Can I get a lift, please?

Ahh, to be young! So full of energy, so high in spirit, so invincible.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t me a decade ago – at least, not that specific day. Certainly me, nay, totally me on and off throughout my life, but not that day. You see, as a young woman in my early 20’s who had recently been diagnosed with Piriformis Syndrome, I wasn’t living my best life.

What syndrome, you ask?

Well, it’s a condition when your sciatic nerve is irritated by your piriformis muscle, a muscle located in your buttocks. In plain and simple terms, my lower back/buttocks region hurt.

And oh, how it hurt! On top of the dull pains, I would get these episodes now and then, where I experienced excruciating shooting sharp pain radiating from my lower back to my buttocks and down my thighs. The pain was so extreme that I would be stuck. As soon as I felt that sharp pain, I would freeze. If I tried to move even an inch of my body, I would get another shooting pain.

So, my recourse would be to take some ibuprofen and wait it out in whatever position I was stuck in. If I felt particularly brave, I would grit my teeth, take power breaths and force myself to either get to a sitting or lying position and ride it out until the pain subsided.

Fun fact, I was changing my sheets when I first experienced this god-awful debilitating pain. So, I was stuck in a half bend position for two hours. Lucky for me (look at me, ever the optimist), I was home when this happened, so my family was there to experience this with me for the first time. My poor mom, dad, brother, and cousin, who were at their wits end with a bawling me, finally got the physiotherapist I saw at the time (for other posture issues) to come over, who injected me with a strong dose of painkiller.

Interestingly enough, it was the same PT responsible for my Piriformis Syndrome; we later figured out; not to mention a million false diagnosis I went through before finally figuring out what the problem was, but I digress. A story for another day.

Speaking of days, let’s get back to that day I was talking about. You know, the one a decade ago, when I wasn’t living my best life. Yeah, that one. So, I was at the airport that day. My travel agent told me that they had arranged special assistance and pre-boarding for me. So when the early-boarding announcement was made, I headed to the check-in desk to ask if somebody could help put my carry-on in the overhead bin. The look that lady gave me makes me uncomfortable to this day.

“Do you need a wheelchair?” she asked me with such disdain, it made me recoil. “Umm, no, but I have a medical condition, which makes it difficult for me to lift heavy objects,” I told her. My pains got triggered by even medium loads. She didn’t believe me. Not that she said it in that many words, but I could see it in her face, hear it in her tone. She asked to see my medical records or something to that effect.

I don’t know why, but at that moment, before I pulled out the doctor’s notes from my folder, I slowly unzipped my jacket and showed her my concealed back belt. It felt like I was stripping. My cheeks burnt and I felt humiliated. But it was clear now that my action made her uncomfortable too. To her defense, she hadn’t asked me to strip. That was all me. In fact, to her, I probably looked like a totally fine, entitled young woman, trying to take advantage of the system – hence, her derision.

By the time she had my medical evidence in her hands, someone else had arrived to check what was causing the holdup. The lady handed back the papers, apologized, and told the person that I was asking for special attendance.

“Oh, how can I help you, miss?” he asked, but I had enough mortification for one day. “I’m actually good,” I said, quickly dragging my hand carry behind me to get in line. Early boarding had long ended, and regular boarding had ensued. “Are you sure?” I heard a voice call behind me, and I just nodded without turning back.

Was my mortification valid from that isolated incident? I don’t know. What I do know is that I was fraught with insecurities at that point in my life. I was a 20 something-year-old with an old lady problem, and by extension, the recipient of a barrage of well-intentioned, unsolicited sympathy.

I was also extremely conscious of people thinking I was making this up since I didn’t look like someone with such a chronic health problem. Thanks partly to that one doctor, who said maybe it was in my head - the pain; when he could not diagnose my condition. Well, the lady not believing me validated my fear that people thought I was just lazy and making this up.

Whatever it was, I was there, inside the plane now in the aisle beside my seat. I should ask someone to help me, a little voice in my head said. Or not, said another voice, which was not open to any more ridicule. Do it myself it is, I thought as I took a deep breath, lifted the hand carry, and placed it with some difficulty in the overhead compartment. There, no help needed; I barely finished the thought in my head when I felt the familiar warning twinge in my butt.

Uh-oh! Having experienced that twinge uncountable times before, I knew what it meant – don’t overextend yourself. As I slid into my seat, I could feel the soreness radiate throughout my lower body.

S***!

I should have just checked in the hand carry. It was a thought that did not come to me that horrible plan ride. As far as I was concerned, I was broke and could not afford the luxuries of checked luggage. And that was that.

So, what was it, if not regret, that so bothered me throughout the ride?

Anxiety.

I knew that I had to ask for help to get my suitcase down. But I didn’t want to. I took my able-bodiedness for granted all my life, which made it extremely difficult for me to accept otherwise. Although I had registered with disability services in my University with much prodding from my coordinator, I had not yet come to terms with my disability. Even though, diagnosed with a chronic health problem, I felt an inexplicable uneasiness in this admission.

I am ashamed to admit today that I felt shame about my issue when I should have felt none.

But I did. And there I was grappling, with my pride to ask for help, feeling utterly panicked about it. My back and glutes and legs were getting sorer by the hour. So was my brain with all the anxiety. It also didn’t help that my belt kept riding up every couple of minutes after securing it. I gave up on it after a point, so it just wrapped uselessly around my belly. The struggle was real.

“Prepare for landing,” came the pilot’s voice, and my heart started doing backflips in my chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The dreaded descent began, and the plane came to a halt. People began filing out, and there went my opportunity to ask my neighbors. I stood up, unable to make a decision. Should I just do it myself?

Nooooo, my back cried out in protest. Okay, Okay, calm down, I thought to myself. I looked around for a friendly face amongst the few stragglers left.

That’s when my brain took over again. My internal dialogue was intense.

What if they say no?

What if they gave you the same horrible look the lady at the check-in desk gave you?

Imagine. How mortifying!

Well, not as mortifying as if you got stuck here in the plane, unable to move, and you missed your connecting flight.

That seemed to do the trick because every part of me unanimously seemed to agree that being stuck right now with an episode of excruciating pain would be the most horrifying thing.

I barely had any option this time, so without much thought, I asked this older gentleman – he was about my dad’s age, so I’m going to call him uncle out of respect – to help me out. He was very sweet. With a nod, he retrieved my hand-carry for me as I rambled on about my backache. I thanked him profusely, and what did I do?

For extra measure, to make sure he really believed me, I flashed him my beige belt wrapped snugly around my back (I must have fixed it at some point, I don’t remember when.) He looked thoroughly uncomfortable by that, so did I. I quickly thanked the kind uncle one more time and hurried away with my bag.

Fast forward a couple of hours (I don’t remember how long exactly); it was time for my next flight. There I was on the plane again. I didn’t even attempt going the special-assistance route because I didn’t have the courage to go through that experience again. My back was already twinging with my earlier infraction, so I would not be attempting that again. Besides, the uncle had been very kind. Maybe I would find another kind soul to help me.

I got to my seat and looked around where a gentleman, in his forties, was effortlessly securing his own and his companion’s luggage. Bolder by experience perhaps, after a little hesitation, I asked him, “Excuse me, could you please help…” “Sure,” he smiled at me before I could finish and swung my carry-on above our heads. “Thank you,” I started, fully intentioned to explain my back situation, but he waved me off as if it was nothing. But it was something for me. So very kind of him! Sweet relief.

Not for long, though, because I started fretting about the one last retrieval of my bag for the trip. It would be okay, I told myself. I would find another kind person to help me. But the anxiety persisted. At a slightly lower level than my previous flight, but still there, its presence prominent.

One more time, the plane descended, and upon landing, I stood up, fully prepping myself to ask for help. But to my surprise - utterly delightful surprise - my green carry-on was in the aisle next to me on the ground. I was so happy! I looked around and caught the earlier gentleman’s eye, who smiled and gave me a little wave. He must have got my bag down first then went back to retrieve his own “Thank you!” I mouthed. He nodded.

I felt the push of eager passengers behind me to move along. I wanted to thank him more, but he was busy talking to his companion when I looked back. I felt another push and succumbed to the crowd. I cannot express the overwhelming gratitude I felt towards this kind man, who had no idea how much of an impact he had made.

In lifting my bag for me that day, he also raised my spirit, my dignity even. For if I had to ask him, or any other person for that matter, I would have surely flashed them my beige back belt as proof. As a matter of fact, I sadly did, numerous times during my return flight and other travels. It took me a while to realize that flashing my belt was not necessary; it was probably a disservice to the generous people who extended their help. Well, hindsight is 20-20; but I digress again.

In the end, I just want to thank all the wonderful people who have helped me during my travels. They probably don’t even remember helping a stranger out a decade ago; or they might be scarred for life by my belt flashing (if so, I’m truly sorry). Either way, I, for one, truly remember your generosity to a scared, anxious me many years ago. So, thank you, kind souls. I appreciate and cherish your kind gestures. I really do.

Thank you!