Flying Blind: What I Learned at the Airport from a Woman Who Can't See

Sitting at the departure gate for my flight home from New York, I'm trying to convince myself there isn't a hole in my heart. Leaving family and good friends always means there is a hole, but a give into it, I know I will just fall in and may never be able to get myself out.

I hear the pre-boarding call announcement and see a woman getting up, slowly. Her carry-on bag looks larger than most, and I find myself comparing it to my own little backpack and rolling around in a carpet of self-righteousness. The carpet disappears when I see a white cane.

The woman walks toward me, feeling her way with nothing but the cane to guide her. She does not seem to be turning away, and I decide I’d better tell her how close she is to my knees. I try to sound casual and let her know where I am. I am wrestling with whether or not to ask if she needs help, because some people want you to do that, and others do not.

She instantly lets me know what she’s feeling, which is a relief. “Thank you,” she says. “Would you mind helping me get on the plane?”

Of course,” I say, feeling gratitude that she felt comfortable enough to ask for help. Writing this, I don’t want you to think I am still dragging that righteous carpet around. I know this woman would have helped me if I had asked for it. I know that most anyone reading this would as well.

I am sharing this moment because of what it gave me, not because of anything I did for someone else. 

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