We Need to Talk About Wheelchair Assistance
Mobility aids: not just for paralyzed folks anymore!
I knew we were going to need to have this talk sooner than later.
Not you, specifically. If you’re reading my travel Substack, it’s safe to assume that you’re a well-informed, open-minded, conscientious traveler. I’m so proud of you for that!
But it never takes long to find people who aren’t as lovely as you folks. I found one last night on Threads:
*sigh*
I’m grateful that the vast majority of the responses dragged the hell out of Paralegal Pam for her willful ignorance and short-sightedness. Maybe today she has a new understanding of what “ambulatory wheelchair user” means.
When I fly, I am an ambulatory wheelchair user. This began in 2019, thanks to a 2017 accident that left me with splinters from my knee bones, destroying the cartilage in both of my joints. Because the medical industry is terrified of fat people, I wasn’t able to get my knees replaced until 2022. By then, I was in dire condition, requiring a cane most of the time, taking an assortment of anti-inflammatory drugs, and in constant pain, not just in my knees, but also in my pelvis and lower back. I spent so much time pushing through the pain with bone-on-bone knees that I lost a 1/2-inch of my height from grinding down the bones, which changed the shape of my skeleton, leading to an assortment of compressed nerves and reactivating an injury to my sacroiliac joints from CJ’s birth.
On December 23, 2021, I got the best Xmas gift—a fantastic (now retired) surgeon agreed to replace my knees. I’m still dealing with nerve compression, which can make standing for longer periods difficult. But I’m far more mobile than I was the week of October 22, 2021, when I had the awesome idea to celebrate my 49th birthday by going to Manhattan to see “American Utopia” on Broadway, then flying to Los Angeles for a couple of Wilco shows with friends.
I did it, and had a great time, but it also felt like it might be one of my last trips. I couldn’t have done this without the assistance of the airport porters who push travelers in wheelchairs provided by the airlines, making air travel possible for so, so many people.
These days, my knees are pretty great. Nerve compression pain is somewhat controlled with cortisone shots. And I’m still navigating airports with wheelchair assistance. Why? Those vestibular issues I’ve often mentioned tend to flare in stressful situations. Like trying to catch a plane in 2025. I’ve had some occasions, usually when deplaning, when I’ve been able to get where I need to be on my own. Traveling in the off-peak hours helps because I don’t have to dodge as many people in crowded areas. But this condition puts me at risk of falling, vomiting, and/or passing out. None of which is a great beginning or end to a trip.
This is why wheelchair assistance exists. It’s for people like me who don’t necessarily need a wheelchair in day-to-day life, but need extra help in places like airports.
Here’s how it works: When I buy my plane ticket I mark that I need disability assistance, and that I need a wheelchair but can walk. On flight day, I get checked in before getting a wheelchair and a pusher. Then I wait anywhere from a minute to half an hour. I never know, so I’m adamant about getting to the airport way too early. I make sure I have everything I want or might need, so I don’t have to bother the porter to stop for supplies. Once I’m at my gate, I tell the porter I can take it from there. There’s no need for me to keep a chair and porter busy when I can handle the walk down the jetway or to the restroom. I tip them and thank them.
(Technically, this is a free service, but decent people tip. I give $5-10, depending on how long and far we have to go. Some porters go way above and beyond, and I’m happy to give them more. But keep in mind that this is something people who don’t need wheelchair assistance aren’t paying for. A flight with a layover = at least $15 in tips, minimum.)
And you know what? I absolutely hate that I require assistance. I’ve always been independent to a fault, and I suck at asking for help. These years of requiring wheelchair assistance have been humbling and educational.
Here are some things I didn’t know about airport wheelchair assistance until I needed it:
You don’t need to prove that you have a disability. Yes, this means the airlines are doing something radical—they trust us to tell the truth. Sprain your ankle the day before a flight? You can get assistance. Chronically ill and wanting to save your “spoons”? You can get assistance, too. Get a round of foodborne illness from airport sushi? You can get help. Airlines would rather people ask for assistance than have a medical emergency that can lead to injuries and delays.
Wheelchairs are provided by airlines. They’re pushed by airport-employed porters. And every airport is understaffed on porters. It’s a grueling job. Sometimes they get tipped. Sometimes they don’t. The etiquette for this service is all over the place.
Yep, being in a wheelchair means getting to cut the line at TSA and boarding the plane first. This pisses off a lot of people. They don’t realize (or care) that we’re bumped up in the TSA line because the porters have to go through security, too. And because all medical equipment gets searched. When I used an adjustable cane, TSA would scan it and fully disassemble it to search it. It was my job to put it together in my wheelchair when they were finished.
Most porters are delightful. The workforce is largely immigrant or Black. I’ve had so many wonderful people get me where I need to be. Porters are the unsung heroes who keep people moving to where they need to be in busy airports.
That said, I’ve had three not-so-great porters. My first bad porter was just flat-out inattentive, more interested in his phone than making sure I was where I needed to be on time. The other two were far worse.
In one case, we got to the gate and I realized I was out of cash for a tip. I started to ask if there was an ATM nearby, but instead of letting me talk beyond saying, “I’m out of cash…”, the porter threw a literal screaming tantrum about not getting a tip (I was trying to get him one) and stormed off. And that’s why I avoid layovers in Phoenix.
The most recent one was during my last L.A. trip in May. The porter I was assigned at Burbank had the Gen Z Stare. I approached her and had to ask three times if she had my name on the list of wheelchair users before she said, “Just sit down in the chair.” Ooooooookay …. I only needed to go to baggage claim, then the rideshare spot, which, luckily, are close to each other. I knew this because I’m very familiar with the airport. We arrived at baggage and she said, “Soooo … are we done here or …?” While I actually could have used help getting to the rideshare spot, I decided it wasn’t worth being dehumanized. Again, familiarity with the airport gave me some autonomy—I knew I could sit down on a bench while I waited for my bag and my ride. So I stood up and said, “You’re clearly not digging this, so you can leave," and I walked over to the bench to wait for my suitcase. I was loud enough and in close enough quarters that plenty of people heard the exchange, but no one said a word as a few of them watched me walk away. Which is fine. I didn’t need anyone’s help.*
And yes, people other than porters can be shitty. Luckily, I’ve never had anyone be shitty about my wheelchair use—or lack of—to my face. But I’ve seen the looks I get when I stand up from a wheelchair and walk to a seat without limping or, I don’t know, dragging my carcass by my arms across the gate carpet. Here’s the thing:
IT IS NO ONE’S BUSINESS BUT MY OWN.
I have the right to experience the absolute goddamn miracle that is modern travel. My money is just as valuable as that of healthier passengers. I deserve this without being accused of faking or not being “disabled enough” for someone’s preconceived notions.
With also being a “Customer of Size” (SW Airlinese for fat), I have no doubt that plenty of people, like Paralegal Pam, have assumed I’m also just lazy. If only they knew how much harder I work to fly now than I did before 2017. But they don’t know, or think about others, so fuck ‘em.
She’s right about one thing—every time I walk onto an airplane, it’s a miracle.
It’s a miracle that anyone can fly. It is an absolute goddamn miracle to spend time in the sky and walk out a thousand miles from where you were three hours ago. A miracle of science, innovation, design, and organization.
It’s a miracle that I can walk, considering what happened to my knees. Eternally grateful and amazed on the daily for what Brett Levine did with my severely damaged legs. I did get fewer askew glances before I tattooed over my knee scars, though.
For the Paralegal Pams out there, it’s a miracle they don’t get pushed down every time they say something ignorant.
Paralegal Pam, we do have one thing in common: my heart is also full, and I’m so thankful to have been given a second chance at life. I thought it was going to be over before I turned 50, because I couldn’t fathom spending the rest of my youngish life wheelchair-bound while still being able to do the things I love. It’s harder, having to get wheelchair assistance at airports, using ADA seating at concerts when I’d much rather be able to stand and dance, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.
My life is a miracle that’s fueled by the work and compassion of many other people who make it possible for me to be who I am and get where I want to be. Maybe Paralegal Pam needs better people in her world. Poor thing.
*Yeah, that’s my hyper-independence. It’s a super power.
I had bilateral knee replacement surgery also with a surgeon who saw me and my situation rather than just a BMI. I love the tattoo idea! It looks good!