"Flying While Disabled: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

If Peter Pan needed a wheelchair, he’d probably end up grounded too.

Travelling as a powered wheelchair user is like playing a game of “What’s the Worst That Could Happen?” Spoiler: The house always wins. 

For many of us, flying is an anxiety-inducing circus. Will our wheelchairs arrive intact? Will they arrive at all? Will we be stranded without essential equipment? And heaven forbid nature calls mid-flight—aircraft toilets are about as accessible as the dark side of the moon, leaving us to dehydrate ourselves just to avoid the indignity. Airlines and airports should provide stellar service to ease these fears. Things go wrong—sometimes spectacularly—but how staff respond makes all the difference. They can’t always fix the problem but can listen, consult, and maybe even pretend to care. That human touch matters.

My recent winter escapade to Malaga, Spain, with my wife was supposed to be a relaxing getaway. Instead, it was a masterclass in Murphy’s Law. Our journey started at Luton Airport with an uneventful easyJet flight. I even dared to feel optimistic—a rookie mistake. Upon landing in Malaga, my powered wheelchair arrived at the plane door, but it decided to take a siesta. The drive motors wouldn’t engage. Panic set in. Without my chair, I lose my independence. Simple things—showering, using the toilet, or moving around—become Herculean tasks.

Three excruciating hours passed as staff tried to help. I felt like a sack of potatoes being shuffled from chair to chair while people around me spoke rapid-fire Spanish, brainstorming like a game show. No one thought to ask me or my wife for input, which only added to my frustration and helplessness. Eventually, the consensus was that we’d need two taxis—one for me and my wife and another for the comatose chair. They loaned me a manual wheelchair—better than crawling but hardly a solution. Self-propelling wasn’t an option, and relying on others felt like a bad joke. The language barrier added to my vulnerability, but the Malaga airport team did their best impersonation of helpfulness.

The staff at the Ilunion Hotel were equally indispensable. Beyond checking us in, they moonlighted as translators and helped us navigate local services. Their professionalism turned what could have been a complete isolation chamber into something manageable. Without their assistance, orchestrating repairs in a foreign country would have been a nightmare wrapped in a disaster.

The next day, I rented a replacement powered chair. It was about as comfortable as sitting on a pile of rocks but granted me a semblance of independence. A local repair company collected my chair two days later. Hope flickered when they quickly diagnosed the fault but was promptly extinguished when they said the part wouldn’t arrive for two weeks. My wife and I spent hours weighing our options, exhausted by the uncertainty. We decided to cut our trip short. Cancelled plans, added expenses, and emotional strain overshadowed the holiday’s original purpose—sun, rest, and relaxation.

Returning to Luton, I naively thought the worst was over. I was wrong. My chair was still out of commission. I was escorted to the easyJet counter to fill out a claim form. Desperate for the toilet, the paperwork felt like an exquisite form of torture—but in hindsight, it was fortunate I completed it then. Amid the chaos in Malaga, I hadn’t managed to submit one. Disabled travellers take note: wheelchair insurance is useful, but airlines often require you to jump through their hoops first. My insurer later informed me that I had to go through easyJet before they could lift a finger, adding yet another layer of bureaucratic bliss.

Then came another hurdle. I asked the airport assistance staff to push my chair to my car (I drive while seated in it), but the supervisor refused. “Health and safety—it’s too heavy,” he declared. My patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped. What was safer—me dragging my chair or someone pushing it carefully? While he clung to the rulebook, a petite baggage reclaim staff member calmly pushed the wheelchair without assistance, which was both amusing and a subtle middle finger to the supervisor’s stance. Despite this, he remained as unyielding as a mule.

An hour or so later, a senior baggage handler intervened. By then, it felt like a Mexican standoff between him and the supervisor—each entrenched in their positions while we waited, increasingly exasperated. Eventually, the senior handler orchestrated two of his team to push the chair while someone from special assistance wheeled me in a manual chair. Finally, we reached my car. Relief mingled with frustration—why had it taken so long? Why must things be this hard?

Most staff I encountered genuinely wanted to help. I don’t blame those shackled by procedures; things go wrong—that’s life. But there’s a chasm between “Let’s see what we can do” and “We can’t do that.” Only one person chose the latter approach, injecting unnecessary stress into an already fraught situation. In frontline roles, compassion and flexibility should be mandatory.

Attitude matters. Listening costs nothing. Reassurance takes seconds. Practical help, when possible, changes everything. Flying shouldn’t feel like preparing for battle. Disabled people shouldn’t have to wonder if they’ll be left stranded or denied basic needs. Airlines and airports must do better—not out of charity but because everyone deserves dignity when they travel. Sometimes, it’s not about having the perfect solution—it’s about being willing to try.