Going great shakes: The wheel deal that put my Parkinson's pain to flight

THE girl at the Easyjet bag-drop desk was anything but helpful.
My boarding pass stated specifically that I should go  there to organise the ‘special requirements’ I had requested online when I booked my flight from Alicante to Manchester.  But the bag-drop girl was having none of it. “You are in the wrong place,’’ she insisted, pointing to an office window where several people were busy haranguing the lone occupant.
I duly joined the queue and waited a few minutes, during which time the line reduced by a whole person.
Becoming increasingly anxious, I looked at my boarding pass again. It clearly stated I should go to the bag drop, so I wandered back to the Easyjet desk and joined the queue of people waiting to check in. By now I was becoming a little agitated. Here I was, in an extremely embarrassing position, seeking wheelchair assistance for the first time in my life. I felt so guilty, but equally relieved that I did not have to join the logjam of passengers funnelling  through the crowded security checks.
It was a busy Friday evening and it crossed my mind that I should forget the wheelchair and make my way to security with my hand luggage as I had always done during the five years or so I had been living in Spain.
Then I recalled all the hassle of having to unzip my bag and remove my ancient laptop for separate checking, Not to mention shuffling and shaking along the line as young, chicos and chicas tut-tutted at this old dear with Parkinson’s Disease who blocked their rush to the duty-free shops.
The bag-drop girl I had spoken to earlier spotted me in the check-in queue. Shaking her head at my defiance of her instructions, she left her desk and strode over. “Madam, you cannot get special assistance here. This is the bag-drop queue. I told you must go to the office I pointed out to you earlier.’’
I could feel myself falling apart and the girl sensed it too. Suddenly I felt her mood change from irritation to sympathy and realised she was not the impatient misery I had first taken her for.
She ushered me back towards the wheelchair office where, as luck would have it, the queue had vanished.
The next 10 minutes were an emotional time as I came to terms with old age. My frailty in such a trivial situation confirmed to me that senility and ill-health really were catching up with me and that my independence was under threat.
Over the previous few months I had been finding it increasingly difficult to handle the rigours of air travel. I didn't actually FEEL old at 69, but even without the limitations of Parkinson’s and angina, I was finding it a real struggle to carry hand luggage onto a  plane - and  certainly could not lift it into overhead racks. The problem increased  dramatically when one threw in the limitations of a dicky heart and hands that shook like a 9.7 scale earthquake.
My ever-weakening emotions welled over into tears as I realised that the problems would only increase as I wing my way towards the  final horizon.
Most of my flights these days are to visit my family in Manchester,  where I had been finding the long walk to passport control impossible without resorting to my emergency angina-relief spray. Now, for the first time,  I could forget about becoming a damsel in distress.
Ten minutes later I was being wheeled through a quiet area of the security department to the department gate, feeling cool and relaxed for the first time in a generation.
It didn't bother me that I was destined to be the last person off the plane in Manchester.
It is nearly two years since that dramatic day I first took advantage of what I now call the the 'squeals on wheels service' I've flown from Spain to the UK at least a dozen times since then and found every airline equally friendly and helpful when it comes to doddery old codgers like me.
With my increasing health problems, stress is the last thing I want. I'd like to shake the hand of every airport assistant and cabin crew member who has helped me - but my Parkinson's has now reached the stage where I'd probably miss!
Well, at least I've still got my sense of humour. Even if it does invariably mean being the very last passenger off the plane.
   

I've got Parkinson's Disease - so why am I laughing?

Bob Monkhouse never lost his brilliant sense of humour right up to his dying day. And the late, great comedian’s legacy of laughter taught me a lesson I plan to utilise every waking hour from now on.

Because life is too short to be taken over-seriously. Even by a Grumpy Old Gran.

To most people under 40, the aches and pains of advancing years don’t exist. But take it from me, kids, old age is gonna getcha - and quicker than you think!

There’s a fair chance you’ll end up a stooped old wrinkly shuffling your way along the streets and causing irritating queues in the newsagents as you fumble for change. And then drop your purse on the floor for someone else to pick up.

I know all about it – because I’m heading towards the world of zimmer frames myself. And it’s not pleasant.

Two years ago, I was diagnosed with angina and had two stents inserted in an angioplasty procedure to widen my coronary arteries. Now I have been told by a neurologist that I also have the beginnings of Parkinson’s Disease.

Not very pleasant, but millions of people are in far worse health than I, and hopefully I will be around for a good few years yet. I have also found a true inspiration in the unique humour of Bob Monkhouse.

Like him, I believe that the best antidote to illness and the negativity of ageing is laughter. The Monkhouse School of Mirth may not cure major ailments, but a good giggle does make even the Grumpiest of Grans feel a lot better.

When Bob knew he was dying from prostate cancer, he not only kept smiling - he incorporated it into his act.

Back in the ‘70s, I was lucky enough to see him perform live at a major London hotel function. Until then, I had always regarded him as rather smarmy and insincere, but I realised that evening that I was watching a true genius strutting his stuff.

Not long before he died in December 2003, and still looking amazingly fit despite his advanced cancer, Monkhouse quipped on Michael Parkinson's chat show that he had asked his doctor: ‘’How long have I got to live?’’

 ‘’Ten,’’ said the doctor.

‘’Is that weeks, months…?’’

‘ ’Nine, eight, seven...’’

 That wisecrack reignited my belief that when old age and/or illness strike, the most effective way to fight it is to have a little giggle about life, however difficult that may be.

I half expected Monkhouse to throw in a line about his unique ‘’sense of tumour’’. He didn’t – but there's a fair bet he is up there in his celestial home right now haranguing St Peter with his one-liners.

In the meantime, I have told my kids and grandkids I want to hear them singing at my funeral, not being just plain miserable. Perhaps a couple of choruses of   'Always Look on the Bright Side of Death’ will help – not that I’ll be able to join in, of course.

Meanwhile, life goes on for me, my angina and my Parkinson’s, with semi-permanent backache and painful hip joints  thrown in as a bonus. But I’m happy because I spend most of my time in the Spanish sunshine.

I can also see a new career on the horizon. If the Parkinson’s gets any worse, they might yet give me my own chat show…