Morning of travel, I couldn’t sneeze without seeing stars. Sneezing was a crime. Breathing was a negotiation. I packed one small backpack because lifting anything heavier felt like signing a death warrant.
I thought, “It’s fine. I’ll just sit still. How bad can it be?” Ha. Ha ha ha. The universe heard me and laughed. The universe is a jerk with a great sense of timing.
Getting to the airport was a warm-up in misery. Every bump in the road sent a little shockwave through my chest. I gave the Uber driver the evil eye every time he hit a pothole. He didn’t care.
Security: The fun zone
Now, airport security. Remember, I had cracked ribs. So when they asked me to lift my arms for the scanner, I tried. Key word: tried. I raised them about four inches before my body screamed, “ABORT MISSION.”
The TSA agent gave me a look—eyebrows raised, head tilted. I said, “Cracked ribs,” and offered a sickly smile. He didn’t smile back. No one cares about your ribs in security. They care about your giant water bottle.
Rib fractures :: Frimley Health NHS Foundation Trust
I had to do the pat-down. The pat-down was a comedy of errors. I flinched when they touched my chest. The agent whispered, “Sorry.” It was the most genuine moment of my day.
