to Croatia or Puerto to judge me, because let’s be honest, I was judging myself. I thought it would be hard to figure out. But like you said, it was 27 seconds, a couple looks, but mostly a breeze through an otherwise annoying airport experience and the opportunity to hug my mom and sister. Sooo worth it. And oh…I used my points to get me a first class seat at the front of the plane with no one next to me. It opened up my world and I’m grateful.
I’m deaf and if I tell the airline that they always meet me with a wheelchair. So I say, request away!