As we arrived at Burlington Airport, my son’s world revolved around “The Cat in the Hat.” He had the book, the movie, and even a t-shirt. Upon entering the gift shop, he insisted I buy him a $47.95 pop-up edition. I reluctantly agreed, hoping this would be our ticket to a smooth TSA experience and an uneventful flight to Chicago, although I knew it was a long shot.
Once on the plane, I felt the weight of every gaze upon us, each one tinged with polite apprehension. I could almost hear the silent thoughts of other passengers: “Oh no, a family. Please, not next to me.” I imagined a flight attendant suggesting, “You can store your… child in the overhead compartment.”
We settled into our seats, just two rows behind the engine—a position that would make any turbulence particularly daunting. My son took the window seat, my wife sat in the middle, and I occupied the aisle. A man in ripped jeans and a vintage concert t-shirt, whom I dubbed “Rock Star,” took the seat across the aisle. I wanted to warn him that his peaceful flight was about to become an adventure; he would be part of our family for the next 1,400 miles.
As we took off, I quickly realized that airplanes are not child-friendly environments. There are no play areas, and while iPads can entertain, they have their limits. To keep my son engaged, my wife and I took turns walking him up and down the aisle. When turbulence hit over Buffalo, we were forced to return to our seats. The plane shook violently, and my son began to cry, overwhelmed by the sudden pressure change—a scenario exacerbated by his autism, which makes crowded and overstimulating environments particularly challenging.
I glanced at Rock Star, who was struggling to pour himself a rum and Coke. I wanted to shout, “I’m sorry if we’re ruining your flight, but if anyone needs a drink right now, it’s definitely me!”
Eventually, my son fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and a wave of fatigue washed over me as I stared blankly at the Sky Mall magazine in front of me, wishing for our descent into Chicago. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Rock Star, offering me two mini Bacardi Silvers and a Diet Coke. “You need this more than I do,” he said. I mixed the rum with the soda, and that momentary indulgence became the most comforting drink I’d had in a long time.
We began to chat, and he shared that he grew up in Vermont and now lived in Los Angeles, working in the entertainment industry. “You’re brave for taking a kid on a flight,” he remarked. “I have three kids, and I won’t even drive them from Long Beach to Malibu.”
“Does your son have autism?” he inquired. I nodded and began to share both the challenges and victories we’ve faced. He didn’t offer platitudes like “That must be tough” or “You’re an amazing dad.” Instead, he simply listened, allowing me to feel human for a few moments. He transformed what could have been the worst flight of my life into one of the most memorable.
Upon landing in Chicago, I wanted to say something profound to mark our fleeting connection but ended up saying, “Hey, if you’re ever back in Vermont…” He interrupted me with a smile, “I’ll just stay in a hotel.”
As we navigated through O’Hare International Airport, my son immediately spotted a bookstore and insisted on buying yet another copy of “The Cat in the Hat” pop-up book I’d just purchased two hours earlier.
Thank you, Rock Star. May life treat you kindly.
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In summary, this encounter on the plane not only provided a brief respite from the challenges of traveling with a child with autism but also highlighted the kindness of strangers. A simple act of sharing—a drink and a conversation—transformed a difficult journey into a meaningful memory.
Keyphrase: autism and travel experience
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