I had a long layover at a busy airport while traveling from Arizona to Florida to run a gun training course and I stopped by the restroom.
The lines were long for those waiting to get into a stall and I noticed an elderly man waiting patiently by the sole closed, occupied handicap stall at the back of the restroom.
Watching people who stand out is a favorite pastime so I occasionally glanced at him as I splashed water on my face and washed my hands.
This man appeared to be in his mid to later 80’s; he was leaning heavily on a cane that had four stabilizing rubber tips on the ground and it was clearly an effort for him to stand for long as he waited for the handicap stall to open.
His meager hair was combed carefully and a small black plastic comb peeked out of the left breast pocket on his plain long sleeves, button down white shirt.
He wore those thin, almost-dress pants so common and comfortable for that generation, brown in color, held up by a thin leather belt that had clearly been worn for many years.
His clothing reminded me of my own father and my heart missed that hero of mine so much, as we live on opposite sides of the US and I see him far too rarely.
This gentleman was thin and gaunt, the years heavy on him, the skin of his face waxy, thin, and lightly spiderwebbed with reddish veins. His eyes behind his glasses were a faded watery blue, holding an expression of dejected resignation and uncomfortable patience while everyone else bustled hurriedly about.
Something about him suggested he was a kindly, careful soul, that he was not monied and that a plane trip was rare for him due to the expense. My instincts were that he lived on a small fixed pension, or possibly just SSI. If true, whatever had caused this man to take a plane ride must have been quite an upheaval in his life and the thought tugged at the heartstring.
I noticed he was holding a very full colostomy bag, partially hidden by a white cloth, which I soon realized was an adult diaper. A clear colostomy hose came out his pants and appeared attached to the bag hidden in the diaper, and I noticed the hose was filled with yellow fluid.
He was clearly trying to keep others from noticing both the bag full of urine and the diaper, but was failing while trying valiantly to keep it shielded by his body and held more towards the back wall of the restroom. He glanced around with a hooded look multiple times to see if anyone had noticed.
He managed to miss me; I’ve done quite a bit of surveillance and long ago developed the art of being highly observant while pretending to not be and to even not be noticed. The ability to blend into nothingness has served well over the years and I was grateful the man hadn’t noticed me as he glanced furtively around, as I sensed he would have been embarrassed.
Maybe it’s just presuming but I sensed he was a veteran – something in me suggested he’d been in the US Army many years ago – and I understand how such formerly tough, strong men are often frustrated with aging and being seen as old, or no longer as tough or as capable due to the body breaking down and betraying the youthful abilities and functions so accustomed to for most of their lives.
He slowly began shifting uncomfortably, wavering on his cane and struggling to hold onto the very full colostomy bag, the diaper, his cane, all while he clutched the handle of a small suitcase on wheels that was old and worn.
It was apparent he needed the restroom urgently and the door had been locked for the eight to ten minutes I’d been in there and quietly watching.
His fidgeting grew and his eyes widened multiple times while he fought the need to empty his bladder.
By this time, I became concerned him might not make it into the stall in time and I could tell there was no way he could do what needed done in a regular-sized stall.
I began wondering who was I occupying the handicap stall for so long. The door went all the way to the floor so I couldn’t glance under it to see if the shoes inside would give a hint.
The elderly man was fidgeting harder and he was obviously distressed. He ducked his face away and I could sense he was mortified others coming and going into the restroom might see his distress.
He need not worry; no one seemed to notice. They rushed in, did their business, rushed back out, generally lost in their phones or into their own heads while listening to earbuds or headsets, or were so personally preoccupied that nothing else mattered but their own world and affairs.
I watched as a tear slipped out of his left eye on the side of his face he kept closest to the wall. He was struggling mightily and clearly embarrassed, and something inside me whispered he did not have any spare pants in case the ones he was wearing became wet with urine. And I could only imagine whomever he was supposed to meet at the end of his journey might even berate him, or worse, if he showed up in soiled clothing.
I stepped over to him and knocked on the handicap stall door. He looked at me in almost horror and I could tell he thought I might selfishly shoulder into the stall past him once the stall door opened.
I patted him on the shoulder and nodded reassuringly, hoping to relieve some of his angst.
Someone inside began shuffling around and the toilet eventually flushed. Another long pause as someone inside rearranged themselves. The elderly man was shuffling around as if on a dance floor, trying so hard to hold it in.
The door finally opened and out walked a guy in a fancy sport coat, high end dress pants and expensive looking, fashionable leather shoes. He slung a nice, larger leather bag on his shoulder, of the type seemingly carried by some autocratic, professor type at an Ivy League university.
He looked to be in his mid to late thirties and he shoved his iPhone into the left inner pocket of his sport coat, with nary a hint of handicap about him.
He squeezed by us without a care in the world. Not even a half-hearted, insincere “Sorry” shrug. He made it obvious he knew we were standing there and had been waiting. He didn’t look at either of us and quickly walked out of the bathroom without washing his hands. Nasty person.
I earnestly needed to make my connecting flight but I really, really, really wanted to punch that guy in the mouth.
Getting arrested on an assault charge at the airport wasn’t the best idea for my own longer term future and that guy was lucky the good ‘ole days are no more.
The calloused disregard and selfishness to hog the big space of a handicap stall kept that distressed elderly man out of the one place he needed to be, especially a space designed and designated exactly for the needs of those such as that elderly gentleman.
Yeah, that guy needed slugged.
Parting thoughts:
Put your cart away properly at the grocery store.|
Don’t throw your cigarettes butts and trash on the ground or out your car windows.
Don’t throw cats off of bridges, although if any animal universally deserves it, it’s a cat.
Hold open the door for a lady.
Don’t be a jerk.
A little eating control and some working out helps with obesity.
Add dry fire to your daily life.
Put your phone down a little more and spend some extra time in the lives of those you love.
Wash your hands before you leave an airport restroom.
And stay out of the handicap stalls unless they actually apply to you. Some sweet elderly man or lady might desperately need that stall and our current generation could use a few more considerate people.
Besides, getting righteously popped in the mouth by someone braver and less future focused than I might hurt.
Be the one who makes life better.
Adam Winch
Founder, Defenders USA
