Aisle Be There

It took people, patience, and effort to get there. But "the mountain was out" and so was I

What It Took to Get Here

It’s been years since I boarded a plane.
Not just because of COVID. Not just because of the hassle.
Because flying, traveling at all, just isn’t simple anymore.

But earlier this week, we flew to Seattle for my niece’s wedding.

My wife and I flew out together. So did my daughters and their significant others. We met up with extended family, my sister and brother-in-law, my niece’s new in-laws, and others I hadn’t seen in years. All of us in one place. One place other than home. That alone felt like an accomplishment.

It’s easy to forget how hard it is just to get somewhere.

Airports are built for people who move quickly and independently. That’s not my reality. From the moment we arrived, I needed help navigating lines, wrangling luggage, finding a path through the controlled chaos of terminals.

The hardest part came at the gate. My wheelchair doesn’t fit down the aisle of a plane, so I have to transfer into what’s called an aisle chair, a narrow, rigid contraption built for this one awkward purpose. I can’t get into it alone. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes people. Once I’m in, they strap me down tightly, arms crossed over my chest so I’m narrow enough to be rolled down the aisle like cargo.

transferred from my wheelchair to the aisle chair

Then they take my chair, my actual wheelchair, the one I depend on every day, and check it underneath. And I just have to hope it isn’t damaged. It’s happened before.

There’s no real way for me to use the bathroom on the flight, so I ration water. Time things carefully. Adjust and adapt.

No one’s unkind. The crew was helpful, even gracious. But the process strips away something. It’s not humiliating. It’s just not dignified. It’s the cost of getting where I want to go.

And yet.

The next day, there I was, wheeling through Pike Place Market in the sun (yes, nothing but sunshine in “rainy” Seattle), taking in the smells and colors, admiring Chihuly’s glasswork, getting lifted to the top of the Space Needle. That night, I was at a rooftop barbecue with family and new in-laws I’m just getting to know, staring out at Mt. Rainier when, as they say out here, “the mountain is out.”

Family pic in front of the original Starbucks

There’s something about being somewhere new that wakes something up in me.
A spark I haven’t felt in a while.

Before the accident, I traveled all the time. Boston. San Francisco. Singapore. I liked the rhythm of it. I liked arriving somewhere unfamiliar and finding my way. I liked movement.

Now, everything takes more effort. It was part of the reason I had to leave Barclays. I don’t travel much anymore.

But this trip reminded me what I’ve been missing. Not just the scenery. The feeling.

The feeling of being out in the world. Of exploring. Of experiencing something unplanned. Of not knowing exactly what’s next and wanting to find out anyway.

Sure, I’d love to be hiking the trails at Olympic National Park or kayaking in the San Juan Islands. That’s not in the cards. So I’ll take what I can get. A push up Seattle’s surprisingly steep hills, a meandering roll through the farmers market, a wedding where guests flew in across continents, oceans and even war torn lands to get here.

It’s easy to focus on what I can’t do. And believe me, I go down that rabbit hole sometimes. But it never leads anywhere good.

My two younger daughters at the wedding with beautiful Puget Sound and Oympic National Park beyond in the background

This week, I’m trying to focus on what I can do.

And more importantly, what I am doing.

I’m here. I made it.
And for now, that’s enough.

Congratulations to Avital and Daniel.
Thank you for giving me the reason and the push I needed to see a new piece of the world.

Sunset over the Space needle .