The two wheelchairs we had requested were waiting on the jetway just outside the plane’s door. Friendly “pushers” helped us get into them and on our way. We were particularly glad for their assistance because we had to go from one concourse to another, always a long walk at O’Hare. They found places for us to sit at our new gate, tucked in among a crowd waiting to board a plane for somewhere other than Cleveland. We settled into our two-hour layover.
Shortly after the plane to somewhere else departed, I received a text that our flight would be slightly delayed so passengers from an incoming flight could make their connection. Not happy news, but not too bad either. For us, as for most of the people on our flight, Cleveland was our final destination. A short delay for the benefit of others was no problem.
We got a bite to eat from one of O’Hare’s over-priced vendors. We also had to change gates, fortunately just to the next one over. We waited a little longer, and began boarding—a process that always seems to take longer than it should.
From what I could tell from my seat near the front of coach, everyone was finally seated. But then the passenger for whom our plane had been delayed came on board, pushed in one of those special wheelchairs airlines use to bring handicapped passengers into the plane, first through business class, and then down the narrower coach aisle.
I felt a little sorry he had arrived so late that he had not been able to “pre-board” (as they call it) with people like us. His need was clearly visible. As he was pushed toward the back of the plane, I thought a shame he didn’t have a seat up front, closer to mine.
His attendant walked back up the aisle and out. I thought that was that. But a moment later a second person in a wheelchair was rolled in, again toward the back of the cabin. Now I realized that the two passengers were probably severely disabled. They barely moved and hardly seemed to be reacting to where they were and their situation.
About the third late-arriving passenger I noticed “Paralyzed Veterans of America” sewn into their attendant’s shirt. The procession up the aisle consisted of men and women who, I presume, had suffered paralyzing injuries in war.
Altogether around a dozen men and women were in the little parade of vets though the tight space of coach on our United 737. I am sure each of them touched people on both sides of the aisle as they came through. Each of them must have required expertise and extra time to be seated and buckled in and ready to fly to Cleveland with us.
I have no idea why there were so many paralyzed vets on our flight. I wondered what it would have taken to seat them all in first class—probably far more money than either they or the Paralyzed Veterans of America could afford. To seat them in first would have been a generous gesture on the part of United, although perhaps they did not expect or want any special treatment other than what they absolutely needed.
If those men and women had been in a real parade—say, on Veterans’ Day, under a blue sky with bands playing Sousa and Old Glory waving—I suppose they would have heard the applause and cheers of the spectators as they rode by on their specially-constructed vehicle. But coming down that narrow aisle one at a time in wheelchairs, they were celebrated by our silence, perhaps appropriately. We were not prepared for this. We dared not complain about any delay. We had to think about them and the sacrifice they had made for us and for our country, and to offer whatever prayer of gratitude welled up in our hearts.
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As I reflect on the parade of vets I witnessed on our way home from a Myers family gathering, I remember that ours is not a family of warriors. That may go back to what we believe were our first Myers settlers in this country. They were of Swiss German origin, and were River Brethren Christians, one of the offshoots of the anabaptist movement that refused to recognize any earthly sovereign or to bear arms against another human being…basically, pacifists. One of my distant relatives is said to have gotten in trouble for refusing to pay taxes to support the American revolutionary cause.
Some family members have served in the military and thus are veterans, but I know of no career military people on either side of my family. One of my cousins is married to a retired naval officer, but that’s about as close as we come to that kind of heritage.
We are also, I believe, a relatively healthy lot. My Myers grandparents bore 6 children, who in turn bore 16 grandchildren—my cousins and me. As far as I know, we were all healthy kids. I am, at 80, the oldest. Four of us have now died, including one of my two brothers. But chronic illness and disability are rare chapters in our family story. I am grateful for that, of course.
So, how do I understand—if I can understand it at all—people like those paralyzed vets traveling on that plane with us? I am not sure I can. Yes, I use a cane, and am now being wheeled through airports. But that’s just life.
Perhaps I can only be in awe that those paralyzed vets survive as they do, and make sure they have all the space they need to get along as best they can in life. And be grateful to them.
