At the gate, I found a hard plastic chair. Hard plastic. The enemy of cracked ribs. I sat down like I was arranging raw eggs on a spoon. Every other passenger looked so comfortable. I envied their intact skeletal systems.
Boarding started. They called groups one through five. My group? Group last. Naturally. I watched happy, pain-free people filing onto the plane. One guy yawned. I wanted to punch him. (I couldn’t. That would jostle my ribs.)
Finally, it was my turn. I shuffled down the jet bridge like a fragile old turtle. Each step made me question my life choices.
The Seat: The coffin
Then I found it. Row 27. Middle seat. The most cursed spot on any aircraft. The seatbelt was a weapon. I tried to click it softly. It clicked with a loud CLACK that echoed through my torso.
I couldn’t lean back—too much pressure. I couldn’t lean forward—too much strain. I sat perfectly upright, like a mortician propped up a dead guy. The person next to me, let’s call her Karen, spread her elbows wide. Karen, why?
Traveling With Broken Ribs: Is It Safe? | QuartzMountain
For five hours, I learned the true meaning of “every breath you take.” Every bump of turbulence was a fresh knife twist. I clutched the armrests so hard my knuckles went white. The flight attendants kept asking if I wanted a drink. I couldn’t even lift my hand to say yes.
