On the way home/part two

While the first part of our trip was amazing, our journey home took a bad turn. Unbeknownst to me, Atlanta is the busiest airport in the world and home to Delta Airlines, which everyone knows will be merging with Northwest Airlines (Bob's employer) to form the "new" Delta. Within the next year, the Northwest name along with many of its employees will be gone. Bob has already been told that to keep his job he'll have to move. After my "experience" with the Delta counter staff, I'd say we won't be moving to Atlanta any time soon.

As family to a Northwest employee, we're entitled to flying "privileges." The privilege is we get to fly standby--and if we are fortunate enough to get seats, we only pay tax on the tickets. Sounds good doesn't it? Well read on. The morning of, Bob checked Delta's seat availability and the flight looked wide open. That completely changed a few hours later when we ready to check in. The 3pm flight was totally booked; the 4:30pm flight was also crowded, but we were at the top of the standby list. I "attempted" to check my one piece of luggage, but the lady at the Delta counter refused to accept it, because we were standby. I pleaded my case: I had a very tired little boy on my hands and it might be difficult to get to the gate in time especially if I had to lug heavy luggage through security and up and down escalators and trams. She wouldn't budge, so I asked to speak to her manager. Fifteen minutes later, (I knew she was pleading her case to the manager before I got to him) he precedes to tell me the same thing. I got Bob on the phone, but the manager refused to talk to him (another "policy" of theirs), so I had to repeat what Bob said to him and vice a versa. (Ugh.) Bob's point to Delta was because we fly standby we're never guaranteed seats, so its rule about not checking luggage without a confirmed seat is moot. (Apparently, this is not Northwest's policy.) Finally, the manager agreed to send the bag to O'Hare Airport where Bob knows enough people who could send it through to Minneapolis. By this time, the flight we were hoping to catch was in its final boarding stage, so we were forced to book a later flight.

Garrett and I got to the gate (after being padded down at security and taking one tram and two escalators) only to find out that this flight was also booked to capacity. We were first and second on the standby list, but as time passed, I saw our names drop to the fifth and sixth slot. Again, the Delta lady was rude and unwilling to talk to me. Finally, Bob recommended I skip Delta altogether and head to the Northwest ticket counter to purchase two ZED fare American Airline tickets. The Delta woman directed me to Concourse B (the airport is really spread out so there are many concourses, which require multiple trams and escalators). We reached Concourse B but there were only NWA gates, not a ticket counter in sight. It seems the Delta woman sent me and Garrett on a wild goose chase. I was then directed to Concourse T, which meant another painful trip through security.

By this point, we only had 1-1/2 hours to spare and Garrett was having a "melt down." I got stern and moved him along with bribes of lollipops. It took 30 minutes to get to the NWA counter where I purchased tickets (a ZED ticket is still standby, the only difference is we're now on a competitor airline) only to find out we had to run the length of the terminal to the AA ticket counter to get the actual tickets. We raced to security, again our carry-ons and persons were searched. (I wish I had a camera on me when they were padding down Garrett.) I gave the little Kazman yet another lollipop and flew to the AA gate. (I forgot to mention that at this late hour there were no more connecting flights to Minneapolis, so we were forced to fly to O'Hare and spend the night.)

At the gate, I asked VERY politely whether there was any chance we'd get on this flight. (I just wanted to get out of Atlanta.) Rudely, the AA woman replied, "maybe." I also asked if there was any possibility that Garrett and I could sit together. She threw the tickets down and yelled, "didn't you look at your tickets?" As it turned out, she assigned us seats 30A and 30B. I was so grateful, but, oh boy, everyone in the airline industry is so angry these days. Rightfully so, as we've experienced it first hand how the industry is screwing their employees (besides being forced to relocate without any paid moving expenses, Bob is back to 1980's wages and his medical plan is a skeleton of what it used to be. All sacrifices to help NWA get out of bankruptcy--ha). But somehow it seems so unfair to take it out on the public, especially fellow co-workers.

We landed at O'Hare at 8:30pm, found our long-lost luggage and headed to the Springhill Suites. Garrett was asleep by 10:30pm. With a 6:40am departure, our wake-up call was for 4:15am. Needless to say, I got about three hours rest that night. (I was so worried that Garrett would wet the bed. He's had a number of bed wetting episodes lately.) Next morning, the flight to Minneapolis was wide open, so no problems getting a seat. Because of a lack of sleep, Garrett was in rare form--cranky and acting up on the flight. Not much better at the airport, we still had another tram to get to baggage claim. Before getting on, I told him to mind mommy and hold on to the pole otherwise he could get a big boo-boo. Of course, he didn't listen. The minute the tram started, he ran off. Because of his close proximity to the door, mother's instinct kicked in and I grabbed his arm--and while I did the tram stopped and the added force pulled my arm out of my shoulder. I yelled as I grabbed my upper arm. Thankfully there were three people on board who helped me with Garrett and the luggage. They called Bob (who was circling the airport) as well as the airport police and EMTs who confirmed my suspicion: I had dislocated my shoulder. They recommended I go to the nearest ER. I refused the ambulance ride ($700 for a three mile ride, sorry no way).

Thirty years ago, I broke my right clavicle and humerus in a car accident, so I was familiar with pain. But this time it was so immediate and piercing that it made it difficult to take x-rays. Finally, they shot me up with morphine and wheeled me in for a quicky reset. It took only two minutes to pop that sucker into place and with it the pain just melted away. Next day, at the orthopedist I was given three scenarios: 1. With a dislocated shoulder injury, it's common for people over 40 to tear their rotator cuff, which would then require surgery. 2. It could be a fracture, which would take two months to heal. 3. None of the above (which is highly unlikely) and all I would need is two month's worth of therapy to regain motion. So I was off for my MRI to see whether it was going to be 1, 2 or 3.

So, I'll leave you with this question: which one do you think I needed? (The answer to come.)