definitely not incognito at the airport

Riding a wheelchair, wearing a fuscia colored muu-muu with The Leg sticking straight out from the hip definitely ruined my plans to arrive at the airport incognito that evening after the bone surgeon released me from the hospital. Five days before I had misstepped on the stairs, shattered the bone beneath my knee and broken my wrist. The ER doctor splinted leg and arm. The next morning the orthopedic surgeon attached a black rod and blue braces with external pins to my thigh and just above my ankle.
Unable to ride in a car, I joined a couple other women waiting for medical vans. I definitely had the flashiest attire. The others wore “I’m going home to bed” granny robes. I dressed for comfort for the flight from Michigan back to my daughter’s in Arkansas. The ramp folded in, chains secured the chair and heavy door of the medical van clanked shut for the ride to the airport.
With my fixator holding my cushioned leg straight on the too short leg extender of the wheelchair and an elbow hugging arm splint, a charming 16 year-old porter rolled me through the bustling afternoon crowd at the airport. Eyes followed me to check-in. The transportation safety officers did a double take. They saw danger hidden in The Leg, spokes of the chair and my cast. A young woman respectfully gave me a body massage with tiny strips of paper tested for residue of explosives. She stroked each of the fingers protruding from the elbow to hand cast. She rubbed down my arms, legs, back and front. Her eyes zeroed in on the rods of the shiny fixator. It too must be gently stroked with paper and the paper tested before she released me as safe to fly.
Waiting for my flight, I transferred to a couple cushioned chairs with computer ports which the staff eagerly pushed together to support me and The Leg. The gate attendant assessed the situation and handed me an extra ticket for The Leg. A blanket draped over it, yet male attendants hovered, studying The Leg, discussing the best way to move it into the plane.
My husband boarded first, took a front row seat and sat by the window, his favorite spot. As belle of the ball, I waved him the aisle seat to serve as my foot prop. I needed my left leg on the inside of the seat with all the pillows we took from the hospital stuffed around me,
Two flights like that and he too began to feel my pain.
Disembarking passengers wished me well. Who knew The Leg would make me so popular? My first hint came when rarely seen adult nieces who live Michigan visited me at the hospital.
The mandate “do not put weight on that leg or use that arm” forced me to wave my uninjured hand for attention. “I need to stand up, swivel and sit in the wheelchair. Would you hold my pile of pillows? Would you shove the walker closer, please?”
Would Southwest please hold the plane while my wheelchair raced down the terminal to the next plane?
Yes they would and an escort to help hurry us to the gate.
“My husband has all the suitcases. Thanks for pushing the chair.”
“Thanks for carrying my walker.”
At Little Rock airport a more compact, medical taxi dragged chains through the chair’s wheels. I sat sideways, my head inches from the roof. My Do Not Touch leg rested inches from the sliding door. The first big curve on the ride and I began to move. “The chair just rotated.” I said looking at my feet now within a toe stretch of the heavy door.
“It’s chained. It can’t move.” the driver said.
I spent the 20 minute ride watching that foot. Turning the last corner, it happened. The Do Not Touch foot made contact. “My foot is touching the door.” I said sharply.
Stop.
Adjust.
“Hold the seat as I line up the ramp with the house door.” I gripped fiercely until someone grabbed the chair’s handles and rolled me to a most welcome bed. The transportation party had finally ended.
I slept most of the next day, waking only long enough to study my elephant knee for shrinkage and count the days until the appointment with the surgeon.
Can’t be too soon for me. I plan to arrive at the next airport incognito.