A Flight Worth Forgetting
Before going to Morocco, I was warned. My mom’s friend had just been on a trip there, and everyone in their group got seriously sick. Our family knows how “not to get sick” and we stuck by our rules: use bottled water even for brushing teeth, eat only cooked vegetables, eat only fruit without its skin, never eat from street vendors. Well, I got diarrhea on Day 2 but that’s expected because I have Crohn’s Disease and one mustn’t underestimate that. Also, we devoured things like lamb and prunes, chicken with lemon and olives…you know, poop food. I wanted everyone to move, just not too much.
Eight days later, I took a bathroom toll and everyone was still doing fine. Stools in check. Whew. Our final morning at the Casablanca airport, we bid farewell to Charlie who had additional business in town, and the kids and I headed to Madrid for a single evening of fun. In addition to breaking up the 15 hour trip home, the kids got to check Spain off their list. And we all know how fun it is to cross things off a list. Especially when it’s a country!
It’s also loads of fun to shop at Agatha Ruiz de la Prada (even if your credit card is declined because you forgot to alert the bank that you’d be in Spain), and play in the courtyard of Plaza Santa Ana after dark. This was an enormous highlight for the kids because I bought them those $1 whirly gigs that shoot high into the sky, lighting up like a shooting star as they spin back toward Earth. And the Flamenco Dinner Show at Villa Rosa was…entertaining, if a bit melodramatic for the kids. For dessert, my son Jack, asked the waiter if they had some fruit. He came back and said they had apples to which he said, “Would you mind peeling it for me?” They brought back a beautifully peeled and sliced apple, with a rosette made from the peel in the center. Everyone continued to follow protocol: bottled water, and the right foods.
Back at the hotel we had two rooms next to each other. My little girl Coco was with me, and my older daughter, Wren and her brother shared the other. I went next door to tuck them in and what scene did I interrupt? Wren chugalugging a glass of tap water. My jaw hit the ground, “What are you doing?” She said, “I was thirsty and there weren’t any water bottles.” “But, Wren, you can’t drink the TAP water!” She looked at me sheepishly, “But we’re in Spain now.” I just shook my head and said, “Well, I guess we’ll see what happens.” Coco and I went to our room, and as I was just closing my eyes toward sleep, she quietly whispered, “I drank some, too, mama, because Wren did.”
Our early flight to London was fine. Four hours down. Our two hour layover in Heathrow, sprawled across the bookstore floor reading unpaid stories, was also fine. And the first three hours of our ten hour flight home continued to be uneventfully fine. Here’s how we were seated, about five rows up from the back of the plane: on the aisle was Coco, then Wren, then Jack, and me on the other aisle.
Dinner had been cleared, lights had been turned off and everyone was adjusting their personal screen to the movie of their choice. I had just tucked myself in with blankets and pillows, and was settling in to finish the book “Outliers” on my Kindle. I had four hours left in the book, and the plane was quiet. Flight attendants were no where in sight. Suddenly I heard Coco yell in drawn out irritation, “WR-E-EN, STOP PU-KING ON ME!” I became an owl. My head spun left so fast that I caught Wren’s head convulsing a chunky version of Niagara Falls all over Coco, the blankets, the seat backs in front of her and of course, herself. Gush Gush Gush! Chunk Chunk Chunk!
I give Coco the “cut it” sign to be quiet and I fly out of my seat, run around the back by the bathrooms to speed up the other aisle to Coco. Wren is finished. She is glossy-eyed and wobbly. I hail the flight attendant, who comes rushing down the aisle with a huge trash bag. I move the girls to the bathrooms, pleading with them to wait for me and attempt to clean themselves up a bit. “Waiting” turns out to be a foreign word, not in their realm of understanding. Dripping girls, please please please, just go to the back for a few more minutes. I’m upside down, inside out, mortified, trying to clean up their space.
Into the flight attendant’s garbage sack go two blankets, a pillow and the bling off of Coco’s backpack which are all beyond washing. The flight attendant from First Class brings me a full tray of warm washcloths and a set of tongs. I get to work on the seat cushions, the backs of the seats, the backpacks, the floor, the shoes and the aisle. A man across from Coco asked for a cloth to help me scrub the aisle and I looked up at him and said, “Look, sir, I can’t let you clean up my kid’s puke, but could you please keep being nice to me?” When all was tidy enough, I got Wren’s suitcase down.
This brings up an interesting point: luck or mother’s intuition? We checked all of our luggage except Jack’s souvenir drum and Wren’s suitcase. In addition, Coco couldn’t decide what to wear on the plane when we left Spain, and rather than putting her alternate outfit in her OWN suitcase, I stuck it in Wren’s. So, I had a clean outfit for Coco to change into on the plane! Uncanny.
Both girls were now changed and fresh, and a new garbage bag was brought down the aisle for me to put their puke-laden outfits in. Everyone got back in their seats. The rest of the plane seemed to have effectively ignored us, or be completely unaware of our situation. My words to Wren, “If you feel it come on again, use a barf bag! Do not puke on Coco, yourself, Jack or our stuff. Stick your head in the bag. Do you understand?” She did not understand; she wasn’t even part of this world, the wispy thing barely responding to me. I handed her a stack of barf bags anyway. Kindle swiped to activate, settled back in, and I’m feeling hopeful.
Nope. Fifteen minutes later, I see Wren’s head convulse toward Jack in my periphery vision. He is ON my lap five seconds later, and I reach over and SHOVE Wren’s head into a barf bag where she continues to empty. What can possibly be left inside this child? She stops, looks over at me sideways and says, “I had diarrhea.” I can literally feel my eyes pop out of my head, “WHAT?!” She feebly responds, “I didn’t mean to, but it just came out when I was puking.” I contain my violent freak-out response, “Well get UP then! You can’t SIT here if you’ve just messed your pants! Get UP!!” She gets up and I’m so thankful she had on the layered Prairie Skirt. I want to be the sweet, understanding, sensitive parent, but there is simply no time! I’m worried as hell, no doubt, but I need her to clue in to our situation and help me a little. Diarrhea on an airplane seat. What can I do?
I look at the seat wondering how the few left over washcloths are going to make any difference. A woman sitting in front of us, without looking back, sticks a bag of wipes over the seat for me. These will come in handy later, you will see. I start in on the seat, but the flight attendant is there in a flash with his garbage sack full of our pukey blankets. He instructs me to just remove the entire seat cushion and plop it right in the trash. Then he magically appears with a brand new seat! Who knew?! I know you can visualize this, but are you starting to smell it, too? Because it’s no summer breeze by any stretch. All of us are back in the bathroom area now, and the flight attendant has put a “Do not Disturb” sign on one of them. It’s ours for the duration.
Suitcase back out and another outfit change. In a flash of memory I recall that I have Imodium in my purse! Yay for Crohn’s Disease! I give Wren a dose, and ten minutes later she’s puked it up in the bathroom. I’m trying to keep her hydrated, repeatedly handing her cups of water while she sits on the toilet. This is something Wren simply cannot handle, keeping the door locked then opening it for me to check on her, etc. The flight attendant teaches me the trick for opening the bathroom door from the outside. So clever! Additionally, I manage the bathroom line, addressing fellow passengers, “Sorry, this one is off limits, yes my daughter is sick, I know it’s pretty bad, sorry, could you look away while I open this to check on her, I need to give her more water, etc.” The sideways glances, the pity, the eye opening surprise of someone getting their first whiff…
The flight attendant pulls me aside and tells me they have an amazingly powerful drug on board but it’s only for adults. Do I want them to radio headquarters in Phoenix for permission to administer it to her? I ask how many hours we have left. FOUR. We’ve already been at this for three hours?! Yes, please radio ahead. Yesterday if possible. I return to check on Wren and find her on the toilet, head back with an eye mask partially on, eyes rolling back in her head, and her feet dangling. She can barely talk to me and I feel so darn bad for her, worried. She’s too out of it to even feel humiliated. Glancing down I notice a huge brown splotch on the floor. I panic, “Wren, what’s on the floor?” She says, “I had diarrhea again when I was puking in the toilet.”
HO-LY SHIT. How un-san-i-ta-ry can this situation possibly get?! “Mama, get a grip. Calm down. Stop holding your breath”, I say to myself. “Wren, you HAVE TO CLEAN IT UP! You can’t just let your feet dangle in a pile of crap!” She goes, “Okay, mama,” and reaches for a handful of paper towels, which she drops on the floor and starts to kind of swirl around. I am so close to having a breakdown, but I’m a mother, damn it; I pull it together because I have to. I tell her to hold on while I go get her the last available outfit in her suitcase. Keep in mind I have to keep unloading, repacking, re-loading it into the overhead compartment — we have Jack’s drum, bags from the Heathrow bookstore (I always like to bring home the giant Toblerone bars as gifts) and the ever growing supply of airline trash bags full of pukey clothes. It’s NOT EASY.
I barely get her into clean clothes again. She’s a rag doll, half in and half out of the bathroom. She’s sweet, and I’m worried to death. The flight attendant is back and helping me hook her into the airline seat at the back of the plane, making her trip the bathroom shorter. Remember that little pack of wipes? Well, I opened it up and washed that bathroom from top to bottom with every single one of them. Self-pitying thoughts start running through my head. How is it that I have taken these kids to Texas every single year? First me with baby Wren; then toddler Wren and baby Jack; then young Wren, toddler Jack, baby Coco, and to the East Coast half as many times, and to Vegas and Utah to see Charlie’s family, and to England and Ireland, and now Morocco and Spain all by myself, while Charlie has NEVER EVER flown alone with them even ONCE? How did I end up here, doing this, ALONE? I’m supposed to be reading my book with my new backlit Kindle and instead I am covered in SHIT with a twelve year old girl who in reality feels only two years old on this flight! Charlie is in Morocco ASLEEP. Wah Wah WAH! I want my mommy!!!! I’m brought back to reality when the flight attendant starts asking me to fill out paperwork for the medication: Wren’s vaccination schedule, Wren’s daily vitamin schedule, allergies, Wren’s height and weight. My gosh, I can barely remember how old she is at this point!
And then I see the little magical pill in the flight attendant’s hand. The world slows to a crawl It’s tiny. It’s white. It pops out of it’s teeny tiny silver package and the flight attendant’s lips are moving, but all I know is this is our last chance. She pokes it up under Wren’s top lip and together we stare at her wide-eyed. Supposedly, it will take about 30 minutes to dissolve. I explain how much we need her to keep this pill in her mouth. How important it is for her to STOP puking. I tuck her in and go back to my seat, leaving her alone in the airline seat. Jack, by now, has taken up residence ON the armrest between our two seats. I won’t let him have my seat because I need to keep getting up and down, but he (understandably) wants to be as far away from his sister’s space as possible. His head and shoulders are above the headrests, and he’s taken 1/2 of my seatbelt and 1/2 of his to stretch across himself. No one seems to mind. Everyone is being exceptionally kind to us.
Fifteen minutes later, Wren is puking again. No! No! No! But the flight attendant is hopeful that enough of the drug made it into her system to help, since she’s so wee. They bring us a set of pajamas from First Class and then Wren quietly reassures me, “Mama, I kept the little pill in my lip. It’s still there even though I puked.” Wha? Hallelujah. She kept the little pill in her mouth while she puked! I could sing and dance. I DO sing and dance! Now there’s a good girl! In minutes, she was asleep. We moved her back to her own seat in our row, where we experienced exactly one final, dry hour of the flight.
The last ones to deplane, we are sent a wheelchair to scoop up Wren and her three garbage bags full of clothes. This comes with the added bonus of a front row ticket to customs and baggage claim. Very much appreciated. “Welcome home,” the custom agent says. He has no idea. We are wheeled all the way to our car by a gracious airport attendant. Thankfully, I had the foresight to park our car at the airport instead of taking a shuttle. Good thinking, mama.
Driving out of the parking garage, finally allowing myself to break down and cry, I dial Charlie back in Morocco. He groggily answers, “Hi, honey, remember it’s the middle of the night here.”
