AN hour later, I was still shaking.
I'm back. Living in Spain as a retired Brit, I don't get to see family in the old hometown as often as I might like. Unfortunately, this past year has also been dogged by recovery from an emergency life-saving surgery and by dealing with the administration of being a foreigner in another country. So, early this month I felt well enough and coincidentally had completed my permanent residency procedure to decide on a swift trip to annoy kids and grandkids.
Now, as a very recently diagnosed autistic person, this was to be my first international travel armed with my newfound knowledge. Air travel has always been difficult (who likes hanging around in an airport and being herded through security, followed by the shameless marketing offered by the expensive duty-free?) and I am no different. So, I chose to use the train to northern Spain and hop on the ferry back to Blighty, a very much more civilised affair, and also relaxing. Sadly, it was not to be, as my train neared Santander, my phone 'pinged' with a message from Brittany Ferries informing me that the sailing had been postponed by at least 36 hours due to adverse weather conditions. This triggered what I now know to be an autism panic! But, with the help of family on the other end of the phone, arrangements were made, and hotels were cancelled, rebooked, trains cancelled, and a flight arranged for my return. Cue a relaxing day and a bit of mooching around a rather pleasant northern Spanish city.
As expected, boarding the ferry went smoothly; people are so ready to help when things go awry. And the crossing was mostly uneventful, with the exception of a very serious roll towards the end of the trip, resulting in carnage in the dining room with lots of crockery being sacrificed and one lady doing some damage to her wrist. Disembarking was also a breeze; no amount of autism-induced fears were realised. Never once was I stopped by the authorities, and I was met by my daughter, and off we went on a very busy few days of family get-togethers.
But the day was approaching when I had to get myself through the airport. And every day another imagined problem cropped up in my mind, so by the time I arrived I was fairly near the edge of full-on fight-or-flight! For instance, I know that fluids are not to be taken through security, but as my plans had been tipped over, I had shaving cream and mouthwash in my gear (and being a parsimonious sort, I was not prepared to just throw it away at the behest of some bureaucrat), so I winged that one. But worse, I am possessed of a sweet tooth and had bought some very expensive fudge-like sweeties to share about on my return, and that provoked thoughts of the X-Ray machine deciding the fudge was some sort of explosive! By the time I arrived, I was armed with witty responses and ready, so I thought, to sail through the system and get on the plane. WRONG!! The bureaucrat asked if I had anything in my pockets; yes, I did: the paper tickets. It was insisted that the offending paper be taken out and handed over for inspection by some other security apacharik, at which point I lost it! It's just paper; what on earth sort of problem could that be? Now I'm the enemy, full-on search, told I am a problem, and wholly unable to speak as my head is now spinning and making no sense to me, let alone anyone around me. One should bear in mind that I am a fully functioning adult who has served in the military, has worked in electronics, managed projects, has a degree in security and am fully aware of risk and security threats. Yet here I was, embarrassed, a problem and treated like a child, a problem to be humiliated and moved on!
An hour later, stressed and shaking, I managed to find a quietish place to hide and met a lovely young couple who helped me (again, people can be so lovely in a crisis) calm down and recover some normality.
Lessons? Well, of course, flying is out of the question, I fear, and not because of a fear of flying, of course. But how does one not catastrophise and build up layers of imaginary events that are going to happen (inevitably they don't) to the point that I am doomed to fail no matter what happens? As I said, my diagnosis has been very recent, and so dealing with life in this new context is still new to me. I suspect that time and experience will help, but but, but...... At 69, I think I am owed a little respect (what is it that young people think they are entitled to call me by my first name on first meeting?) and I accept that, on the face of it, those who dealt with me the other day had no information on which to base their own behaviour, and I do not want any special or different treatment than any other human. But if autism is going to trip me up so spectacularly in the future, what am I to do? What was a splendid trip was severely marred by an autistic spat entirely not of the making of the staff at the airport, yet it could have been handled better, I think.
