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.
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 part of who you are,” my endocrinologist explained years ago.
“Not a limitation, 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 necessitates caution, particularly when I am traveling.
Fortunately, most people in my life understand.
My boss ensures that meetings include regular breaks.
My friends don’t mind if I stop for a snack.
Even flight attendants typically understand when I explain why I require ginger ale immediately, not in 20 minutes when they arrive at my row.
However, not everyone comprehends it.
Not everyone comprehends that what appears as 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 awake 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 settled 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 child, a nine-year-old with a brand-new iPad Pro, wireless headphones that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and a sullen attitude that suggested he considered the entire flying experience beneath him.
“Mom, I wanted the window,” he complained as they settled in.
“Next time, sweetheart.”
“The pleasant 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.
I reasoned, live and let live.
The flight lasted three hours.
I could tolerate a child for that duration.
Or so I thought.
As the flight attendants finished their safety demonstration and the plane began to taxi, I felt the familiar dizziness intensify.
My hands started trembling slightly.
It was a clear warning signal.
