Off The Record
Rude Parents Told Me Not To Eat On The Plane—So I Taught Them A Lesson
I never imagined that I would have to fight for the ability to eat a protein bar while flying. However, I resisted giving in to conceited parents who put their son’s travel without tantrums ahead of my own well-being. The whole row was stunned by what happened next.
I’m Elizabeth, and I love almost every aspect of my life. Even though I occasionally have to live out of a suitcase, I’ve put a lot of effort into building a lucrative career as a marketing consultant.
I helped companies change their marketing tactics at 14 different places nationwide only last year. Hotel breakfast buffets have become my second home, and frequent flyer miles are a nice bonus.
“An additional journey?” As I call my mother from another airport terminal, she jokes, “You’re like a modern nomad.”
“It’s worth it,” I constantly assure her
It is, too.
I’m making something valuable. Respect at work, financial stability, and the kind of life I’ve always wanted for myself.
With the exception of one persistent issue—type 1 diabetes—everything in my life is going smoothly.
Since my diagnosis at the age of twelve, it has been by my side constantly. When the hormone insulin, which controls blood sugar, is not produced by the pancreas, type 1 diabetes results. Without insulin injections and careful observation, my blood sugar might spike or fall dangerously low.
If I’m not careful, either scenario could land me in the hospital.
“It’s simply a component of your identity,” my endocrinologist clarified years ago. “Just a consideration, not a limitation.”
Those words have guided my life. When I travel, I always pack extra snacks, set insulin dosage reminders, and carry glucose tablets in every purse.
Although I am not defined by my disability, it does need vigilance, especially when I am travelling.
Thankfully, the majority of individuals in my life can relate.
Regular breaks are incorporated into meetings by my supervisor. If I pause for a snack, my friends don’t mind.
When I tell flight attendants why I need ginger ale now rather than in 20 minutes when they get to my row, they usually understand.
But not everyone understands it
Not everyone is aware that something that seems like a light snack to me may be necessary for my health.
similar to what occurred during my travel last month from Chicago to Seattle.
I had just arrived at my boarding group after racing through O’Hare’s backed-up security queue after waking up at 4:30 a.m. for an early meeting.
I had already felt the typical dizziness that signified my blood sugar was dropping by the time I sat down in my aisle seat.
A family of three sat next to me. Across the aisle from me sat a mother, possibly in her forties, and her husband.
Their youngster, who was nine years old, sat between them. He had a brand-new iPad Pro, wireless headphones that were probably more expensive than my monthly shopping budget, and a glum demeanour that suggested he felt the whole flying thing was beneath him.
As they sat down, he grumbled, “Mom, I wanted the window.”
“Next time, my love.” Our seats couldn’t be changed by the kind woman at the counter. She caressed his hair as though he were a member of the royal family, albeit slightly irritated.
The boy kicked the seat in front of him and let out a deep sigh.
Not once. Not twice. Several times.
The man in front sneered and turned around, but the mother didn’t stop her son; she only gave him an apologetic smile.
I thought, “Live and let live.”
Only three hours were spent in the air. That’s how long I could put up with a spoilt child.
Or so I thought
I experienced the normal disorientation as the plane started to taxi and the flight attendants concluded their safety demonstration. My hands began to shake a little. It was an obvious red flag.
I grabbed the protein bar I always had on hand from my bag.
The woman beside me yelled, “Can’t you?” as I opened it.Our son is quite sensitive.
With a protein bar partially in my mouth, I hesitated, wondering whether I had misheard her. However, the mother was giving me that arrogant look, as though I had brought out a forbidden rather than a typical food.
“I apologise,” I said.
It has an odour. “The chewing.” “The crinkling.” She made an ambiguous motion. It confuses him. “There are sensitivities in our son.”
I turned to face the child, who was already kicking the tray in front of him and complaining about his seat belt. He seemed perfectly healthy. The youngster is boisterous and spoilt, but not impaired.
He didn’t even see the protein bar, to be honest.
“I get it, but I have to—”
“That would be greatly appreciated,” she cut me off. “The flight is only brief.”
I glanced at my trembling hands. My people-pleasing side overrode my rational side, which wished to explain my medical problem.
Whatever the case, I decided to wait for the snack cart.
I silently checked my CGM monitor after removing the bar and turning on. The numbers were falling faster than I would have liked.
Approximately forty minutes into the flight, the drink cart emerged. As I saw it make its way down the aisle, I exhaled with relief.
I grinned when the flight attendant came over to our row and said, “Please give me a Coke and the protein snack box.”
“No food or drinks for this row, thanks,” said the father across the aisle, leaning over before I could finish.
The flight attendant looked confused. “Sir?”
He pointed to the youngster, who was now totally absorbed in his iPad game, and added, “Our son.” “When people eat in front of him, he becomes agitated.”
What? I pondered. Is he being serious?
Just as I was going to object, the mother interrupted. Only a few hours will pass. You can wait, surely.
Despite her obvious discomfort, the flight attendant continued with the cart, not wanting to interfere with a passenger argument. The boy’s father leaned across the aisle once more as I reached up to press the call button.
Excuse me? Our son cannot tolerate having other people eat close to him. It agitates him. For one flight, perhaps you could act like a decent person and forego the food.
He hadn’t even looked up from his game when I looked from him to his wife to their son. An alert for blood sugar rang on my watch.
I instantly needed sweets.
The flight attendant returned after a few seconds. The boy’s mother interrupted once more.
She told the flight attendant, “Our son has sensory triggers, so she won’t have anything.” He becomes agitated when he sees food. The eruptions are unbelievable. So, maybe don’t serve her unless you want a scream during the flight.
I’d had enough at that point.
“Hello,” I yelled to the attendant, loud enough for half the row to hear. Type 1 diabetes affects me. I might faint or wind up in the hospital if I don’t eat something right now. I shall, therefore, be eating. Thank you.
A number of heads turned.
Nearby passengers raised their heads.
As though the parents had said something awful to her, an elderly woman across the aisle gasped and turned to face them.
Immediately, the flight attendant’s tone changed. Naturally, ma’am. “I’ll get it immediately.”
The mother rolled her eyes and remarked, “God, there’s always something with people.” ” My son also has needs! He doesn’t like to look at stuff that he can’t consume.We call it empathy.”
I informed you, “Your son has headphones, an iPad, and hasn’t looked up once.” “And he’s currently eating Skittles.” The vibrant candies strewn all over his tray made me nod.
“That’s not the same,” she grumbled.
I asked, “You know what else it’s called?” while grinning politely and requesting the food box and drink from the attendant. Handling your own child. “Not the whole cabin.”
I gulped my soda, snarfed my cheese and crackers, and noticed that my blood sugar was starting to level off. Physically and emotionally, the relief was instantaneous.
Five minutes later, soon as I opened my laptop, the mother leaned in again.
She smiled tightly and said, “I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition.”
I didn’t even recoil.
“Lady,” I said emphatically, “I don’t give a damn. I’ll deal with my T1D however I see fit, and you may deal with your prince’s tantrums however you feel fit. You can’t control a tantrum, therefore I’m not putting my health at risk. The next time, reserve the whole row. Better still, take a private flight.”
It was worth the hush that ensued.
The last two hours went by without any problems. The child never noticed anyone eating and never looked up from his game. How about the parents? They didn’t speak to me again.
I learnt that speaking up for your health is not impolite that day on the plane. It’s essential.
Refusing to let someone minimise your needs is the most considerate thing you can do for yourself. Although my condition is invisible, it is real, and I am fully entitled to treat it as I see fit.
No one’s health is more important than another’s comfort. Whether you’re on firm ground or at 30,000 feet, that’s a lesson worth keeping in mind.
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