God Catches a Flight at the Newark Airport
I found God in the Newark Airport on a sticky day in June. I wasn’t looking for It, I was minding my own business, just coming back from a bathroom break, when my pre-flight routine got sidetracked.
I saw her bag first, it was a duffle of sorts and had real leather handles and a cute design in black and white. I have this thing where I compliment people on something in order to make a human connection. So, I pointed out that I liked her bag as we both walked down to our gates. She was older than me, shorter too. Her round body was covered by a matching top and bottom tracksuit, black velour as I recall it. Her tight black curls were up and she glistened with perspiration from her trek to the arm of terminal C that held gates 101-115.
Terminal C, held 3 arms that branched off of the upper concourse and security area. Each arm consisted of a long corridor with food kiosks and shops and transitioned to a wider area with boarding gates along both sides. To the right, as you exited the security area, was the arm that held gates 120-139 but skipped gate 129. The middle arm held gates 101-115. Lastly, the arm on the far left, the arm of the airport where my story finds an end, had the arm and two little fingers poking off of it that held their own sets of gates. The arm had gates 70-75. The first finger had gates 80-88, the second finger had gates 90-99. Why does all this matter? Because for almost 40 minutes I dragged an elderly woman through the whole damn thing, nearly giving her a heart attack, me an anxiety attack, and to say it was a confusing terminal is an understatement.
“Cute bag,” I said as I walked by her. We made eye contact and smiled as we moved down the middle arm of Terminal C.
I’m a helper by nature, and by trade, and when she looked at me with slight anguish, I asked if I could carry her bag. “What’s your gate?” I asked. The crowded airport was loud and her answer sounded like it had a four at the end so I said, “great, I’ll get you to 114 no problem. What’s your name?”
“Dolores,” she replied with a sigh, “thank you for taking my bag.”
“Sure thing.”
I readjusted the bag on my shoulder, “This thing is heavy!” I gave her a big smile in hopes of reassuring her that I was up for the task of helping. She returned the gesture with a smile that said, “I trust you.”
A moment later though I asked to see her ticket and was horrified to see in large print, “Gate 134.” I looked at my watch knowing that I had time and my luggage was off with my kid and spouse at the gate of our departure. “Dolores,” I said with calm determination, “you’re at the wrong gate, but I can get you there if you want help.”
“Oh my, oh my.” She replied, “yes please. This is my first time flying and I just can’t miss my flight.”
She gave me a nervous look which fueled my determination to help a person in need. “Where you headed?” I asked hoping small talk would help the bag feel lighter and the nerves feel smaller.
“Colorado. Oh, I just can’t miss that flight.”
I look at her ticket; boarding has started as we set off toward gate 134. It’s 3:15 pm. I’m 40, the oldest I’ve ever been, but I’m fit. I used to run marathons and triathlons, now I run after my kid. But, my calves still look good, and really, I’m fitter than most. Fitter than Dolores that’s for sure. The first time I noticed that she was falling behind I slowed and she caught up, her round body moving back and forth at a gentle waddle as she worked to move back toward the security line and onto the next arm of Terminal C that held gates 120-139, but skips 129.
Damn, all the way at the end. You’re fine, I tell myself, there’s an hour before you board your flight, you can’t abandon this woman now. But shit, it would be ironic if I missed my own flight in the name of helping someone.
I encourage Dolores along as we move past the food kiosks and shops in this next arm of terminal C. We are nearing the gates when I look back at her and smile in a way that says, “we got this, I got you.” She returns the smile in a way that says, “slow down Child, I’m walking in sandals and I’m going as fast as I can”. I look at my watch as we start passing the gates. It’s 1:22 pm and I’m feeling nervous, I need to get this woman to her gate, and then I need to book it back to my own.
I like to be early to my flight. I like to sit at the gate and wait because I know that I didn’t have to rush through security, and if something happens, I have time to be prepared. One time when I was in college, I almost missed an international flight. I neglected to sleep on the last night of my European adventure, that is until I fell asleep, and slept through my alarm. I made it on that flight home, but not without running through Heathrow, pushing my way through security and walking on the plane as the last passenger to board. I had stale beer stench eking through my pores and I was so damn stressed, I swore I’d never do that again. Of course, I did do it again when I got turned around trying to return my rental car in Las Vegas, but that’s a story for another day.
It’s 1:32 as we get to Gate 134. I know something is off as there is no plane and no one in line. Crap, did she miss her flight? Well, I did my best, no way she would have gotten to Gate 134 on her own in that amount of time.
I go up to an employee wearing an orange vest and a name tag that reads Vanessa. “Hi.” I start. “My friend Dolores is here for her flight to Colorado, but what’s happening? Where is the plane?”
Vanessa looks at the ticket and punches the flight info into her phone. Drily she says, “Oh no, your flight is at gate 80. The flight’s boarding at 1:45 now.”
It’s 1:35 now and my nerves are freaking out. I’ve started to sweat, and as I look at Dolores’s ticket one more time, I’m horrified to see that there is the number 80 written and circled in pen at the top of the ticket. Oh shit, this is all my fault. Oh shit-shit-shit, this woman is going to miss her flight! And, how am I going to look at her when she does because I dragged her to the wrong end of the airport! Crap! Shit! Fuck!
“Please help us,” I plead. “I took this woman to the wrong gate; she needs to get to her flight!”
“I’ll call for a transport cart, someone will be here soon that can drive her to her gate. It’ll be here, just go and wait over there.” She motions to the gate waiting area with little concern and even less care. I look out at the chairs and slick white floor that glistens against the fluorescent lights of the terminal. I’m past glistening, I’m at a full-on sweat and I’m holding back the urge to vomit from the anxiety that has consumed me. What am I going to do!
I fill Dolores in and we wait. I check my watch. 1:37. Ahhhhhhh, what do I do? I look around, horrified at the situation I’ve gotten myself and this innocent woman into. If I had just left her alone to walk down the middle arm of Terminal C, she probably would have missed her flight, but at least it wouldn’t have come with this frantic speed walk through the whole damn confusing section of airport. I gently twist my body from side to side trying to let out the nervous energy and will the electric cart to arrive and save me from my failure as a good samaritan. Crap. Try to breathe. Ohhhhhhh, shit.
A few years back I started to go to a 12-step program for friends and families of alcoholics, and it was there that I realized I struggle with control. I also realized that my control was getting me nowhere except thoughts of divorce. All my good intentioned directing the ones I love to do what I want was only making me unhappy. I knew the ideas of the 12-step program were good for me, but I hated that they used the word God and that God was referred to with a He. For me, the God that uses He/Him pronouns with a capital H means religion and I’m not into that.
Despite the God thing I stuck with the program. I got a sponsor and even started to wrap my head around a higher power. Spiritual shit right there. I use the universe as a power greater than myself. I take the “fake it till you make it” approach to the higher power thing, but sometimes, when things get tough in life, I do remind myself that I don’t have to control it all, and I can give the unmanageable stuff up to the Universe. I imagine situations and the people in them are being sucked up into a black hole, no longer my problem for the moment. I can let my lovedone’s drinking go to the black hole and it allows me to find calm instead of control. I let my job and my shitty boss go up through the black hole too. It doesn’t mean I won’t come back to those things; I’m just letting the Universe hold onto them for me. I have even asked the Universe for help. Now, that’s next level spiritual if you ask me.
Recently though my sponsor told me I needed to talk to my higher power to deepen my connection with it. I talk to people, not entities. But, everything in the program had helped so far so I guess I won’t shut the idea down. But I don’t think I like it.
As Dolores and I stand waiting for the electric cart to pick her up, another minute ticks by. “Dolores,” I say, “I think we should walk. I’ll get you to your gate, but I think we have to go now.”
“Oh no, the cart will be here. The lady said if I wait right here it will come. I will wait, you go or you will miss your flight.”
“You’ll miss your flight if we don’t go now. I can get you there, but I think we have to go now.” I smile at her to say, “we can do this!” She smiles back to say, “this might kill me.” But, we both smile, and I hoist her bag back on my shoulder which is really starting to ache from lugging it around. The leather straps cut into my neck and the weight of the bag forces me to hunch my left shoulder up to keep the bag in one place.
We start to walk and for a time I don’t look back at Dolores. I’m freaking out in my head and holding back the tears that I will shed if she misses her flight. I fight back the pit that is forming in my stomach; a black hole of doom I think to myself. We push through the crowded corridor, past the food kiosks, and now back toward the arm of terminal C where I met Dolores.
I look back and she’s fallen behind. Her waddle has increased and she’s huffing. Crap, what if she has a heart attack or something? A flight is not worth dying over. I slow down and as she nears, I hold out my hand to pull her up to me like we used to do in cross country races when I was in high school. If your teammate fell behind in a race you stuck your hand out behind you for them to grab. The outstretched hand was supposed to motivate them to catch back up and then you’d carry on in the race together.
She does take my hand and I gently pull her along past the arm of Terminal C where I met her, through the hordes of people coming out of the security lines, and into the final arm of Terminal C, the arm that also has fingers and holds gates 70-75, 80-88, and 90-99. Our hands drop, and as I haul her bag back onto my shoulder, I speak out to the terminal and the Universe, “please don’t let this woman miss her flight!” Anxiety has overtaken me now and I feel a little lightheaded. My legs ache and my shoulder is throbbing, my heart is pounding with fear, and my gut is holding the brunt of the “what if” freakouts.
We get to the food kiosks of this arm and I know we are close. For a moment I hold my breath as we get to gate 71, 72, 73. Can we make it? Can I get her there? Can I please be done with this anxious moment in life! I take Dolores’s hand again, and her jacket as well. We are moving faster now as I pull her along with me, 74, 75, 76. I’ve stopped looking at my watch as it really doesn’t matter at this point. 77, 78, 79. I look back at her as I see gate 80 and I run to the loading doors. A flight attendant is still there and the doors are all closed.
“Wait!” I scream, my hands outstretched as I lunge toward him dropping the bag at his feet. “Dolores!” I yell looking back at her, “You’re going to make it!”
“Flight to Colorado?” The attendant calmly asks.
“Yes!” I holler. At this point my filter is gone and I’m breathing heavily through my throat trying not to cry or pass out or vomit from the fear of letting this woman down.
To my surprise and relief, he opens the door so the plane cannot take off. My ears are filled with the whooshing sound as the door opens against the pressure created by the plane and the jet bridge. “Ticket please,” he says drily, without the relief and jubilation that is clearly meant for this moment.
“Holy shit, there is a God!” I say, louder than I expect, but without any hesitation or worry of judgment. A couple sitting near me looks up and smiles. I heave a breath and feel oxygen fill my lungs again. At this moment there is no judgment in myself or what I’ve just realized. Only relief.
Dolores looks confused, but being her first flight ever, maybe she doesn’t know what comes next. The attendant tags her bag and points down the jet bridge where her plane is waiting. “Dolores, you made it, I can’t believe you made it. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for making it!” I heave the words at her as I heave another sigh of relief.
“I made it! Thank you for getting me here!” She says with relief and slight anguish.
I try not to think about how I almost didn’t get her here and took her on a wild goose chase, and how she must have almost had a heart attack back by gate 129 the second time we passed it.
We hug and she gives my cheek a kiss. We hug again. I give her a smile that says, “thank you for not dying” and she gives me a smile that says, “thank you for staying by my side”. We hug again and then she waddles, unevenly, the bag now on her shoulder, down the jet bridge to her destination.
I stand for a moment and collect myself. I walk in small lines like I do when I finish a running race or triathlon. It’s my way of calming down and bringing my body and brain back into alignment. Three steps forward to the right, then three more forward to the left. I breathe deeply. I sigh. I’m still in awe that she made it on the plane. I remember that I told all of Gate 80, that God does exist and I smile at the thought. I smile to myself as if to say, “you did it. And it’s ok, you didn’t do it alone.”
