The Florida Fiasco
For the last several months, Aubrey and I have been planning a trip to the Lower 48. What started as a "quick trip to Asheville," slowly morphed into nine days in the lower half of Florida, staying in various hotels, renting multiple cars, and checking numerous bucket list items.
Our chosen journey would be a grand undertaking: it would start at one in the morning, contain one stop, ten hours of flying, and take us to the distant end of the furthest state from us, all of which we would do with a toddler in tow.
Being on the fresher side of parenting, we knew this would be a challenge. So, we decided on a proactive, albeit suboptimal approach: Aubrey packed toys, blankets, and lots of snacks. Normally, we don't use food as a reward, but given the gravity of the situation, we decided to make an exception.
On the leg from Anchorage to Seattle, an incredibly kind gentleman offered to, and did move to an empty seat across the aisle so Sam could sit on a seat instead of strewn across our laps. This done, Sam fell asleep in a reasonable amount of time.
In Seattle, we walked Sam as much as possible to wear him out for the longer transcontinental leg. Then, we spent a few minutes plane spotting together. But soon, it was time to board.
We lined up like good little sardines and took our places in the tenth row. This flight had no extra seats, so Sam would sit on our laps for the duration. Next to us sat an outgoing grandmother who introduced herself as Katherine.
For four hours Aubrey and I juggled toddler, iPad, toys, and snacks. We even got Sam to nap for a while. With three other somewhat screamy babies on board, I began to think we'd gotten the hang of this whole parenting thing. That all changed with the zoomies.
Starting into the fifth hour, Sam got restless and began running back and forth between me and Aubrey. For those unfamiliar with an airliner's legroom, suffice it to say, the circuit was small.
Immediately after finishing his 5k, Sam crawled awkwardly into Aubrey's lap and began to cry.
Now, I should mention that Sam has spent the last five weeks in the research and development phase for new, more effective cries. He initially tried amplitude modulation with peaks of high volume intersticed by near-silent pauses. Soon after, he discovered frequency modulation and began alternately between robust, throaty wails and ear-piercing shrieks.
Last week he made a truly world-altering breakthrough; he began modulating both frequency and amplitude. The resultant song casts shame on the likes of police cars and air raid sirens; a coup de grĂ¢ce for aural sensation. At nights when the Cheerios run out or a Bluey episode finishes, I worry not that the neighbors might complain about the noise, but that child services may have, for just such an occasion, a SWAT team surrounding the house, preparing to free the tortured children within.
Compounding the matter of crying are the rather unfavorable acoustics of the 737's hull. Inside the aerial prison, sounds rattle around like rocks in a tin can. And, before diminishing, pass the victim's ears countless times.
Aubrey reacted to the crying as we had planned: with distraction and food. She grabbed the plastic steamroller truck (a favorite among construction vehicles) and offered it firmly to Sam. He immediately thrust it back towards her. Next was the applesauce. When it comes to soft foods, applesauce gets Sam's Michelin Star. Again, he refused, this time wailing so loudly that his ears turned red. In a last-ditch effort, Aubrey pulled the ace she'd been pocketing: Bingo. Now, technically Bluey is a higher-value target, but we did not want to risk losing the favorite plushie on a frivolous plane ride, so Bluey's little sister Bingo would have to do.
"W....."
The beginning of a cry, then silence. We'd done it! We had avoided utter breakdown.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"
An inhuman cry of unbearable agony resounded through economy and pierced the veil of first class. Those who could, covered their ears. The rest of us suffered permanent hearing loss.
And this masterpiece, this cry that will live in infamy was not singular, but the start of a new era of weeping and gnashing of teeth.
With Aubrey out of ideas, I reached for Sam. While trying to pull him into my lap, he went stiff, refusing movement with every fiber of his being. I wrangled and wrestled until I had him somewhat situated on my lap. Then I attempted to comfort him by holding him close. I pressed him against my chest and rocked him back and forth.
"Sam, it's ok. Sam, I love you."
But my efforts were in vain, Sam's crying grew louder and I could feel the patience of our fellow travellers waning with each successive scream.
So, asking Aubrey and Katherine to move, I took Sam to the aft lavatory where he could cry all he wanted. Inside, I sat him on my knees and held him close.
"I love you, little buddy," I told him during the silences as I bounced him gently.
Within ten minutes, he stopped crying. I stood up with him and opened the door to a waiting line of passengers. Apologizing, I carried a now-limp and exhausted Sam back to seat 10E.
When we returned, I handed Sam back to Aubrey. Before I could sit down, he started crying again. This time, Aubrey was able to console him, and as the jet began its initial descent into Fort Lauderdale, we were all sitting peacefully again.
Breaking out of a high overcast layer, I opened the window so Sam and I could watch the world pass by. An eerie silence fell over row 10, one final, peaceful breath in before disaster.
Sitting on Aubrey's lap and looking directly into my eyes, Sam vomited. Not normal, baby spit-up, but voluminous, chunky, and putrid. Caught completely off guard, I froze. Sticky and warm, a vile bowl of oatmeal dripped down my shirt and spilled onto my left pant leg.
Finally, my brain caught up with the unfolding situation: I reached to catch the still-onrushing vomit with my hand.
"Um, ugh," I stammered.
"Here." It was Katherine. Reaching across two seats, she handed me an open airsick bag. I clumsily held it under the fountain of partially digested Cheerios and liquified Biscoff cookies.
When the flow stopped, I looked around: Aubrey had contained the catastrophe to a small area. Unfortunately, that area was me. As I surveyed the damage to my favorite travelwear, the stench hit. Words like "foul" and "putrid" fail to capture the revulsion. We were cornered in an airplane, surrounded by 176 other people, and covered in vomit. The fumes burned my eyes, and I choked back a contribution of my own.
Aubrey held Sam out so I could clean what little was left on the child. Then I asked, "Would you and Katherine mind if I got up?"
I went directly to the forward lavatory, dragging stench and dripping vomit as I moved through first class. A lady was reaching for the door handle when I approached.
"Would you mind if I cut? My toddler just puked on me," I asked. She stepped aside, staring at my food-soaked clothes. Inside, I was looking around for any sort of cleaner when the seatbelt light came on.
"Ugh... ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We're beginning our final descent into Fort Lauderdale. Seatbelts are required until we're parked, and the lavatories are now closed."
With no cleaner at hand, I simply poured water onto the stains and patted them dry with paper towels. Then I headed back past the lady, still waiting for the lav, to my seat.
En route, a flight attendant handed me a small bag with sanitizing wipes and rubber gloves. As a precaution, I grabbed the airsick bag in front of my seat and donned the gloves.
As I settled into the window seat, Sam resumed puking. I had the bag in my hand, but it was still folded. While I struggled to open the bag, Aubrey cupped her hand to catch the flow. I got the bag open and in place; it quickly filled with more than a quart of split-pea soup. With no end in sight, I thrust my hand between the seats in front of me, "Bag!"
The couple scrambled for an airsick bag and handed it back. At this point, I was holding half a cup of vomit in my gloved left hand and trying to open and position the new bag with my right. I dumped the handful of vomit into the new bag as the warm flow continued.
A flight attendant arrived with a full-sized trash bag and fresh cleaning supplies. I piled the old bags inside the new one and moved the large bag up to Sam's face. Sam clung desperately to the bag as he continued to fill it; two, three, four quarts of vomit and no signs of slowing down. I became concerned we would leave more of Sam on the airplane than we'd take with us.
After ten straight minutes of puking, there was a break in the storm. I relaxed the bag but held it ready. I wiped what vomit I could from Sam, but Aubrey and I had generous amounts on our clothes.
Nearing the ground, our row was in shambles. Aubrey and I, being frequent travelers, are generally packed and ready to exit the airplane by the time the seatbelt light comes on. Now, we had clothes, toys, bags, and snacks strewn across two and a half seats. Worse, we knew that any delay in exiting would likely result in Sam spewing vomit onto new seats and unsuspecting passengers. With the stakes so high, Aubrey and I devised a plan to send her sprinting through first class the second the plane stopped in a desperate attempt to get Sam to an open bathroom.
"Katherine," Aubrey asked, "would you mind if I got out as soon as the plane stops? I want to get Sam to a bathroom as soon as possible."
"Of course I wouldn't mind! I'll pass the word up to the passengers ahead."
And with that, Katherine started asking the passengers in front of her if they would wait for Aubrey.
Coming through on a final cross-check, one of the flight attendants stopped Katherine.
"What are you doing?" the flight attendant asked.
"I was asking the passengers to let this young mother and her sick baby through first," Katherine replied.
"Oh," said the flight attendant and headed back to the front of the airplane.
An announcement came over the PA system, "May I have everyone's attention? We have a mother with a sick child in row ten who need to exit first. Those of you in front of her: please wait until she has passed before you stand up. Thank you."
When the airplane rolled to a stop at the jetway, Katherine stood up and moved back. Aubrey took Sam and ran to the front of the plane.
With Sam en route to open toilets and tiled floors, I surveyed the damage: a yard sale's worth of items littering the seats and floor. I began cleaning up. Instead of heading for the door, Katherine and the couple who had furnished spare puke bags began to help gather what they could and load it into our bags. The entire airplane waited patiently as the four of us straightened up and packed the bags that belonged to Aubrey and me.
"Here, I'll take this," said the woman from row nine, grabbing the bag of vomit. She tied it off and handed it to the flight attendant who had also arrived to help.
"Which bags are yours?" asked Katherine, opening the overhead compartment.
"I can get those," I said, still not understanding the determined kindness of everyone around me.
"Is it this Fox bag?" Katherine asked.
"Yes," I said, and she pulled it down.
"How about this orange backpack?"
"Yes, thank you."
I began shoving things anywhere they'd fit; toys, snacks, and jackets were sorted into bags on a space-available basis.
"Our son puked every day for five years straight," said the woman from row nine as she pushed
toys into the orange backpack, "one day we got invited to fly in our friend's airplane. We were so excited because we'd never been on a private airplane before, and we thought it would be short enough that our son would be ok. He covered the interior of the airplane with vomit so we had to land immediately. We were mortified."
I smiled. These folks understood. They weren't just being nice, they had been through this and they knew what it felt like.
"Lemme give you a hand with these bags," said the man from row nine.
"No thanks, I've got it," I lied.
"This looks like a lot," Katherine said, "I would take the help."
"Ok, that would help a lot," I said to the man from row nine.
I thanked Katherine and the lady, then turned to leave. The entire airplane was still waiting. On the jetway, the man brought me the two bags he'd carried.
"Thank you so much," I said.
He just smiled at me.
I didn't see Katherine again.
The kindness and sympathy that a group of strangers showed to Sam, Aubrey, and myself on that flight was staggering. Each small action inspired those close by to act with grace and generosity as well. The effect was a plane-wide effort to care for a sick boy and two bewildered foster parents. It is a flight I will never forget.