The Wheelchair Pusher Chronicles: The Final Chapter

Welcome Home Lobster at BarBrix

LAX started off so well

Our Suite on AirFrance

The illuminated signs in a plane you to be about smoking, now computers

We left the Sheraton, which is conveniently located inside Terminal 2 at Charles de Gaulle Airport. We were met by our wheelchair pusher, who led us up and down a series of elevators until we finally reached the People Mover train and were transported to the Air France terminal. As requested, he took us directly to the gate.

It was a smooth process. Air France 1, Iberia 0 in the Mobility Assistance Challenge. I’m sure the actual assistance is provided by many of the same airport people, but somehow Air France managed to make it work.

After our 11-hour flight to Los Angeles, there was no exiting through a service door into one of those strange vehicles that lifts itself up to the airplane. Like normal people—albeit exhausted normal people—we walked off the plane and were almost immediately met by wheelchair pushers, one of whom pushed Cathy up the boarding ramp.

At this point, I need to interrupt our journey for some politically correct woke research.

While writing the paragraphs above, I suddenly had a moment of deep concern. Had I inadvertently offended the dedicated wheelchair pushers of the world by calling them “wheelchair pushers”?

True to my nature, I consulted AI.

The consensus: “wheelchair pusher” isn’t offensive, but it is considered informal. In the industry, the more professional title is something like Passenger Assistance Agent or Passenger Assistance Attendant.

So I will continue to use “wheelchair pusher” without guilt. In fact, I think it is a far more accurate job description.

I do feel sorry for the college graduate who responds to an ad for a Passenger Assistance Agent, imagining a desk job answering travelers’ questions, only to show up for his first day and discover that he will spend eight hours pushing people down very long airport hallways.

“Wheelchair pusher” may lack corporate elegance, but at least you know what you’re signing up for.

Back to our beleaguered college graduate, who has now discovered that his impressive-sounding job as a Passenger Assistance Agent actually means he is a wheelchair pusher. At LAX, he was about to discover something even worse: he was already being automated out of his new career.

He pushed Cathy up the boarding ramp, where we were met by a golf cart. The wheelchair pusher stopped pushing, Cathy and I climbed aboard, and the machine took over. We were driven toward immigration, which at LAX is approximately halfway to Sacramento. We were very glad we didn’t have to walk it.

And soon LAX will have its long-delayed new People Mover, which is supposed to make getting around the airport easier. I personally predict it will be a disaster. LAX has spent decades perfecting the art of making something as simple as getting from an airplane to the curb extraordinarily complicated. I see no reason to believe they are going to suddenly lose that talent.

Perhaps our college graduate shouldn’t give up on his wheelchair-pushing career quite yet.

Air France had pulled through. Now it was LAX’s turn to shine.

At immigration, Cathy got off the golf cart and was transferred back into a wheelchair. We were taken to a waiting area with about 30 other people who also needed assistance.

And we waited.

And waited.

This is where the humor of all these different methods of transporting Cathy around airports stopped being particularly funny to Cathy. She can walk, but long distances and prolonged standing are difficult. That is why we request mobility assistance in the first place. What became so frustrating for her throughout this trip was never knowing what was supposed to happen next. Do we walk? Do we wait? Is somebody coming? Did they forget us? Are we supposed to stay on the plane or get off? Each airport seemed to have a different system, and apparently passengers were expected to somehow know what it was.

At LAX we watched as one person after another was collected by a wheelchair pusher and taken through immigration. Cathy sat there with no idea when her turn would come. Meanwhile, our luggage was somewhere on a giant carousel, circling endlessly and available to anyone who happened to like our suitcases.

At LAX, as at most airports, nobody checks luggage tags. You see a bag you like, apparently you can just take it.

Eventually I got nervous enough that I left Cathy in the holding area and went in search of our luggage. That made the situation even more frustrating for her. Now, after an 11-hour flight, she was sitting in a wheelchair in an airport waiting area without me, surrounded by strangers, with no idea when someone was going to come for her.

I found our luggage, rescued it from the carousel, and waited at baggage claim while Cathy continued waiting for the next available Wheelchair Pusher.

Eventually one appeared, retrieved her, got her through immigration, reunited us at baggage claim, and wheeled us out to the curb, where our Uber arrived quickly and took us home.

It worked. Eventually. But that really summarizes the problem with airport mobility assistance: it is designed to get you from Point A to Point B, and eventually it usually does. What it doesn’t seem particularly concerned about is how stressful the experience can be for the person sitting in the wheelchair wondering what happens next.

We think airports should offer private wheelchair pushers. We would gladly pay for one, tip generously, and know that someone would stay with us from the airplane all the way through immigration, baggage claim and out to the curb. For Cathy, just knowing that one person was responsible for getting her all the way through the process would eliminate most of the frustration.

And who knows? With decent pay and good tips, it might turn out to be a pretty good profession for that college graduate who answered the ad for a Passenger Assistance Agent and discovered too late what the job actually was.

After Paris, Madrid, Iberia, Air France, strange vehicles, service doors, golf carts, wheelchairs and more airport assistance than we ever imagined we would need, we were finally home.

And Cathy was probably happier about that than anyone.