First class.
Not because I craved champagne or warm towels or any of the manufactured luxuries airlines market as necessities. I booked it because my VA doctor had studied my scans the previous year, leaned back in his chair with the resigned expression of someone delivering unwelcome truth, and said, “No more long flights in coach, Captain. Keep compressing your spine like that, and you’ll pay for it for weeks.”
I dislike being called Captain in civilian contexts. It feels like someone attempting to frame me in dimensions that no longer fit. But I’d listened to his medical advice anyway.
I selected seat 2A. Window. Forward cabin. Sufficient space to shift position without colliding with tray tables. I paid full price—no upgrade, no loyalty points. Just my credit card, partially funded by my latest disability payment, the remainder from savings I’d accumulated through deliberate simplicity.
At the airport, I moved through security with the practiced composure of someone who understands how to wait without fidgeting. Old training dies hard. I carried one small bag and my purse, nothing cumbersome. I didn’t resemble what people expect decorated veterans to look like. No uniform. No identifying patches. Just a plain jacket, hair secured in a practical style, posture maintained because slouching increases the pain.
