Updated: June 15, 2016
Originally Published: June 15, 2016
Both of my children have a rare genetic disorder called hemophilia, which prevents their blood from clotting and can lead to serious internal bleeding, particularly in the joints. My youngest, Ethan, faced some intense complications that caused significant damage to his knee and ankle. Unlike most kids with hemophilia, Ethan lost his mobility for 18 months. He relies on a wheelchair but can manage to limp or hop a few steps. Eventually, he learned to walk again—though with a noticeable limp, long distances were still out of reach.
To address his complications, we frequently traveled between Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Denver. Navigating airports with a wheelchair was a challenge, and my anxiety would soar. We tried to avoid drawing attention, but the stares were inescapable. It wasn’t just kids who looked—adults would turn their heads and follow us with their eyes. It was infuriating. I felt the urge to challenge them, sarcastically asking, “Is there something you need to say?”
One day at the Denver airport security gate, Ethan looked up and asked, “Mom, why are people staring at me?” My heart shattered. My son, who has shown strength I can’t even fathom, noticed the rudeness of others. I paused his wheelchair, knelt down, and said, “Sweetheart, they see how incredible you are.”
To an outsider, sitting in a wheelchair, Ethan might not seem like he needs it. What they can’t see is that his knee and ankle joints are in bad shape, resembling those of someone much older. The protective tissue in his joints has been damaged due to repeated bleeding, leaving him with limited motion and pain. If only they could see him trying to walk, maybe they would understand. But that wasn’t likely to happen.
On another trip through security at Albuquerque Sunport, I informed a TSA agent that Ethan could walk (or more accurately, limp) through the screening area. At that moment, another TSA agent nearby shouted, “The things people will do to get on the plane first! I can’t believe it!” He then stormed off, mumbling. I was left in disbelief, feeling the judgment from those around me. I imagined their thoughts: “Great, just what we need—a delay.” Luckily, Ethan didn’t hear the agent and was already through with my husband.
As I reflect on that incident, my eyes well with tears. I wish I had spoken up for my son and all those who “look” fine while battling their own struggles. For a brief moment, I felt embarrassed. Did everyone share that insensitivity? My heart screamed, “He has hemophilia! Do you understand the pain he endures from constant joint bleeding? How dare you assume I’m trying to sneak onto the plane early.” The protective mom in me was furious, but I had to calm down. Our appointments in Denver took months to arrange, and I didn’t want to risk a confrontation with the TSA. So, I moved on.
Time has passed since that airport incident, and I often think about what I would say to that TSA agent. Here’s my message: Your eyes don’t always reveal the battles someone is facing inside. Not all illnesses are visible. The next time you feel the urge to judge someone in a wheelchair, on crutches, or with a therapy dog, pause for a second and consider the fight they’re engaged in. Appreciate your own health, and think twice before you speak. For more information on navigating such challenges, check out this insightful resource on fertility treatment and explore options for at-home insemination as well.
In conclusion, empathy and understanding can go a long way when we encounter those who may not appear to be suffering but are indeed fighting their own battles.