The Angel at The Airport
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I got out of the rental car - I couldn’t move. My legs were as if frozen. In Parkinson’s, it is simply called freezing. Add any degree of stress and the freezing multiplies.
I was at the Phoenix Sky Harbor (fancy for airport). I had flown out from Minneapolis the previous week. While the Parkinson’s terminal experience in Minneapolis was hard, I felt with some adjustments to the timing of the medications I could make it work in Phoenix. It didn’t work.
It started with the return of the rental car. The return guy was a bit too focused on keeping the returning cars moving. He didn’t have much time for a person who wasn’t moving.
It was a fairly long walk through the parking ramp to the escalator I needed to get to. I had to stop and “reset” several times. Arriving at the top of the escalator, I look for a restroom. It is across the lobby and down a long hallway. I have no choice. I shuffle a few mini steps and then freeze. Again. Repeat. Again. Repeat. Etc. I make it. And then do the same back to where I started.
I head outside and look for where to catch the right shuttle bus. A lady asks me where I’m looking to go. She asks in such a way that it sounds like she’s asking me for help. I tell her I’m not the one to ask – I’m not from here. It turns out she knew where she needed to be – where she was – the line for the bus to terminal 3 – the same terminal I needed to go to. I got in line with her and her husband. It’s a long line. I wonder how I’m going to manage getting on a full bus with my two pieces of luggage while in freeze mode. Tight spaces are automatic freeze zones.
As we approach the door, the husband asks if he can help me with my luggage. Music to my ears. With little need to think about his offer, I, with little hesitation, agree. It’s standing room only. It’s not a short ride. My legs are hurting. A young man gets up and offers me his seat. I thank him. Ahhhhhh.
At the terminal the husband insists on helping get my luggage off. The woman asks which airline I’m on. It turns out we’re taking the same airline and our gates are just two gates apart. She says, “We’ll help you to your gate.” She insists on taking my luggage. She’s a nurse. She acts like she knows how difficult it can be for one with Parkinson’s in a freezing mode to navigate the long expanses of airport terminals while carrying or pulling one’s luggage. As she takes my luggage, my legs free up. It’s weird. I can now take bigger shuffle steps which is far less tiring than the mini-shuffle steps.
As we head out across the great terminal expanse we share our lives. She starts with, “I’m Lisa.” I respond with, “That’s easy to remember – my youngest sister is Lisa”. Her husband is Andrew. They live 30 miles east of Salt Lake City, Utah. She’s a nurse in the ICU unit of the hospital. It’s been a hard year.
We arrive at the security area and get in line. When it’s our turn, the agent directing people motions for me to come his way. I freeze. My legs won’t move. My worst fear.
As I stand motionless, unable to move, holding up the entire security line, someone further back in line yells, “Get going!” Not helpful. As the stress rises, so goes the freezing. Lisa, however, seems to know exactly what I need to hear. With a calm and gentle voice she says to me, “Take your time.” With the whole security staff and security line seemingly watching and waiting, I take a step. A lady a few people behind me, says, “Take all the time you need.” It helps.
As we load up the trays with things from pockets, etc., I ask if I need to take off my shoes. The security guy says yes. Stiffness often accompanies freezing. Lisa sees my challenge. She kneels down to untie my shoes. Amazing …and humbling.
The security guy then throws me for a loop – he says I don’t have to take off my shoes if I’m over 75. I announce that I’m over 75. Lisa, still on the floor, hearing me say this, begins to put my shoes back on. As she does, I realize the security guy meant years not pounds. A bit miffed that he would think I might be over 75, I say, “Well, I’m not over 75 years”. Lisa, still on the floor, switches gears again and unties my shoes – again.
On the other side of the xray booth, I grab my trayed items and head to a bench to put on my shoes. Lisa soon follows with the luggage and lays my billfold down next to me saying, “You forgot this.” She then kneels down once more to tie my shoes.
At this point, I’m overwhelmed by it all, by my helplessness and by Lisa’s caring. My voice cracks as I say, “Thank you.” I then say, “This is really hard.” She nods.
As we slowly walk towards the gate, Lisa still pulling my carry-ons, says I could ask for wheelchair service to get through airports. I say, “I know. I just don’t want to ‘go there’ yet.” She says she understands.
Upon getting to my gate and finding a seat, Lisa asks if they can get me anything – water, snacks? I, not wanting to feel even more indebted to them replied, ”No. I’m fine.” She asks again, “You sure you couldn’t use some water?” She reads me like a book. I say, “Yes, water would be great.” When they return I try to give them something for their help. They refuse.
Before they leave to catch their flight I thank them for everything. I thank them for caring. She, graciously, thanks me for letting them.
I’m again overwhelmed with it all – with their kindness and the realities of Parkinson’s. I don’t want to give in. I want to fight this thing as much and as long as I can. But with total strangers seeing what they must be seeing and giving of themselves in ways they are giving, the reality is I’m slowly losing.
I feel my eyes watering. I adjust the mask hoping any tears will fall behind unseen. As Lisa and Andrew turn to go, she glances back. She sees but says nothing. And with that, she walked out of my life as quietly as she had walked into it.
She was not just another person looking to get through the airport as quickly as possible. She was extraordinary. She was, in many ways, as I would imagine an angel to be – a guardian angel – taking care to see me through a hard time. She didn’t take me out of that which was hard, she took me through it, helping when I needed help, being there when I needed someone there. It was a beautiful thing.
Interestingly, she was dressed in white.
On the flight home, the Parkinson’s switched from freezing to dyskinesia – the flip side of freezing. Now, instead of not being able to move, I’m moving uncontrollably. I can’t stop my arms or legs from “twitching”. In Minneapolis, as we depart the plane, instead of needing help with my carry-ons, I’m helping others – getting carry-ons down from the overhead bins, etc. With the dyskinesia, I have no trouble walking or pulling my luggage. It’s weird.
As I step off the plane and onto the ramp, I spot a man with a wheelchair holding a sign that says “Thomas Eickhoff” What?! Who would have ordered such? I immediately think of Lisa and then just as quickly rule her out – we did not exchange our last names – only our first. There was no way she would have known my last name. An unsolvable mystery.
The next evening, as I thought about what had all happened, the mystery became not to be one: When Lisa and I were going through security, I left my billfold in one of the trays. She, seeing it but not knowing if it was mine, opened it. Upon doing so, she would have seen a Minnesota driver’s license (I had told her where I was from) belonging to Tom. She would have then seen my last name. It’s why when she brought it to me, she did not ask if it was mine. She knew. She simply said I had left it.
Then sometime after leaving me, she either from Phoenix or Salt Lake City, silently arranged for a wheelchair and a “driver” to meet me as I got off the plane in Minneapolis.
Amazing.
I guess that’s what angels do - silently, caringly, beautifully, watching for, and helping though.