I never thought I’d have to battle for the right to consume a protein bar on an aircraft. But when confronted with entitled parents who prioritized their son’s tantrum-free travel over my health, I refused to give in. What occurred next had the entire row speechless.
My name is Elizabeth, and I enjoy practically everything about my life. I’ve worked hard to establish a successful profession as a marketing consultant, despite the fact that it occasionally requires me to live out of a suitcase.
Last year alone, I visited 14 locations across the country, assisting businesses in transforming their marketing strategies. Frequent flier miles are a pleasant bonus, and hotel breakfast buffets have become my second home.
“Another trip?” “You’re like a modern nomad,” my mother quips as I contact her from yet another airport terminal.
“It’s worth it,” I constantly assure her.
And it is.
I’m creating something worthwhile. Financial security, professional respect, and the lifestyle I’ve always desired for myself.
Everything in my life runs perfectly except for one recurring complication: type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed when I was 12, and it has remained my constant companion ever since. Type 1 diabetes occurs when my pancreas fails to produce insulin, the hormone that regulates blood sugar. Without insulin shots and close monitoring, my blood sugar can skyrocket or plummet dangerously low.
Both eventualities could end me in the hospital if I’m not careful.
“It’s just part of who you are,” my endocrinologist explained years ago. “Not a limitation, just a consideration.”
I have lived by those words. I keep glucose pills in every purse, set insulin dosage reminders, and always bring extra snacks when I travel.
My disability does not define me, but it does necessitate caution, particularly when I am traveling.
Fortunately, most people in my life understand.
My boss ensures that meetings include regular breaks. My pals don’t mind if I stop for a snack.
Even flight attendants usually understand when I explain why I need ginger ale right now, not in 20 minutes when they arrive at my row.
But not everyone understands it.
Not everyone understands that what appears to be a casual snack to them can be a medical requirement for me.
Like what happened on my flight from Chicago to Seattle last month.
I’d been up since 4:30 a.m. for an early meeting, rushed through O’Hare’s congested security line, and just made it to my boarding group.
By the time I dropped into my aisle seat, I had already experienced the usual lightheaded sensation that indicated my blood sugar was decreasing.
I was sitting next to a family of three. The mother, perhaps in her thirties, sat directly opposite me, with her husband across the aisle.
Between them was their kid, a nine-year-old child with a brand-new iPad Pro, wireless headphones that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and a sullen attitude that suggested he thought the entire flying experience was beneath him.
“Mom, I wanted the window,” he complained as they settled in.
“Next time, sweetheart. “The nice lady behind the counter couldn’t change our seats.” She stroked his hair as if he were royalty, if mildly inconvenienced.
The boy sighed heavily and kicked the seat in front of him.
Not once. Not twice. Repeatedly.
The man in front turned around with a sneer, but the mother simply smiled apologetically, not stopping her son.
Live and let live, I reasoned.
The flight lasted only three hours. I could handle a spoilt child for that long.
Or so I thought.
As the flight attendants finished their safety demonstration and the plane began to taxi, I felt the usual dizziness intensify. My hands started trembling slightly. It was a clear warning flag.
I reached into my bag for the protein bar I always kept handy.
Just as I opened it, the woman next to me hissed, “Can’t you? “Our son is extremely sensitive.”
I paused, a protein bar halfway in my lips, wondering whether I had misheard her. But the mom was staring at me with that entitled look, as if I’d brought out something illicit rather than a normal snack.
“I’m sorry?” “I said.”
“It smells. The crinkling. “The chewing.” She gestured vaguely. “It throws him off. “Our son has… sensitivities.”
I looked at the youngster, who was already whining about his seat belt and kicking the tray in front of him. He appeared to be absolutely fine. Not a disabled child, but spoilt and noisy.
To be honest, he didn’t even see the protein bar.
“I understand, but I need to—”
“We’d really appreciate it,” she interrupted me. “It’s just a short flight.”
I looked down at my shaking hands. The sensible side of me wanted to explain my medical condition, but the people-pleasing portion prevailed.
I figured, whatever, I’ll just wait for the snack cart.
I slipped the bar away and powered on, checking my CGM monitor quietly. The numbers were plummeting quicker than I wanted.
The drink cart appeared about 40 minutes into the flight. I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched it move down the aisle.
When the flight attendant approached our row, I smiled and asked, “Can I get a Coke and the protein snack box, please?”
Before I could finish, the dad across the aisle leaned over and interrupted, “No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant looked confused. “Sir?”
“Our son,” he said with a pointed look at the boy, who was now completely engrossed in his iPad game. “He gets upset when others eat around him.”
What? I thought. Is he serious?
I was about to protest when the mom chimed in. “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
The flight attendant moved on with the cart, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to get in the middle of a passenger dispute. When I reached up to press the call button, the boy’s dad leaned across the aisle again.
“Uhh, excuse me? Our son does not handle other people eating near him. It sets him off. Maybe you could be a decent human for one flight and just skip the snack, yeah?”
I glanced from him to his wife to their son, who hadn’t even looked up from his game. My watch rang with a blood sugar alert.
I needed sugar immediately.
It took a few seconds for the flight attendant to return. Again, the boy’s mother interrupted.
“She will have nothing. “Our son has sensory triggers,” she informed the flight attendant. “When he sees food, he loses his cool. You would not believe the outbursts. So, unless you want a scream during the flight, perhaps don’t serve her?”
At that moment, I had had enough.
I turned to the attendant, loud enough for half the row to hear, and said, “Hi. I have Type 1 Diabetes. If I don’t eat something now, I could pass out or end up in the hospital. So yes, I will be eating. Thanks.”
Several heads turned.
Passengers nearby looked up.
One older woman across the aisle gasped and looked at the parents, as if they had said something terrible to her.
The flight attendant’s tone shifted instantaneously. “Of course, madam. “I’ll get it right away.”
“God, it’s always something with people,” said the mother, rolling her eyes. “My son has needs, too! He dislikes looking at food when he is unable to eat it. “It’s called empathy.”
“Your son has an iPad, headphones, and hasn’t looked up once,” I told you. “And he’s eating Skittles right now.” I nodded at the colorful candy scattered around his platter.
“That’s different,” she complained.
I smiled nicely as I grabbed the food box and drink from the attendant and asked, “You know what else it’s called?” Managing your own child. “Not the entire cabin.”
I snarfed my crackers and cheese, chugged my soda, and felt my blood sugar begin to stabilize. The relief was immediate, both physically and emotionally.
Five minutes later, soon as I opened my laptop, the mother leaned in again.
“I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition,” she replied with a tight smile.
I did not even flinch.
“Lady,” I stated clearly, “I don’t care. I’ll manage my T1D way I see fit, and you may manage your tantrum-prone prince as you see fit. I’m not risking my health because you can’t manage a tantrum. Next time, book the entire row. “Or better yet, fly private.”
The silence that followed was worthwhile.
The final two hours passed without incident. The youngster never looked up from his game or saw anyone eating. What about the parents? They didn’t say another word to me.
That day on the plane showed me that speaking for your health isn’t disrespectful. It is necessary.
The kindest thing you can do for yourself is to resist others’ attempts to downplay your demands. My ailment is not visible, but it is genuine, and I have every right to manage it appropriately.
Nobody’s comfort is more essential than another’s health. That’s a lesson worth remembering, whether you’re at 30,000 feet or on solid ground.
