We were on a return flight from Europe in 1989, that was really more like a refugee evacuation from a two-week trip with a ninety-three-year-old in a wheel chair, our oldest daughter (who had helped us tremendously), and our eighteen-month-old toddler. 
    Our toddler daughter had developed terrible separation anxiety.  When we were apart, even an arm's length away, a cataclysmic meltdown would ensue.  I could not even go to the restroom on the 747 without her accompanying me.  About a third of the way through the flight, I picked her up and took her with me to the restroom at mid-cabin.  Together, we barely fit in that tiny space.  It took a lot of maneuvering to accomplish anything.  I had to put the toilet seat down, stand our daughter on top of it, and then turn around to wash my hands.
    Did you know that the panic button, when pressed, is virtually silent inside the restroom?  Nor did I.  But soon after our daughter had pressed it, three flight attendants were beating on the restroom door.
    "Are you able to talk?" shouted an adrenaline-packed male voice.
    "Yes!" My eyes widened in shock.  What an odd thing to be asked.
    "Don't worry," he called.  "We're going to get you out of there.  Are you still conscious?"
    "Yes!"  I reached around to pick up my daughter.
    "Don't worry, Madam.  We're going to break the door down."
    I unlocked the door and hesitantly opened it.  My daughter and I emerged, and I could see the three flight attendants' jaws drop.  Then keen disappointment registered on their faces.  They had been let down by our healthy emergence.  I mean, all that training and effort would go unused, at least on us.
    When I realized what happened, I apologized profusely, and then, half-laughing and half-crying from embarrassment, began the journey up the aisle back to our seats.  Every single passenger anywhere around the mid-cabin area had risen up to watch our exit.  Some were worried about us, some were disgusted, some were laughing, and some had simply noticed that there was finally, a vacant restroom.