Where should I begin? I really haven't the slightest clue. It all started as they always do; on a beautiful, sunny day. Passing over the city of New Orleans, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The Gulf Coast was visible all the way to Florida, I mused at the time. When the flight attendant called, I had just begun to tell the Captain my story of the man with the seizure.
The message was brief. You needed oxygen. While there is plenty of oxygen in the cabin, sometimes more concentrated amounts are needed. There are portable containers available for just this occasion. I assumed that's all that it was. I remember feeling bad for the flight attendant and Captain. Using the oxygen meant filling out paperwork before the end of the night. Poor them.
It was the second call, not more than a minute later, that got our attention.
"She's not breathing. I gave her oxygen and she's not breathing!"
As before, we both sprung to action and decided to turn around and land in New Orleans. It was only 30 miles away, much closer than the last time I had to do this. The Captain declared a medical emergency, and I, almost identical to the month prior, did my best to get us in a position to land.
This time, it was our turn to call. We informed the surprisingly calm woman in the back that we were headed for New Orleans. I wasn't prepared for her update. "She's just 10 years old. She has cancer. She's not breathing."
A lump filled my throat. I don't know why it mattered more that you were so young but I felt the need to get down faster. It took less than 12 minutes for us to land in New Orleans from an altitude of 37,000 feet. A feat that is normally done in over 40, those 12 minutes dragged on for what felt like hours.
We had no navigational charts for the airport. There was no calling over the radios. Just a simple text to our dispatcher in St Louis. You'd think it would be chaotic but it was eerily calm and quiet as we both stared out the window at the airport growing beneath us. As we pulled up to the gate, the paramedics were there ready to spring to action. We turned the airplane off and opened the door to the waiting flight attendant. Both of us looked back at her, hoping for good news.
She shook her head. "I just used the oxygen bottle. The father told me she had a Do Not Resuscitate order so I didn't do CPR."
A wave of grief washed over me like the waves I watched washing over the shore not more than 20 minutes prior. As the paramedics rushed onto the aircraft, I finally felt the gravity of the situation resting firmly on my chest. I was short of breath and my eyes began to burn. I saw your tiny body, just barely old enough to attend school, carried lifelessly off the airplane by the paramedics. Behind you, your parents and infant sister. I truly wish I hadn't turned around to see you, to look into your eyes. I wish I could have been a coward in that moment and stared out the window instead. I'm even more sorry that I feel that way. As tears began to drip over my cheeks, I saw that rest of the airplane was looking forward. I quickly turned and faced forward, turning knobs and pushing buttons pretending to be busy.
The Captain turned on the PA to make an annoucement but stopped after the introduction. I looked over and could see his cheeks glistened under the dark sunglasses he still had yet to remove. "God, this is hard," he choked. I quickly turned and leaned into my corner, trying my hardest to bury the emotions.
You were taken from us to the firehouse and eventually the morgue. Your parents were trying their hardest to get you to your home in Jacksonville where you could die in peace. What's the hardest for me is all the ways I failed you. When I learned of your distress, I couldn't save you. No matter how hard I could have tried, and tried hard I did, your time on this Earth had ended. I feel terrible that we left you and your family in New Orleans, a strange city far from your final resting place. We couldn't keep going no matter how much your father begged us to continue on. I'm sorry we left you. I'm sorry we couldn't save you. I'm sorry you had to die so incredibly young.
My heart breaks for you, little girl in 23D. I can only hope that what little life you had to live was great and full of wonder. I hope you felt no pain as you slipped away from us. I can only hope that when you finally gave up you were looking out your window at the endless expanse of the Gulf of Mexico, its shores, and in awe, like I was, at its beauty. I wish I could at least give you that.
The message was brief. You needed oxygen. While there is plenty of oxygen in the cabin, sometimes more concentrated amounts are needed. There are portable containers available for just this occasion. I assumed that's all that it was. I remember feeling bad for the flight attendant and Captain. Using the oxygen meant filling out paperwork before the end of the night. Poor them.
It was the second call, not more than a minute later, that got our attention.
"She's not breathing. I gave her oxygen and she's not breathing!"
As before, we both sprung to action and decided to turn around and land in New Orleans. It was only 30 miles away, much closer than the last time I had to do this. The Captain declared a medical emergency, and I, almost identical to the month prior, did my best to get us in a position to land.
This time, it was our turn to call. We informed the surprisingly calm woman in the back that we were headed for New Orleans. I wasn't prepared for her update. "She's just 10 years old. She has cancer. She's not breathing."
A lump filled my throat. I don't know why it mattered more that you were so young but I felt the need to get down faster. It took less than 12 minutes for us to land in New Orleans from an altitude of 37,000 feet. A feat that is normally done in over 40, those 12 minutes dragged on for what felt like hours.
We had no navigational charts for the airport. There was no calling over the radios. Just a simple text to our dispatcher in St Louis. You'd think it would be chaotic but it was eerily calm and quiet as we both stared out the window at the airport growing beneath us. As we pulled up to the gate, the paramedics were there ready to spring to action. We turned the airplane off and opened the door to the waiting flight attendant. Both of us looked back at her, hoping for good news.
She shook her head. "I just used the oxygen bottle. The father told me she had a Do Not Resuscitate order so I didn't do CPR."
A wave of grief washed over me like the waves I watched washing over the shore not more than 20 minutes prior. As the paramedics rushed onto the aircraft, I finally felt the gravity of the situation resting firmly on my chest. I was short of breath and my eyes began to burn. I saw your tiny body, just barely old enough to attend school, carried lifelessly off the airplane by the paramedics. Behind you, your parents and infant sister. I truly wish I hadn't turned around to see you, to look into your eyes. I wish I could have been a coward in that moment and stared out the window instead. I'm even more sorry that I feel that way. As tears began to drip over my cheeks, I saw that rest of the airplane was looking forward. I quickly turned and faced forward, turning knobs and pushing buttons pretending to be busy.
The Captain turned on the PA to make an annoucement but stopped after the introduction. I looked over and could see his cheeks glistened under the dark sunglasses he still had yet to remove. "God, this is hard," he choked. I quickly turned and leaned into my corner, trying my hardest to bury the emotions.
You were taken from us to the firehouse and eventually the morgue. Your parents were trying their hardest to get you to your home in Jacksonville where you could die in peace. What's the hardest for me is all the ways I failed you. When I learned of your distress, I couldn't save you. No matter how hard I could have tried, and tried hard I did, your time on this Earth had ended. I feel terrible that we left you and your family in New Orleans, a strange city far from your final resting place. We couldn't keep going no matter how much your father begged us to continue on. I'm sorry we left you. I'm sorry we couldn't save you. I'm sorry you had to die so incredibly young.
My heart breaks for you, little girl in 23D. I can only hope that what little life you had to live was great and full of wonder. I hope you felt no pain as you slipped away from us. I can only hope that when you finally gave up you were looking out your window at the endless expanse of the Gulf of Mexico, its shores, and in awe, like I was, at its beauty. I wish I could at least give you that.
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