Covid Part 2: A New Normal

I sat in my car in quiet reflection, hopeful that the nightmare of the last 9 days was over; however, there wasn’t the slightest hint of morning.

****

The first week of April, I had a 3 day reserve stint. The evening of the 1st day, I received a call from crew scheduling. “Hi, you have been assigned a 2-day departing tomorrow at 0800 Atlanta to Milwaukee. From there, you’ll fly back to Atlanta and then lastly to Denver.” I stared at my phone in shock. With flight cancellations rampant, I was certain I wasn’t going to get called and so thankful I had bid reserve. The world seemed to be crumbling around me and they needed me to fly?! Deep breaths. Deep breaths. What if I catch it? What if I give it to Nicole or my daughter?!

There wasn’t much time to pack and head to the airport. I rushed into the house to shower and get ready. Rumors were spreading on company social media that restaurants around the system were closing. Nothing to eat anywhere. While I was showering, Nicole packed some leftovers and filled my soft-sided cooler that I often take on the road. Have I ever said how much I appreciate her support? 

Both of us were completely insulated from the news we read each day. With a newborn at home, we already weren’t going out much and with the city in lockdown, we couldn’t go if we wanted. Aside from the grocery store and the park, we really hadn’t left our house. Now I was venturing out into the world and I was scared. It was quiet in the house in those last few minutes before I packed my car. Thirty minutes after receiving the phone call and one last hug and kiss, I was on the road.

It was weird, that trip. We would later find out what our bosses in the headquarters already knew. During that trip, of the 2.6 Million daily passengers that normally fly on all airlines across all the United States, the total count had dropped to less than 40,000. A stunning 98.5% drop. 

My airline, being primarily hub-and-spoke, had the luxury of canceling the vast majority of its flights and consolidating what remained of our passengers. Southwest, being primarily point-to-point, did not. I rode them from Minneapolis to St Louis to get home after my previous trip. I did the same at the end of the this trip. Both times, I was one of 3 passengers on the airplane. It was eerie.  On my ride to the parking lot after the trip, a Southwest gate agent told me yesterday she sent one passenger and one bag from St Louis to Ft Lauderdale.  Today, there were two.

Following that trip, I wouldn’t touch an airplane again until the end of July. It would officially be the longest stretch since I first started this blog in 2011 without flying; just barely beating out the birth of Hazel and going through initial training at both airlines, all around 3 months. 

For the first time in US History, airlines were granted a waiver for landing currency for pilots. Normally we have 90 days to get 3 takeoffs and landings, but due to the unprecedented drop in traffic, pilots just weren't flying. The FAA granted a one-time waiver that allowed us to extend the time limit an additional 30 days. In the previous 119 days, I had one landing when the airline removed me from the schedule and scheduled me for a refresher simulator. Exactly 15 weeks after landing from my last trip, I headed back into the big bad world. 

Boy was I nervous. Nicole had started working again in April but from home. Aside from an occasional day trip to see her sister and our weekly routine of supporting local restaurants by ordering takeout, there really wasn’t wasn’t much interacting with the outside world for us. So when I packed my flight kit and suitcase for the one day training event, I really wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe I’ll throw in some extra hand-sanitizer, I thought to myself. We had purchased a huge stash before Hazel was born not knowing how much poop we would get on our hands. Turns out, not gallons worth. With stores being out of stock for months on end, my over-preparedness really came in handy.

What was most surprising about my first flight back was how unbelievably comfortable I felt with the entire experience. When I had left the house in April, few people were wearing masks (aside from the people dressed in Hazmat suits). Flights were completely empty anyways but aside from that, there really had been no change. The industry was just reacting. No one knew what to do or how to prevent it.  Everything, in those early days, could get you sick or so we thought.  I even remember leaving Amazon packages in the front room untouched in the first few months because I read that the virus lives on cardboard from up to a week.  

When I arrived at the main terminal, there was signage EVERYWHERE. Plexiglas stood in front of ticket agents checking bags at the counter. Large stickers had been placed on the floor in front of kiosks to indicate where you should stand to wait your turn. Over the PA system, a new announcement was being broadcast reminding people to wash their hands and stay 6 feet apart even while wearing a mask, if possible. When I walked past security on my way to the crew line, small dots were placed on the floor there as well. And even more shocking, people were actually standing on them!  In some major airports, security lines have even become a plexiglass maze.

After passing through security, I stopped in the restroom to wash my hands. To my surprise, I actually had to stand in line at the sink, something I’d literally never had to do in a men’s room. Hands clean, I made my way to the gate as the gate agent finished her pre-boarding announcement from behind her Plexiglas fortress. Instead of boarding by groups, we were now going to board from the rear of the airplane forward so you would have to walk by as few people as possible on the way to your seat. Small dots again were placed to indicate appropriate distance to wait to have your ticket scanned.

After patiently waiting my turn to board the airplane, I found my seat and sat down. What I found there was stunning. In the previous years, aircraft cleaning was a brief process during the day. Vacuum, pick up trash, cross seatbelts and leave.  It wasn't difficult to tell if there had been an especially messy toddler sitting in your seat on the previous flight.

What I had heard during the virtual company town halls during my 4 month hiatus about the new cleaning procedures was confirmed when I sat down. The seat back pockets were empty aside from the mandatory safety briefing card. The floor was completely clean. The tray tables were wiped down. Between flights, electrostatic “fogging” had taken place which coated every surface with disinfectants capable of killing viruses. The airplane looked almost new and had a distinct clean smell.

The company has taken a very strong stance to protect its passengers and employees. It placed booking caps on flights at no more than 60% (now raised to just middle seats empty). Flight attendants and all employees are required to wear masks as well as all passengers with very few exceptions. If a passenger wants to claim an exception, they must talk to a Physician specializing in Aeromedical Medicine at a contracted facility at the University of Pittsburgh.  Anyone who refuses to wear one once boarding is unapologetically removed from the aircraft and, depending on the severity of the incident, placed on a no-fly list until the mask requirement is discontinued. 

When we arrived at our destination, people orderly packed up their stuff and walked off the airplane.  Most people stayed seated until it was their turn to walk off ensuring the aisle wasn't full of people trying to shove their way to the front.  There are always stories of people having public outbursts, but that wasn't at all what I experienced.  

Following the training, I went back to flying a normal monthly schedule.  My 4 month paid vacation had ended as the airline shrank to meet this new demand level.  Even in the following months, the airport calm generally persisted.  People wait patiently in the gate area with their masks on.  Many stop at the hand sanitizer kiosks stationed unsparingly throughout the airport.  Airport restaurants started reopening as passengers started returning.  In July, 500-700k per day had returned to US airports.  As of this writing, we've had a handful of days over 1 million passengers but the daily passenger count has generally stabilized between 700-800k per day.  For those who are good at math but don't like to actually do any, that's between 30-40% of normal.

And of the millions upon millions of people we've transported since requiring masks, we've only had to give the boot to around 500.  It truly has become, a new normal.

Hooray For Hazel

“There’s something wrong.  Her heart rate has dropped,” the nurse says as she storms out of the room.  The pandemonium of the last few minutes in the room is over.  It’s an eerie stillness that is punctuated by the couple laughing about a weird quirk of the house they are touring on the television.

I reach over and turn off the TV and look at Nicole.  “Are you okay?  Do you feel okay?” I ask.  

“I feel fine.  What happened?” She answers. Honestly, I’m not sure.  Something about the baby’s heart rate being low.  Something about turning off the petosin.  Something about needing oxygen and calling the doctor.  It really was a blur.  The nurse walks back in and checks the monitors.  It appears that the heart rate has stabilized and her level of concern, while still high, has backed down from panic-mode.  

With the doctor imminently inbound, we don’t feel like entertaining ourselves.  So we sit there in the silence and wait.  My heart is still racing from the adrenaline punch from 20 minutes ago.  No chance I’m going to relax.  Nicole looks annoyed with the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.  Half an hour later at around 6:30 in the evening, the doctor walks in.  

We both love Nicole’s OBGYN.  As a show of solidarity with Nicole, I attended close to 3/4 of the appointments with her and got to know her well.  Unfortunately, she is also on vacation until the following day.  So, when the doctor walked in, it was the first time either of us had seen her.  “Hello,” she says in a calm tone of voice.  “I hear someone is ready to have a baby.”  

“Yes, hi,” I say still shaken by the last half an hour. “We are just wondering what happened?  It got really crazy in here for a few minutes.”  

“Oh yes.  Well, I think the nurse was just a little excited.  A lot of times as the baby starts moving through the birth canal, the heart rate will drop.  It’s all pretty normal.  There’s nothing to worry about,” the doctor informs us both.  Still tense, I feel Nicole relax and it relaxes me.  Now, the excitement and nerves start to build as a culmination of the last 8 months of waiting is finally upon us. I’d seen like 3 movies in my life of people going through labor.  I was definitely prepared for what to expect next.  

The doctor placed Nicole into the “birthing” position and started to apply iodine when we both saw a large splash.  I thought at first her bottle of iodine exploded.  “Yeah, I would say her water was JUST about to break,” she laughs.  “Okay Chris, we are just about ready to start pushing.”

I look over at Nicole who is still just laying there, mostly calm.  I think to myself, everyone is a little too calm for it to be time.  Where is the shouting?  Why is Nicole not screaming?  Why is it so quiet in here?  The doctor continues talking and breaks my daydream.  “What you need to do is stand at her side there and when she is pushing, I need you to put on hand behind her knee and one hand behind her back and squeeze.  You ready?” OH SHIT, this is happening!!  “Alright, the nurse is going to let us know when you’re having a contraction and then we’ll push for 3 sets of 10 seconds with deep breaths in between.  Chris, you’ll count it out.  Oh, and would you like to introduce everyone to the baby when its finally born or do you want me to?”  I answer that I would.  And then, as if it were planned, a contraction starts.  I count and squeeze and Nicole pushes.  

“Okay, that wasn’t bad for the first time.  Although, I really don’t feel like you’re pushing that hard,” the doctor says to Nicole.

Nicole looks at me then looks at the doctor.  “I’m afraid I’m going to poop.”  

The doctor bursts out laughing.  “Oh, don’t you worry about that.  When you do, we cleaned it right up and you’ll never even know it happened.”  Her mixture of verb tenses confuses me.  Was it intentional?  Did she already do it and was saying it so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed that it happened or self-conscious that she might, all in the same sentence?  Mental ninja, this one.  She continues,  “They are the same muscles. You have to push like you have a really big poop.”  

Nicole smiles, “Oh, I can do THAT.”  

And then we wait.  And we wait.  And we wait.  Ten minutes has gone by and not a single contraction.  Originally, the petosin was administered to stabilize the contractions.  Even 9 hours after she’d arrived, while the intensity had increased, the interval had not. Over the course of the afternoon, the nurse had slowly increased the dosage and the interval had stabilized at 3-4 minutes apart.  When the baby’s heart rate dropped, she stopped the IV drip.  Apparently, this had also slowed the interval.  

“I thought she was on petosin?” the doctor asked toward the nurse.  She explained what had happened.  “Okay, why don’t you start it back up and give her (a medically appropriate amount of petosin.  Don’t ask me, I’m not a doctor).”  The nurse goes back to try and enter the new prescription into the computer and fumbles miserably while the doctor brings her attention back to Nicole.  Pleasantries are exchanged and we talk about how Nicole was able to work out until almost 8.5 months and how she normally rides the MS150, the 150 mile bike ride for Multiple Sclerosis.  “Oh wow.  I have too,” the doctor exclaims, clearly impressed.  “Would it make you feel empowered to bring out a mirror?” 

Nicole’s eyes get huge.  “Uhhhhh, no.  Not for me, thanks,” she says to the doctor, who seems to deflate a little.  She then turns her attention to the nurse who is clearly struggling trying to get the machine to work.  

“Why don’t you go get some help already?” She asks, clearly frustrated with the halting of progress.  Finally, after 15 minutes, the beeping has stopped, the nurse refocused, although I’m positive she missed at least 2 contractions trying to use the computer, and Nicole starts pushing.  And then shift change.  Another nurse and her intern come into the room in what definitely now feels like a gathering.  

Another contraction.  After it’s complete, the doctor turns and says something to the nurse in a hushed tone.  The air in the room suddenly disappears.  The doctor turns to address Nicole. “Alright, so here’s what’s going on.  The baby’s heart rate is dropping again when you are pushing.  It has currently recovered but if it keeps doing it and stays low for too long, I am obligated to tell you what we will do next.  At this point, we would use suction, attach the cup to the top of her head and pull it out.  It is likely that entire head will turn black from bruising.”  My heart sinks into my stomach. “We get 3 attempts.  If after the 3rd attempts the suction doesn’t work, we will have to do an emergency C-section.  I don’t think it’ll come to that, but we must be prepared.  If the head gets far enough through the canal, the next step will be forceps.  If it gets far enough down that we don’t need forceps, we may need to do an episiotomy.  Okay, let’s get back to work.”  

After the doctor finishes her explanation, the new nurse introduces herself.  “Hi, I’m Sarah.  This is Chloe.  She’s shadowing me, if that’s alright with you.”  

Nicole, never to be dejected, quips, “everyone else has seen down there, what’s one more?”  The nurse bursts out laughing.  

“Oh, I like you!” She says as she approaches Nicole.  “Also, I have a terrible poker face.  You’ll know if something is wrong and I don’t sugar coat things.  From what I can tell, you’re doing great.”  

The doctor, observing shift change, looks at her watch, “Oh shoot, have you ordered dinner yet?”  I’m watching the outgoing nurse give her brief to the oncoming team and also watching the monitor for the next contraction.  My heart is still racing from the “oh, your baby isn’t doing well and your wife may be cut open in multiple places” discussion.  Her question catches me off guard.  Uh, why is this important.  I reply that we hadn’t.  “Okay, the kitchen stops taking orders in 2 minutes.  Why don’t you order real quick.  You’ll thank me when it’s over and we’ll probably be done before it gets here.”  There is a brief pause as I stumble around the room to find the menu.  I’m both disoriented in the weird task I’ve been assigned and also that there will be a baby here before they can make a quesadilla.  “Forget it!  Just pick up and dial!  I’ll tell you what to order,” the doctor commands. Can someone tell me what planet I’m on right now?

Dinner order placed, shift change complete, we get back to business.  Nicole pushes for 3, 10 counts. Sarah looks at Nicole.  “Holy cow.  That was amazing!  I’ve never seen anyone push like that.  I’m serious, can you teach a class on pushing?” 

Nicole looks at the nurse, “I’m really good at taking big poops.  That’s all she said I had to do.”  The whole room breaks out in laughter.  

The contractions are really starting to pick up pace.  Another round of pushing.  I look at Nicole who is drenched in sweat and tell her she’s doing a great job.  She is focused on catching her breath.  Unlike the last few times, the doctor says nothing.  

I look over to see her staring at the monitor.  I do the same and see the heart rate very low and not recovering.  And not recovering.  Still, not recovering. She looks at the off-going nurse who hasn’t left. “Prepare the suction.” Either my heart stops or starts beating so fast I can’t feel it.  I’m staring at the monitor willing her heart to start beating faster. It hovers around 60 beats per minute and barely changes for what seems like minutes.  Oh please beat faster!  BEAT FASTER!  PLEASE!

And then, finally, the heart rate starts increasing.  60......75.....95....110. A wave of relief rushes over me and I gasp for air, tears in my eyes.

The gasp draws Nicole’s attention.  She looks at me, pauses, then slaps me across the face, hard.  “PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!”  Later I would find out that she didn’t know why I was crying.  The nurse and doctor both laugh.  “Oh my god, I love you,” Sarah says almost to the point of tears.  Quite the comedian, that one.  

Another contraction, another push.  This time, the doctor has good news.  “Okay, we are past the point of using suction.  I think we are even past the point of forceps.  This is going to work out just great.”

Two more contractions, two more pushes.  Nicole is drenched in sweat.  My heart is racing in anticipation.  “8...9...10...done!” I announce, “great job Nicole.  You’re doing grea....” The doctor cuts me off.  

“Okay, heart rate isn’t recovering.  I’m doing an episiotomy,” the nurse hands her the scalpel.  “We aren’t waiting for a contraction.  You’re just going to push until its out.  You can do it.  Go.  Now!”  

Push for 10.  Breath.  Push for 10.  Breath.  Push.  Breath.   

“Okay, I can see the crown!  PUSH!” Push.  Breath.  Push. Breath.  “The head is out!” I look down and see the closed eyes of this strange creature sticking out from between her legs.  My stomach turns over.  That’s as far south as I care to look. Push. Breath. One last big push. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor slide backwards and the nurse rush over.  I look at what they are both doing and see a pale white baby in their hands.  Oh my God. It actually happened.  Nicole is laying there catching her breath and I am look at the baby trying to see if it’s a boy or girl.  At first, with all the chaos in the room, I am confused.  Looking between its legs, I want to be 100% sure I know the sex before I make the announcement.  Are those his testicles or her really swollen labia?  Is that the umbilical cord or his penis?  The nurse and doctor both pause to look at me.  I can see the looks on their faces.  

Them pausing gives me a clear shot and I look to Nicole.  “Nicole, I want you to meet Hazel,” I choke out as 1 minute old Hazel is placed onto her mom’s bare chest.  At 7:32pm on October 12, 2019, in Saint Louis, Missouri, Hazel Marie Boyes was born. 

After 10 minutes of skin-on-skin and a successful attempt at latching and nursing, Hazel is taken to get measured and weighed.  The doctor is finishing up giving Nicole stitches while I join the nurse at the heated bassinet.  Finally, after all this time, Hazel finds her tiny little voice and starts wailing.  I try to reassure her.  She will be back to her mommy soon.  And then, the words of a friend come to me.  

At one of our baby showers, a friend of ours gave us a book, “Oh Baby, Oh Baby, The Places You’ll Go.”  A Dr. Seuss book to read to unborn children.  Every night from when we first got it, we read to little Hazel.  We took it with us to Ohio and Indiana to visit our families.  I read it every night when I was home.  Nicole read it when I was away.  Our friend told us that he read it to his son every night and he could have sworn when he read it to him after he was born, his son looked right at him.  

So, I started reciting the book from memory to crying Hazel.  “Oh Baby, Oh Baby, the places you’ll go.  The people you’ll visit, the friends you’ll know...” 

The nurse asks Nicole, “is he reciting Dr Seuss?”  And just then, the crying stops.  Little Hazel turns her head ever so slightly and looks toward me, unseeing but in recognition.  I take a gasp as I choke down tears.  The nurse wasn’t as successful in the attempt.  Without a doubt, this moment, standing next to the bassinet and reciting a book to Hazel is a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Now, some special words for the All-Star of this story, Nicole.  Following getting fixed up, Sarah walks back to Nicole and calls me over.  “Okay, we are going to take you out of the stirrups and pull the bed back under you.  Chris is here to help.”  The intern nurse is standing between her legs and Nicole, not really understanding the instructions, lifts her butt in the air while the intern slides the bed into place.  Sarah, having had two kids herself, stands there mouth agape.  “Did you really just do a plank after an hour of childbirth?” She asks in awe.  “You really are a badass.”  

After two hours of skin-on-skin, it’s time to head to the recovery room.  Before she can go she has to demonstrate she can walk to and use the bathroom.  After 5 hours of epidural, most people’s legs are like spaghetti.  “Alright Nicole,” Sarah says.  “Swing your legs to the side of the bed.  I’m going to be here for you...” Nicole hops down off the bed. “Of course you just jump right onto your feet.  Do you need help walking to the bathroom? Or are you just going to cartwheel over there?”

****

After barely two days of rest and recovery, it’s time to head home.  With Hazel tucked snugly into her car seat, we walk back out the way we came a lifetime earlier.  Securely attached to the middle seat, I get in to drive and Nicole sits behind me next to the baby.  My heart is in my throat, tears welling in my eyes.  I’m terrified, more terrified than I’ve ever been.  

Nicole bursts into tears.  “Why would they let us take her home so early?  What kind of place is this?!   What if we can’t do this?”  Both of us sit there in front of the lobby, tears streaming down our faces.  After a few minutes, we both have regained our composure.  

“I’m sure we aren’t the only ones who’ve thought this,” I say trying to reassure Nicole.  “Alright Hazel, let’s take you home.”  I put the car in drive, pull on to the interstate and head toward the next Chapter of our lives.  And what an amazing Chapter it will be.

    

COVID-19 Part 1

I don’t know how many installments this will be, but I’m certain it’ll be more than one.  As a pilot, I am in the unique (and unsettling) position of breaking the stay-at-home orders and venturing out in the world.  Believe me, I’d much rather be on the couch with the rest of you, but alas, I’m “essential,” or so they tell me.  So, we should start toward the beginning when people really started to realize this was a big deal in the US.  For me, that was around the week of March 08.

****

I have several people that I text when I’m on a trip living in a variety of different places, some guys I haven’t seen in years.  It’s nice to have someone to talk to during the down times between flights and on layovers with crusty, cranky Captains.  This particular day, I’m talking with a friend at a regional airline.  

The world really is a weird place. 

March 08, 2020 

BREAKING NEWS: First COVID-19 case diagnosed in St Louis- "A father is in hot water today after attending a school function after his oldest daughter is officially diagnosed with the Coronavirus..."

I turn down the volume of my phone and text another friend.  "How stupid could this man be?" I digitally think at him. Well, at least we know where she got it; a study abroad trip to Italy and via community spread (remember when that was a thing?).  By this point, however, things in Seattle are deteriorating.  As I read the news at breakfast in Richmond, catching up after two marathon days of flying, things were starting to look concerning.  Then, it begins. 

 *Ding*

An email from the company.  “Effective immediately, we will reducing our flights by 15% including a drawdown of flying to Europe of 20-25%.”  Well, that’s not good.  

It's a stretch of 9 days on the road with one day at home that week.  With a busy work stretch like the one I'm on, the routine is pretty standard.  At the end of the shutdown checklist, the guy who wasn’t flying breaks out his cell phone while the other guy says goodbye to the passengers.  Then, if there is time, the other guy takes a ten minute break to catch up with the world before putting his head down to get ready for the next flight.

This stretch of 9 days, however, is unique and depressing.  Each entry below represents news from between a flight or after waking up in the morning.  I wish this happened over the course of a year, but this was, and I’m not exaggerating, over the course of a few days.

Text: Hey, did you see we are stopping new hire classes?  Last one will be in April.  Has the music stopped?

Text: Dude, United just announced a huge cutback in flying.  What are you hearing on your end?

Text: American is saying they are stopping all transoceanic flying.  Can you believe that?

News site: US to Ban All EU Citizens from entering the US, effective....

Company Email: Due to the EU Ban, we are cutting all flying from the EU (UK/Ireland Excluded) by 90%.  We will still service Amsterdam for now on a reduced schedule

Email: Change of plans, instead of just 15%, we are cutting all flying by 40%.  This will include the planned EU drawdown
Text: Buddy of mine says they have stopped interviews. Last Delta class now in March

News site: UK/Ireland now part of the flight ban.

Email: Uh....standby for more bad news?  We aren't sure what is happening anymore

Text: Jesus Christ, what is happening?

Text: Did you see a regional airline has started to furlough?  They aren’t calling it a furlough, though.  They are just sending people home and not paying them.

Text: Bad news, Compass Airlines is losing all their airplanes and will be closing their doors.

Text: More bad news, your former regional is going to close their doors 1 April now.

  

Email: We are spending $50 Million every day and are getting almost no income.

Email: The plan now is to park 300 airplanes system-wide at airfields around the country.  Latest projections indicate a requirement of 11,000 total pilots system-wide.  We currently have 14,000 pilots on the seniority list.  

That last one is hard to read and coincidentally happened as I'm walking to my gate for my commute home.  The last 9 days were a whirlwind but nothing compared to reading that email.  The previous day, my Captain and I were poolside in Cancun, drinking beer and chatting about how nice it was to be drinking beer poolside in Cancun.  The news coming out of the US was depressing.  The cab driver told us there was only one case in Cancun, so don’t worry....so we didn’t.  We ran into a United crew at check-in and bought each other drinks by the pool that afternoon, commiserating over the bad news.  Less than 24 hours later, I stared at the words, “3000 pilots over staffed.”  I didn’t need to look at the seniority list to know that there weren’t 3000 pilots junior to me.  

As I leave security after clearing customs back in the US, I couldn’t help but notice the quiet.  “Eh, it’s still early, that’s why,” I think to myself as I walk quickly to the gate for my ride home to St Louis.

The B-concourse is always abuzz.  A never-ending stream of humanity walks those halls from 7am until almost midnight, 7 days a week.  On this Monday, though, it is different.  The train from E to B is mostly empty.  The escalator to the terminal level has one or two people waiting to reach the top.  I walk into the center court and look both ways.  For the first time that I can remember, from the center court, I could see the walls at both ends of the terminal.  Normally, the mass of humanity blocked the view, but on this day, as people step aside to their gate, I could see each end, if just for a second.  

I walk up to the gate to St Louis and am immediately handed a boarding pass.  The gate area is almost empty.  “Where do you want to sit?” the gate agent asks.  “Over 100 open seats on this flight.”  For an airplane that holds 149, that’s a lot of open seats.  

It wasn’t a week ago that I was shaking my head in disbelief about the dad who went to the school dance in St Louis when his daughter was the first confirmed case in the region.  And now, for the first time, I am legitimately concerned for my own health.  “I’ll take an open row in the back, if you have it,” I replied. “Just, anywhere not near anyone else.”

Landing in St Louis that morning is no change from the bad news parade from the previous week. Opening up a local news site, reporters are hearing that the City of St Louis and County are going to ban all dining-in at restaurants.  Knowing that I likely wouldn’t be going out to eat in the near future and to show support for local restaurants , I swing by a local sandwich shop on the way home.  "I’ll stop in to eat, go to the grocery store, and head home," I tell myself.

When I enter the Italian deli, I encounter something I'd never seen before. All the tables and chairs are gone.  Tape on the floor marks where you should stand to order your sandwich and signs everywhere remind people not to touch anything.  Without tables, I eat quietly in my car outside the deli.

At the grocery store, the shelves are barren in the meat department.  A few chicken breasts and a small selection of pork remain.  I grab a few items and head for checkout. Walking in uniform, however, I can feel people moving out of my way.

When I step into the car after my errands, I notice another email from the company.  “...and for the first time in our history, cancellations have exceeded bookings.  We estimate that revenue in the 2nd Quarter will be $10 BILLION less than last year (profit 2Q 2019 was $1.9B).  As a result, we will be parking 600 airplanes and trimming our schedule by 80%.  We now estimate we have an excess of 7000 pilots for the months of April and May.”  After ten minutes of quiet self-reflection, unsure if I will have a job next week, I finally start my car and drive slowly home.  The nightmare that was the last 9 days had ended but no sign of morning in sight.

Anniversary Edit: Looking back on that day, the worst had yet to come.  On the day I arrived from Cancun, 1.2 Million people traveled throughout the US compared to 2.4 Million the year prior.  While I was sitting poolside in Cancun, cancellations skyrocketed and bookings ceased almost completely.  The first day of the collapse was the morning I arrived back in Atlanta, March 16th.  It was the last time over 1 Million passengers would travel the US National Airspace System until Thanksgiving Week, 8 months later.  

I ended up flying two more trips after the one in this story.  On March 30th, I spent 30 hours in abandoned downtown Cleveland. I originally bid the trip to catch opening weekend of the Cleveland Indians.  Obviously, that didn't happen.  The person at the front desk said we were the only two people in the hotel that day.  

The last day of that trip, 154,000 people traveled in the US (7% of normal).  I had one last trip to fly on April 8-9.  Only 94k and 100k respectively traveled on those two days.  Riding in the back of a Southwest flight from Minneapolis to St Louis, after those two trips, I was one of 3 people on the airplane.  It would be the last time I stepped foot in an airport until the end of July.

On April 14th, the airline industry hit rock bottom.  By the day's end, 87,534 people went through a TSA screening checkpoint, 4% of the previous year.  

One year later, passenger numbers still struggle to break 1.2 Million, the same amount I saw when I returned from Cancun.  In ATL, in the depths of the lowest point, half of the C-concourse, most of D, and all of E were closed.  They literally boarded up part of the C-concourse.  That area has since been converted to a mass vaccination site.

There is good news on the horizon, though.  It was announced last week that all remaining pilots that were asked to stop working would be returned to work by October.  The final number of pilots they sent into a holding pattern was around 1900.  At one point, I was less than 1000 from the bottom of the list after all the cuts were made.  Rumors are floating that hiring may resume this fall.  

The same guy I texted at the beginning of the story, the one that was talking about their training pipeline cranking, sent me a text yesterday.  

Him: We officially opened hiring today.

Me: They must know something is coming.

The world really is a weird place.

Hooray For Hazel

I have been intending to write this for quite some time, but between watching her play and watching her eat and watching her sleep, I haven’t wanted to miss a minute.  So, as I sit at a roadside Tim Horton’s along a stretch of state highway in Flint, Michigan, I will write about the day I can’t get out of my head.  The day that plays constantly with such vivid recollection that it seems that I’m still there.  And maybe, one day, when I’m sitting with her and she asks what it was like, the day that she was born, I can open this up and tell her the story that has forever changed my life.  This is the Story of Hazel.  And by the way, the following is a complete retelling of the events.  Nothing added at all.

****

“Alright, so are you ready for me to brief this approach?” I ask the Captain as we prepare for the last landing of the night.  The stars and moon shine brightly over the somewhat barren landscape of the mountain west.  Pockets of lights illuminate the sparsely populated towns but grow in number as we approach the larger metropolitan area where our runway will be.  

“Sure, and remember, mountains.” He says and laughs.  

The joke, probably not as funny when you aren’t tired, makes me laugh along with him. “Yeah, I get it, I’ll try to miss as many as I can.”  A small line of text flashes at the bottom of our flight computer. “Hang, on, looks like we have new weather coming up which is weird because it isn’t due out for another 30 minutes. Runway change maybe?”  I pull up the message and have to read it several times.   Its contents, only capable of displaying capital letters, appear to be yelling at me. 

SCHEDULING REQUESTS FO BOYES CONTACT SCHEDULING UPON ARRIVAL.  ACKNOWLEDGE THIS MESSAGE.

My heart races.  Months prior, I had given Nicole the emergency hotline number for scheduling.  “If something happens or you go into labor early,” I said that night before leaving on a trip, “you call this number, tell them you are going to the hospital and that I need to come home immediately.”  

I look up at the Captain who has just finished reading the message as well.  This is Day 3 with him and we covered family pleasantries as a subject days ago.  His eyes are wide and his teeth shine white behind his smile in the moonlit cockpit.  “Do you think...?”

When we pull into the gate, I immediately turn on my phone which is met with a never-ending buzz and ding of messages coming through.  My worst fear has been realized.  Nicole has gone into labor and I’m in the middle of nowhere on the last flight of the night.  I don’t know what to do.  On the verge of tears and panic, I call scheduling who releases me from the trip.  Not only can I not leave tonight, the first opportunity to get home won’t be until tomorrow afternoon.  

I am devastated.

Just before I start tapping my phone to call the hotel van, it becomes impossible to turn on.  I can’t see the screen anymore through the...tears?  I think they are tears.  And then it bursts into flames.  I immediately throw it to the ground and watch as it turns into a cat and walks away.  “What the...” I ask to myself as I am whisked away from the airport and into an absolute darkness.  

I feel the familiar touch of my pillow against my cheek.  I remember that it was just last night we were with friends watching the Cardinals in the NLCS and eating pizza.  I remember that Nicole is getting induced in two days and that our friends had told us we should do one last nice dinner together before our lives are changed forever.  I remember Nicole thinking that was a great idea and I remember going to bed that night knowing I wasn’t going to work again until months later.

When I open my eyes, I see my clock on the nightstand.  It reads 06:25.  I take a deep breath and let out an incredible sigh of relief.  My worst nightmare, I muse to myself, was literally a nightmare.  

“Are you awake?” Nicole asks to my back.

“Thankfully,” I reply as I roll over.  She has to hear this story.  It’s so fu...

She interrupts my thoughts. “I’ve been having contractions since 2 AM.”  

One layer of disorientation immediately transforms into another.  “Are you serious? Why didn’t you wake me up?  How far apart are they?  Do they hurt?”  Dumb question. I know.  Of course they hurt.  What I meant to ask was, have they gotten stronger.  I have prided myself in doing a lot of reading on the subject of childbirth and know that as labor progresses, they get more intense.  Of course, she doesn’t know that’s what I was asking and gives me a look that makes me want to take back not just that but everything I’ve said for two days.

“Well, they don’t tickle! I feel so bad because now we aren’t going to be able to do that nice dinner tonight,” Nicole says to me as she rolls onto her back and picks up her phone.  I remember that a few days prior, I had her download on an app for her phone so she could track her contractions.   She writhes in pain.  It’s one thing to hear that the love of your life is having contractions.  It’s a thing that I assume happens before giving birth and that I’ve only seen on TV.  It’s an entirely other thing to watch her experience one.  My heart jumps into my throat and I lay there, frozen, unsure of what to say or do.  So I just watch.  And watch. And watch.  Sweet Jesus how long do these things last again? 

She picks up her phone once more and then looks at me, weary.  I resist the urge to ask if that’s a contraction so as to avoid having to take back another several days worth of words.  “How far apart I ask,” trying to sound as calm as possible.  

“Nine minutes,” she answers and then adds, “Chris, they hurt so much.”  I reach back into the recesses of my memories to remember what was said during our birthing class.  5-1-1.  Yeah, five minutes apart, 1 minute long, for an hour.  And then to a story the nurse told about going and playing cards when she was starting labor.  It helped, she had said, to take her mind off the pain.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask.

And in the most loving way tells me, “What were you going to do at 2 AM?  At least one of us should be rested for today in case decisions have to be made.”  I love this woman so much.   

I spring into action.  “Okay, how about this plan?  How about you go take a nice hot shower, I’ll go right after you, and then if they haven’t gotten worse, why don’t we go out to breakfast in the direction of the hospital so at least we are close,” I proposed.  Nicole had made it very clear that she did not want to be dirty going into the hospital and she didn’t want a smelly husband.  So that was first.  Second was to do something to take her mind off of it.  If she is only at nine minutes, they definitely wouldn’t admit her yet.

”Alright,” she says as she rolls out of bed and walks into the bathroom.  A minute later, she yells for me to start her timer on her phone.  When I open the app, I see the time between the one she is having at present and the one she had in bed were only 4 minutes apart.  Oh shit. It ends.  Nicole steps into the shower and I start pacing. Oh shit.  Oh shit.  Oh shit.  

“Chris!  Again!” She yells from the shower.  Did I really just pace and do nothing for 4 minutes?  Oh shit, is that only 4 minutes again?!  I run through a checklist in my head the things that we still need to take care of before she goes.  I pack a bag for myself with probably too much underwear and not enough shorts.  Nicole had packed her “Go Bag” weeks ago so I grab it and put it by the stairs next to mine.  Several more times, she has contractions spaced by 4 minutes before eventually, and painfully, walking out of the shower.  “Your turn,” she says.

I’m not arguing with her today even though in my mind, I’m screaming DO WE EVEN HAVE TIME!!    Deep breaths.  Deep breaths.  I run into the shower and break the land speed record for fastest shower.  By the time I get out, she has had another contraction laying on the bed but laying down seems to make her feel better.  And it’s already been 5 minutes since her last one.  They are spacing back out again.  Nicole gets out of bed and walks down to the living room to turn on the TV.  At least, if she is going to be in pain, she can use the TV to distract her a little. 

It goes without saying that we aren’t going to breakfast.  I carry the bag to the first floor before pulling out the card from the hospital.  I dial the Maternity Center to talk to a nurse who quickly and friendly answers the phone.  Her demeanor calms me.  It is then that I notice my hands are clammy and shaking.  After a deep breath, I explain the morning to her.  

“Alright, well, it sounds like she is doing great!  You tell her that.  Tell her she’s doing great.  The rapid increase in frequency is very common if this is the first time she’s gotten up.  Have her lay down for a little and get her something to eat.  They will space back out again if you just have her relax.  When they are less than 4 minutes apart for an hour, you guys come on in and we’ll have a room for you!” The nurse explains as Nicole finishes another contraction.  

Jesus Christ. I stand in the living room where Nicole has just finished writhing in pain on the couch and speak as softly as I can. “Hun.  I just called the hospital.  They want you to eat and wait until they are 4 minutes apart for an hour.  Can I get you something to eat?” 

“Just a granola bar.”  

“No, you aren’t eating a granola bar.  I’m going to make you eggs.  What kind do you want?”  She doesn’t fight me on it and puts in her order.  I run into the kitchen to make her breakfast, heart racing.  I don’t think I’ve ever made breakfast on adrenaline before. Note to readers: I do not recommend making breakfast on adrenaline.  I run into the living room with her breakfast while running back into the kitchen to make mine.  She hasn’t had a contraction in 8 minutes.  The nurse was right. Also, this is going to be a long day.  

I put my egg on an English Muffin and hear her having a contraction.  Shit, coffee.  I rush to make a pot of coffee and before it’s finished brewing, she has another. When I walk back into the room to check on her this time, she is in what can only be described as indescribable pain.  Again, remembering back to the nurse in the birthing class, I put my hands on her lower back and try to give her a massage to help with the pain.  “DON’T TOUCH ME!” Nicole grunts through the contraction.  Constructively taken, I go back to just being helpless. 

Once the contraction ends, she sits back up to finish her breakfast.  I run back into the kitchen where I scarf down my meal and wash dishes.  Then back into the living room to put socks and shoes on and to check on Nicole.  I sit on the chair right as she was finishing another particularly strong contraction.  Reaching down to put on my first sock, I pull so hard the entire sock shreds in half before it gets completely on my foot.   I need to calm down.  Two deep breaths and some teasing from Nicole before I retrieve another pair of socks.

With the SUV packed, gassed up and moved to the side of the house, I once again walk back into the room mid-contraction.  She has apparently stopped watching TV and is in so much pain she can’t lay still.  She writhes and rocks from her back to her side through the duration of the contraction.  That’s enough.  “Okay, let’s go to the hospital. The worst they can do is make us wait a little while but at least we’ll be close.”  I help Nicole off the couch and into the car.  On the 25 minute drive to the hospital, I figure she should have at least 4 contractions.  She only has two.  We both really hope this isn’t going to be a wasted trip.   

“Okay, I’ll drop you off out front and go park the car.” I tell Nicole as we pull into the hospital.  

“No, I don’t want that.  We can walk.” She objects.  I put my foot down once today.  If she wants to walk, she can walk.  Of course, she has another contraction walking into the hospital but like the All-Star she is, takes it like a 60 second punch to the gut then, as if nothing had happened, continues walking into the hospital.

Still unsure if they will even admit her, we walk into the Maternity Welcome Center where the nurse smiles and greets us.  Once she takes down Nicole’s information, we are escorted to a back examination room where Nicole is, well, examined.  

“I started having contractions early this morning but they have been pretty randomly spaced out for much of the morning.”  Nicole explains to the nurse.

“Yeah, I remember your husband telling me on the phone this morning.  Well, you are 4 centimeters dilated and 80% effaced.  That’s good!”  She turns to her computer screen, clicks a few times, then looks at Nicole and says, “Looks like someone is going to have a Birthday today!” I don’t know if it’s from the stress of the morning or the excitement to meet our little baby, but both of us turn to blubbering messes.

“Do you know the sex?” She asks us while dialing a number on her phone.  We don’t.  “Well, you are going to find out soon....yes, this is Bridget in the Maternity Welcome Center....yes, we have someone here who is ready to meet their baby!”  

****

For rest of the morning and afternoon, Nicole labored sitting on a birthing ball.  Every 6-7 minutes, I watched as she suffered in a pain she would later describe as being the worst thing she’s ever felt in her life.  The ball, she said, was the only thing she tried that made it less bad.  After she ate her lunch, she suggested I go down to the cafeteria and have a big meal.  I agreed.  I figured (or was it hoped) things would be getting serious around dinner time.  When I returned, she had been moved to her bed.  

The baby’s heart rate was acting funny with her on the ball so they moved her to the bed and gave her petosin to get the labor moving a little bit.  At that point, Nicole, the trooper that she is, after 14 hours of contractions, ordered an epidural.  Minutes after the anesthesiologist walked out of the room, Nicole was asleep in the bed where she didn’t move for the next hour.  Hooked up to the monitor, I watched the machine tell me she was having a particularly aggressive contraction.  And still she slept.  

Between her naps, we both watched Game 2 of the NLCS.  And once the game was over, we turned on HGTV.  How funny would it be, we both quipped, if we saw our episode in the hospital right before our child was born?

****

“That would be funny,” I laugh as I pull out my phone.  It’s approaching 6pm in the evening and aside from the occasional nurse coming in to check on us, it’s been quiet.  In what can only be described as the literal opposite of 10 hours prior, with Nicole laying on the couch in incredible pain and me running around the house trying to get us out the door, Nicole is laying in the bed laughing at something a House Hunter was saying on TV and I am laying on the couch trying to find out if they will play our episode today.  

“Shoot.  I don’t see it.  I don’t think they will,” I admit just as the nurse comes bursting in the door. From my comfortable position on the couch, I sit up slowly to see what this commotion is all about.  She runs up to the machine monitoring the baby.  It’s then that I notice the heart rate has dropped VERY low.  

“Roll onto your back.  There’s something wrong.” She says, in a near panic.  The nurse reaches behind Nicole and places an oxygen mask on her face. I leap to my feet to get the tray table out of the way as the nurse makes her way to the side of the bed I’m siting on.  I look at Nicole who looks at me with panic in her eyes, physically unable to talk.  

“What’s going on?” I ask the nurse.  

“The baby’s heart rate has dropped dangerously low,” she says without looking up or stopping what she is doing.  “I’ve called the doctor and she is on her way.  I want to break the bag but the doctor wants to be here.  I just wish she would let me break the bag.”

My head is spinning.  Nicole looks to be panicking.  Just 30 seconds ago, we were both laughing.  And now...honestly, I have no idea what or where now is.  “What happened?” 

“I TOLD YOU!  The baby’s heart rate dropped!” The nurse said and then stormed out of the room.  

To Be Continued