Last Day on the QM2

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”
 – Anthony Bourdain

Oops! I forgot to blog about the last day. Maybe that's because "disembarkation" is the saddest word in a cruiser's lexicon. But before we had to leave the Queen Mary 2, we enjoyed a beautiful sail-in to the Big Apple! However, to do so, we had to be very early risers. I even set an alarm so we wouldn't sleep through it. (This is one of those times when splurging for a balcony cabin is so worth it! We didn't have to get dressed and venture out to a public deck. We just shrugged on our complimentary QM2 robes and stepped out on the verandah.)

First, the Queen Mary 2 slipped under the Verrazano Bridge. It is the largest cruise ship able to fit under that structure. The bridge sparkled like a string of diamonds in the pre-dawn light.

Then we were treated to a panoramic view of the Statue of Liberty and Lower Manhattan. We learned in our on board astronomy lectures about how light pollution means a whole generation of children can't see the stars. The light of the city totally obscures the night sky.

We had packed up the bulk of our stuff the night before, so after our last breakfast on the Lido deck, we hauled our carry-ons to the theatre, which was our assigned gathering place.

There is no good way to leave a cruise ship. For one thing, it means surrendering our temporary status as visiting royalty. No more nearly invisible steward to tidy up after us. No friendly, helpful wait staff to bring us our meals. No "Yes, madame," or "Yes, Sir." We have to go back to being our ordinary selves.

Heavy sigh...

So when our color and number for disembarkation was called, we lugged our stuff out and down the gangway for the last time. Then we found our over-sized suitcases in the right area and waggled our way through the crowd to immigration and customs where the pleasant agent checked our passports and welcomed us home.

In some ways, he was right. After time abroad, any US soil feels like home, but we weren't really there yet.

At this point we had two heavy (about 60 lbs each) suitcases, a rolling carry-on each, a backpack with my spare portable oxygen concentrator, Herkimer (my regular POC) in his rolling cart, my c-pap bag, and an over-the-shoulder bag. It was a long, slow slog to the Cunard bus that transferred us to the airport.

To my surprise, we were not off-loaded on the level where we could avail ourselves of curb-side check in. There was so much construction, our bus dropped us off on the lower level where we had to collect all our bags again. Amazingly enough, there wasn't a single skycap in sight. So we dragged our luggage entourage around the chain link construction fence and across three lanes of traffic where we had the good luck to find an abandoned luggage trolley. Once all our stuff was loaded, it was much easier going. We found the elevator and rode up to the main level to check in to our Delta flight.

Unfortunately, there was a problem. The agent wouldn't gives us our boarding passes because there was nothing on their records about me using oxygen while on the plane. My DH had notified Delta weeks ahead of time and let them know I'd be traveling with Herkimer, but there was no record of it on their computer. My DH pulled up the email exchange he'd had with Delta on his phone and showed them. He'd been assured by Delta that as long as my POC was one of the FAA approved types (which it is), there was no problem. However, the gate agent and her manager said we should have submitted a request through Oxygen to Go, along with a copy of my prescription and a letter signed by my physician. There is nothing about this on Delta's website.

When I first started using supplemental O2 in 2014, I used to have to provide those things to the airline each time. But it's been years since I've had to jump through those hoops, and besides, my DH had contacted Delta and they never said a word about those requirements. I'd boarded a Delta flight in St. Louis without all that hoo-ha-ha just three weeks previous. But the agent and her manager at Laguardia were determined to jerk us around.

It was a good thing our flight didn't leave until mid-afternoon because it took us over an hour to get this non-matter resolved. I hate being singled out for this kind of attention. My goal is to try to feel normal. Most of the time, I'm able to forget I'm using O2. While they fretted and stewed over their administrivia, my "other-ness" was showing big time.

Then we had to run the TSA gauntlet and, hoping to expedite matters since I'd tried to walk through before without much success, this time I accepted the offered wheel chair.

I hate riding when I can still walk. Lots of people with lung issues do end up in wheel chairs, but I'm not there yet. Not even close. Maybe I'll feel differently about it if I do eventually need one. But riding in one now makes me feel so very low. Like an invalid.  In-Valid, as in not valid, as in "less than." I try to pretend that I'm just like everyone else and most of the time, I manage to use oxygen with a smile on my face. Airports are places where the lies I tell myself are exposed for what they are.

Guess times like this are what Anthony Bourdain meant when he said travel hurts.

The rest of our flight was uneventful and we were delighted to see #1 Daughter and Daughter-in-law when we reached St. Louis. Then we drove the rest of the way home the next day.

It's wonderful to travel, but it's also wonderful to come home, to the people and pets and places we love.

And I didn't let my "last day blues" linger long. We've already booked our next cruise.

More soon...