Four years after our move to Chicago, we booked a trip to Spain to vacation with Al’s side of the family. We shouldn’t have gone. We had no business pushing the boundaries. It is hard enough traveling with one disabled person, but two? Al had ruptured his Achilles tendon during a tennis match and had surgery just two weeks before our departure, so he was on crutches.
Al, Hank, Nick, and I stood at the gate in Madrid, looking around for the wheelchair, but like at Heathrow in London, none was waiting at the gate. Al had already shakily crutched his way outside on the wet, slippery tarmac up to the last plane in London. On the second flight to Spain, we found ourselves again smack dab in the middle of a long row of eight seats. Al did his best to prop his foot up to prevent his leg from swelling. He was cramped and miserable.
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