A Harrowing Experience

I will never get sick; I will never get old. Yeah. Right.

Overall, we had a very pleasant river cruise up the Rhine, from Basel to Amsterdam, with extensions on either side, (Lake Como on one, Amsterdam on the other.)

We were very lucky to be able to travel with friends, Jerry and Barb, from Berkeley, Ca. We were together for a three week stay at Aix en Provence. Followed a year or so later by a three week stay in Madrid. At each city we took language lessons, French in one, Spanish at the other.  All four of us get along very well together.

At the airport, for our plane ride over, I was asked if I needed wheelchair assistance. I might be old, but I’m spry, I thought. By the end of the journey, however, I was completely dependent on wheelchair assistance. I had become very ill.

I had noticed that I couldn’t keep up at the Kinderdijk windmill tour The tour guide, a 74 year old man, hovered about at the end of the tour, expecting a tip. But I didn’t have the strength to pull out my wallet. Besides, one would think he would have noticed my difficulty keeping up. I hobbled on board the Viking cruise ship—I made it, although with great difficulty.

It was downhill from there.

The journey home was terrible At the airport, I was offered a wheelchair without having to request one. I looked that bad.

The flight from Amsterdam to London went well, but we missed the connecting flight to Charlotte. (We had paid extra to get a direct flight, which we had for a while. Then British Airways bumped us off the flight—I assume they had overbooked, and when push came to shove, we were unceremoniously shoved.

By this time I had a fever, was coughing like mad, and had  bilateral pink eye, with copious discharge from each eye. What’s worse, I couldn’t stand or walk.

The assistance crew at Heathrow was dominated by Southeast Asians, who, I might add, really treated me well. (For example, “Do you need water, Sir? Let me get some for you.” This would not happen in New York.)

They were in fact so solicitous, and I apparently looked so bad, that we missed our connecting flight to Charlotte,

I was given a voucher to stay at an airport hotel, dinner included. W were put on a flight the next day to Washington, D.C. But we live in Baltimore, where our car is parked, my wife complained. “Take a taxi.” was the indifferent reply. A fifty mile taxi ride! But I was in no condition to complain; I couldn’t even kvetch.

Since I appeared quite ill at this point, we were advised to call an ambulance. I resisted, recalling the wait we had when my wife was struck by a car in France. I couldn’t bear waiting in a hospital, I felt too ill for that. I actually thought that I might die.

The next day we were ferreted though security and customs by wheelchair. Thank God for that; we couldn’t’ have managed on our own.

After waiting hours in an Assistance Room, we were finally wheelchaired onto a huge airbus.

It was what I’d call a pleasant flight if I had felt better. I coughed throughout the flight. People who began the flight seating near us changed their seats.

At the end of the flight, I couldn’t stand. Supported by my wife on the left and a flight attendant on the right, I was eventually  led off the plane. “Now you see a doctor right away,” I was told.

Nirmala’s mother met us at the airport. I was glad about that until I recalled she had been dead for over twenty years. She disappeared before I had a chance to thank her.

I was actively hallucinating at this point, I will spare you the details.

It was Nirmala’s sister and brother-in-law who met us as the airport. They are both very much alive; to keep it that way, Nirmala didn’t want to stay at their place, since I was so ill.

We stayed at Nirmala’s nephew’s house, where I could be isolated. My wonderful son, Philip, picked us up the next day.

Back in Baltimore, my hallucinations dissipated along with my cough. I am on a rather bumpy road to recovery. I am apparently not going to die.

What a harrowing experience!