Flying these days requires marathon-level hardiness. Why is it so dysfunctional?

I was 100% correct to dread escorting my 89-year-old mother on a flight to New York. The trip was not for a silly whim, but for a planned family gathering. Important stuff.

The problem is air travel has become tough even for super fit young adults, as reported to me by my youngest son. He’s been on a crazy friend-wedding circuit this summer. Airline unpredictability put him through a few sleep deprivation ringers. Even watching the news lately, it seems you never know if you’ll need to exit your plane on an inflatable slide.

So, to venture to an airport with a beloved elder is like parachuting into an industrial clothes dryer riddled with a bunch of surprise grenades.

We were tumbled around, all right. Delayed, canceled, then tumbled around some more, even though we strategized the trip with military precision.

My husband came along. Smart move, because he knew we needed reinforcements. We followed protocol. I prearranged a wheelchair escort and procured the proper ID, since my mom no longer has a current driver’s license. We packed snacks and all-important medications to carry on, and we arrived at the airport with plenty of buffer time. It was all done by the book.

As soon as we positioned ourselves for the TSA battle (because we all know it’s a chaotic war zone, usually complete with a drill sergeant wannabe barking orders at you), we were informed our flight would be delayed two hours. We took a few deep breaths and went through anyway. I figured it would be more peaceful on the other side of that tense foxhole.

To summarize our TSA gauntlet, one text I sent to my brothers went something like, “Got through security. They had to sweep mom’s can as she sat in the wheelchair.”

But we carried on and rolled to our gate. We managed to kill that extra two hours, only to learn of a second two-hour delay. At that point, I sensed what was on the horizon, and again, I was right. Our plans folded into the biggest defeat: a total flight cancellation.

My first instinct was to tell the airline, “You can’t do this to the widow of a veteran! She was born during the Great Depression and has seen it all! She once flew to Europe on a PROPELLER plane — with two babies in tow! Summon a private jet, pronto!”

I quickly succumbed to reality and queued up with my woulda-been fellow passengers. Our only option was to fly to Nashville first, then arrive in New York way after midnight. Take note: I originally planned a nonstop to minimize complications.

That plan was a hard no. You can’t risk getting marooned in Nashville with a great grandmother (good premise for a country song, by the way).

We had to book the same flight 24 hours later. That lost day put a huge damper on the trip.

And speaking of damp, the cancellation excuse was “weather,” even though my relatives in NY said it was nice by them at the time we were supposed to land. It’s always weather, and you can’t prove otherwise because I don’t even know if we have enough meteorologists eyeing the skies these days. I just wish one time a gate agent would be honest and say, “Yeah, the flight was cancelled due to general commercial air travel dysfunction.”

We forged ahead with a Groundhog Day experience 24 hours later. What a strange feeling to go through the same motions, but with even more mistrust and trepidation. Everything was on time (a novelty these days) as we once again battled our way through the whole process, this time with more success.

Unlike me, my formerly nervous flyer mother was calm throughout the whole two-day experience. What a trooper.

Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com.