The Final Entry

I don't remember much from that day. It was the middle of the day, at the end of April. My senior year. The countdown of days to graduation was less than 40. There is so much I don't remember from 20 years ago, but this, this I remember.

****

It was sometime in the middle of the school day.  I had just gotten back to my room from a class or lunch and unlocked my computer.  Between the doors slamming and opening sound from my AOL Instant Messenger, I skimmed an email from the Academy clinic: 

"C1C Boyes, 

Our records indicate you have not completed your 13S physical. Please contact to schedule. 

SrA Bad News" 

I sit in the office chair at my desk rereading the email. This doesn't make any sense. I already passed my 92TO (job title for pilot) physical and had a waiver for my eyes. Why would I be a 13S? Certainly there's a mistake. Also, WTF is a 13S? I pull up my Google machine and type in "13S AFSC." A page populates with nothing but bad news. If it were today, it would say, "AI Overview: A 13S is an officer in the USAF who is assigned to the Space and Missile Career field. A Space and Missile Officer..." Blah Blah Blah. Oh my God. I'm no longer a pilot. 

****

Do you know that feeling you get when think you forgot something really important? Maybe it's a birthday. Maybe it was an important homework assignment. Perhaps, you locked your keys in the car (is that still even a thing? Well, it was a thing in 2006). At first there's a nagging little voice in your head saying, "you forgot something, stupid." Then, the pit in your stomach opens up and your brain, certainly not trained in base jumping, goes leaping and tumbling off the cliff that is the top of your spine. Vertigo, nausea, confusion. Now multiply that by some number my now 6 year old daughter likes to make up. "A thousand hundred million!" That much. Yeah. That's what it felt like.  

There isn't much else to say about the day and following weeks.  I remember standing in the middle of the hallway at the entrance to our dorm hallways, sobbing.  For a 22 year old who'd given this meat-grinder of an institution his everything for 4 years, it was an existential crisis.  I would make phone calls and talk to advisors trying to figure out what happened.  "Can it be undone," I'd ask in exasperation.  In the end, and to save everyone from my mad ramblings, there was nothing to be done.  My fate had been sealed with a phallic-shaped stamp.  

And so, over the next nearly half decade, I forgot about aviation.  It was a dream that just wasn't going to pan out.  And if I'm being honest, it still felt too raw.  I was a little over a month away from getting the chance to live my dream out of the 1430 days I'd spent on the front range of the Rockies.  Do you remember staying up late at night downloading that last song to burn to the CD you were going to give that one girl the next morning?  It read 97% downloaded.  Then your mom picks up the phone and disconnects the modem.  "I said time for bed!"  That was me.

The flying bug is relentless, though. Eventually, I'd start flying again, just for fun.  The economy was in the tank.  Pilots were furloughed and airlines were going through a major merger spree.  Then one day, after some not-so-gentle persuasion, I would take another painful and terrifying leap into the abyss, hoping to land on my feet this time.  

So here I sit, at my hotel desk typing on my laptop.  AOL is long dead.  Napster and Limewire are mere shadows of memories of a different time.  Just like that technology, the blog is now almost dead.  I'm sure my original readers have also long since moved on.  It'll never been as entertaining as a 30 second "day in the life" video.  So, this will be my last entry.  

It's evening in Atlanta, just a stone's throw from the north runway.  I walk through the packed hotel lobby bar on the way back from my first simulator session.  It's full of airline employees positioning for a major winter storm.  Heavy snow is falling at home in Saint Louis, a place I now officially hail from.  I've lived there longer than any place other than my childhood home and in 5 short years, even it will be surpassed.  It's there where my best friend and wife of 9 years (and often main character/protagonist in many of my blogs) and our two kids, ages 6 and 19 months, are hunkered down.  Soon, the roaring of jet engines here will fall silent as freezing rain coats the pavement making any kind of movement at the world's busiest airport impossible.  

Tonight for me, though, was business as usual.  After an hour of briefing from the instructor, I climbed into my seat and got situated.  My ipad was pre-loaded with charts and manuals that I'd need during this scheduled 3+ hours of fun on pneumatic stilts.  The bridge lifted from the platform where the briefing rooms sat empty, the full-motion simulator lurched to life and the instructor sat down.  "Okay guys, you ready to get started?" 

An airline pilot's career will often happen in phases and most of it I have documented here.  For me, I'd been through 4 distinct ones.  Phase 1 was when I became a flight instructor to gain experience and confidence.  It's there where all new pilots make their biggest mistakes.  Phase two happened in September of 2013 when I was hired at a regional airline.  It's where I learned to fly a jet and how airlines operated.  I entered Phase 3 after less than 2 years when I upgraded to Captain.  I learned there how to lead a crew of 3 and how to make true command decisions.

Most pilots have "dream jobs."  For those that aspire to the airlines, we all envision ourselves at one of the Big 3 carriers or the two heavy Cargo airlines.  In September of 2016, I sat in a classroom across the street from where I am writing this and started my "dream job."  For the last 9 years, I've flown to virtually every corner of the US.  Outside the US, I've flown to 14 or more different countries in the western hemisphere. I've flown as far North and West as Vancouver, as far south as Panama and far east as Antigua and Barbuda. I did all this over 3700 hours over 1655 unique flights.  

As the instructor slid into his position behind us, he gave his short spiel.  "Okay, we are in LAX holding short of 24 left.  Look over everything and make sure I didn't miss anything in the setup."  After a brief pause he looked at me.  "Captain, whenever you're ready, go ahead and brief." And so begins my 5th phase.  

I can't thank all of you enough for hanging with me for the last 15 years of this.  You've truly witnessed the highs and lows of my life.  Every comment here, Facebook, and in person have had a meaningful impact on my life.  Even those that don't comment, I see how many of you have read these entries.  I wish I had more to say, both in thanks and in the form of future blogs.  Unfortunately, I don't know if I will write another one of these, hence the entry title.  What I will leave you with is this: From the bottom of my heart, thank you for going on this journey with me.  It truly has meant more than you will ever know.  Below, please check out some of the milestone blogs I wrote.  I hope you get a kick out of rereading them as much as I did.  

Signing off,

Chris

and so it begins

My First Try at storytelling

Getting Hired At My First Airline

The Storm of the Quarter Century

This one is sad. You Will Cry

First Captain Upgrade

Our Aviation Engagement Story

Getting Hired at Delta

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

The Exciting Conclusion

"Center, we are declaring an emergency and will require the longest runway."

Radio silence.

It's a practiced dance in aviation.  Aircraft declare emergencies daily for a variety of issues, very few are seriously life threatening.  Still, you can almost feel the tension over the radio.  Having been on the listening end of this conversation many times over the years, I can imagine the conversations in cockpits throughout the region.  I wonder what's happening?  Who was that again and where are they going?  I wonder if I know them?

Center calls back.  "Roger, I understand you are declaring an emergency.  When you get time, I need a brief description, souls on board and fuel remaining.  Your request has been forwarded to the tower and you can expect the runway of your choosing.  Descend at pilot's discretion and maintain 4000 feet."

As an emergency aircraft, you are given the latitude to do pretty much whatever you want.  Most pilots don't like wielding that power because many of us have been on the "make way" end of it over the years.  Flying into a busy airspace, traffic is tightly metered and speed restricted.  An emergency aircraft sends the rest of that dance into controlled chaos.  The emergency aircraft is not metered.  It has been given the green light all the way to the runway.  Everyone else in the vicinity is slowed or sped up, put in a holding pattern, spun away or even told to go around.  Traffic on the ground is held and the runway effectively closed for everyone but the emergency aircraft.

As we get closer to the runway, my heart begins to beat harder.  My brain is trying its hardest to convince my body to chill out.  We've tied-up every possible loose end.  A blown tire would have left debris on the runway in Denver or caused abnormal indications when the gear was raised.  Engines have run normally for the better part of 3 hours.  Hydraulics reservoirs are full and pressure normal.  Electrical indications are normal.  Fuel consumption is on schedule.  What we are doing is out of an abundance of caution.  Beyond an abundance, really.  So, there is no need to be anxious.  I look over to the Captain and brief the plan.  Same as always.  At the end, I add in the abnormal procedures.

"Alright, so the book says to land with auto-brakes off and land as soft as possible.  I'm going to come in on speed but leave the power in until about 10 feet.  When we touch down, I'll use full-reverse and slowly come on the brakes.  Back me up on the rudders in case it actually is a blown tire.  As we've told ATC, we'll plan on stopping on the runway to have our landing gear inspected by maintenance before continuing to the gate.  Any questions?"  The Captain shook his head and we continued to the runway.

"Gear down.  Flaps 30.  Abnormal landing checklist."  The moment of truth.  If anything was wrong, this would be the last chance for an indication.  The captain reaches out and pulls down the seemingly aggressively large 2-feet long gear handle.  The 3-gear indicating lights cycle from extinguished to red indicating the gear is officially in transit.  We can feel the subtle swinging of the metal arms as hydraulic fluid rushes to the actuators and swings the landing gear in place.  Within a second, all three lights illuminate green.  A bit of relief.

Moments later, the tower clears us to land and adds,"alright, the equipment is standing by at the approach end of the runway and midfield.  They are going to follow you down the runway until you come to a full stop.  We are looking at you now with binoculars and it appears your landing gear is normal from what we can tell.  Cleared to land."

Everything is set and I focus my attention 4 miles ahead at the approaching runway.  Even in the middle of the day, it is blatantly evident that the over 2 mile long stretch of concrete that is our destination is being hugged on its right side by flashing red and white lights.  Several large fire trucks, ambulances and airport operations vehicles sit close enough to be immediately of assistance but far enough away to let us do our thing.  Somewhere among them, I imagine there is a truck with two maintenance technicians but they don't have lights and so invisible to us.  From the terminal, I muse to myself, this must appear to be a real spectacle.

"1000 feet, cleared to land," the captain calls out.  "All systems are in the green."

I continue to fly the airplane without any help from the autopilot to the ground. At around 60 feet, the beginning of the pavement passes under the nose and the airplane starts to count down the feet above the runway.  "50..40..30....20.......10."  Right before 20, I pull the nose up to flare the aircraft.  The cadence of the call-outs from the computer slows as the aircraft briefly suspends its descent over the runway.  With the engines still at approach power, the aircraft could float the entire length of the runway.  At the 10 second mark, however, I slowly bring the throttles back to idle.  The drag is too much and the aircraft begins to sink.  When the wheels finally touch, it's nothing more than a low frequency rumble from somewhere behind us.  One of my best and smoothest landings ever.

I feel the spoilers, the large panels on top of the wing, deploy marking the official end of the flight.  As they extend to nearly straight up, lift on top of the wing is nearly zeroed out and the aircraft settles onto the runway.  Nothing feels abnormal, I think to myself.  With the nose still in the air, I reach to the front of the throttles and unlock the thrust reversers, sending them into idle reverse.  The nose settles onto the ground and I pull back on the reverser handles sending the engines into full reverse.  Nothing feels abnormal.  Feet on the brakes, I gently start to add pressure.  The pads grab onto the discs and slowly I increase pressure on the pedals.  Nothing feels abnormal.  At just under 100 mph, the reversers are stowed.  Seconds later, I bring the aircraft to a full stop in the center of the runway and EXHALE.  Had I been holding my breath this entire time?

Looking over at the Captain, I smile.  "Well, I've definitely had worse landings."  He smiles back and we both look out the window as the fire trucks converge on us.  He gets on the PA and lets everyone know in the back what is happening, as he did throughout the flight and we await news from under the airplane.

"Tower, this is Rescue 1.  We shot the gear with IR.  Temps are hot but normal.  Sending in the mechanics."  As expected, the brakes are hot after stopping a 150,000lb aircraft from 150mph.  A few minutes later, over the radio, "Tower, this is Rescue 1.  The mechanics have inspected the landing gear and have found nothing abnormal.  They are good to taxi to the gate for closer inspection."

After coming to a stop, there really couldn't be any bad news.  The potentially dangerous part was over.  We taxi the aircraft into the gate, set the parking brake and part ways.  The trip is over.  Time to go home.

****

While sitting in the back of the plane as I commuted home to St Louis that night, I reflected on the day's events.  Even though we treated it as an emergency, we knew deep inside that nothing was really ever wrong.  We went above and beyond what was required of us just so that we could ensure the safest possible outcome when we landed.  Later, evaluation of the flight data recorder would determine that an atmospheric anomaly caused the sudden jerk to the left. Nothing a normal pilot couldn't handle.

As I expected I would, in the midst of the stress of a potential serious malfunction and emergency landing, I performed on par. My now approaching a decade of aviation experience had prepared me well to live up to the task of executing a never-before-tried maneuver perfectly after only having read about it in a manual.

Still there was one thing I couldn't shake. It wasn't the nearly 3 hours of stress and problem solving that went into the flight.  It wasn't seeing the emergency vehicles waiting for us at the airport and knowing WHY they were there.  It wasn't the moment that lasted a hour in the feet above the runway as the wheels touched down.  It wasn't even the smiles and profuse thanks from the passengers as they walked off the airplane.

Before every flight, I send a text to Nicole which she always return. "I love you, bye."  It is something we've been doing for as long as I can remember. While it seems cute at the surface, it is a gesture that I strive to make even on the busiest of preflights and I do so because of situations like these.  While highly implausible, there is always a chance that the text I send before pushing back from the gate will be my last.  Those four words may be the last she ever hears from me and I don't want the last thing she sees to be a haha or the beginning of a bad joke.  I want her to know that from the moment I send it until the time I can talk to her again, even if that time is never, how I feel.  I love you.  Bye.

As I was sitting there in my window seat looking down at the Gateway Arch, lit bright against the Mississippi, I couldn't help but think of our ritual.  I pulled out my phone and looked at my texts one last time before touching down.  What was sticking in my mind was that soon our ritual will change.  I will have to send, "I love you both," and her reply will be, "We love you too."

An Abnormality, contInued

I looked over at the Captain, who was staring dutifully at his instrument display and decided to break the ice.  “Hey, so, did you feel...”

He interrupted me, “That was weird, right?”

My mind was now floating firmly in the realm of relief and confusion.  I hadn’t imagined it, so at least I wasn’t crazy.  That didn’t solve the problem that now two of us felt something that we couldn’t quite explain.

At this point, having no other better ideas about what had happened on the runway in Denver, logically my next course of action was to determine if anything was malfunctioning.  After pressing what is effectively a button that tests all flight related subsystems, the airplane returned a, “no dummy, everything is fine” indication.  I was almost hoping there was a hydraulic or flight control issue because at least that would tell me that something had caused the sudden jerk to the left.  There was nothing.  Passing through 10,000 feet, the Captain reached up to call the lead flight attendant to tell them of the planned smooth flight.  While he does this, I listen in.  

“Hey guys, we’re through 10.  Should be a pretty good ride all the way in.  And real quick, did any of you feel anything weird during take off?” The captain asked, not wanting to prompt a response.  

“Yeah, this is Jimmy in the back, I was going to call and tell you but we felt a pretty big jerk back here that we’ve never felt before.  Is everything okay?” One of the flight attendants asked.  The Captain replied that everything was fine and that we were trying to diagnose what happened.  

The problem had now left the cockpit.  At 180 mph during a takeoff, even after a thousand takeoffs, your mind is still hyper alert to changes in the norm.  During training, we often simulate engine failures and fires at the most vulnerable parts of the flight so, from a behavioral standpoint, the time when a pilot most expects a problem is shortly before lift off.  With at least one flight attendant feeling something wrong, we knew that the jerk wasn't just from hyper-vigilance.

After several more minutes of thinking about it, I asked the Captain, “do you think it was a blown tire?  That would explain both the lurch and the lack of indications up here.  I mean, it was hot in Denver, we are heavy and this is pretty much the fastest these tires are going to ever spin.  Want me to call back and ask to do a sweep?”  As silly as it may sound, unlike cars, all the aircraft I've flown do not have tire-pressure indications and thus no way to tell if one had deflated.  The Captain agreed.

Pulling back up my charts, I dialed in the Denver tower frequency.  “Denver tower, we just departed off runway 8 and think there is a possibility we blew a tire on takeoff.  Could you send ops to do a sweep to see if there is any debris is on the runway?  Most likely indications would be about the last 3000 feet.”

At approaching 100 miles from Denver, the signal was weak.  They replied, “Absolutely.  I’ll send them out immediately.  Standby for the results.  If we can’t reach you, we’ll forward the results to Kansas City Center.”

With still just under two hours to go, the Captain wasn’t going to just wait around for the results.  “Okay, so let’s treat this like a malfunction.  We’ve gone through the manuals, we’ve contacted Denver.  Instead of just wait, why don’t we call and talk to maintenance.  You take the airplane and radios, I’m going to call the company.

During a flight, all airplanes have the ability to radio a ground station and be connected to any number of agencies.  For a medical emergency, we have a doctor on call at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center to answer any medical related questions.  We can reach them via VHF or HF frequencies at virtually any point on the globe. We don’t often use these communications channels, but in this instance, when it’s better to talk about it rather than text about it through our integrated messaging system, we call.

For the next 20-30 minutes, the Captain is on the line talking with maintenance, dispatch and our operational control.  I listen in on the backup radio while I am handling the en route radio, essentially flying the airplane solo.  It is on these days I am so happy there are two of us here so that we can divide and conquer the problem.

During the time the Captain  is talking to the Company, I hear back from Air Traffic Control that Denver tower found no indications of anything amiss on the runway.  That is both a relief and increases the frustration.  SOMETHING caused it. I tell the Captain the news which he then relays to maintenance.  Shortly after, I hear him thanking everyone on the line and joining me, mentally at least, back in the cockpit.

“So they have no idea either” he says.  “They’ve pulled the sensor data the airplane sends them and are seeing nothing abnormal.  Maintenance offered to have mechanics us on landing to inspect the gear before we taxi but in order to do that, we have to be an emergency aircraft.  So, when we get into the final center airspace, we declare an emergency.  They don’t think anything is wrong but out of an abundance of caution, if something IS wrong, it’s better to have the fire trucks at the runway than in the firehouse.  Do you agree so far?”  I nodded, of course I did.  “Until we can rule out that something is NOT wrong, we operate under the assumption that something is.  Since the only thing I can think of that wouldn't show up anywhere is a blown tire, we run the emergency procedure for that.

“One last thing.  On the lead-up to the landing, I’m going to be busy doing a lot of the big picture things.  I’m confident in your abilities so, from here on out, you’re flying and you’ll do the landing. Are you okay with that?”

All pilots are confident in their abilities.  It’s part of the type-A egomania that accompanies most of us.  Getting a comment like that in the lead up to landing on possibly flat tire or malfunctioning gear, is a real vote of confidence.  “Of course. I’ll start reviewing the manuals.”

“Sounds good, I’m going to bring the flight attendants in the loop and let the passengers know,” he says so calmly that you’d think he's done this hundreds of time.  No time to reflect on that, time to prepare.

Our iPads contain a wealth of information.  One of the manuals contains a “best practices” for every possible situation anyone could think we would encounter, to include several pages on landing gear malfunctions.  And that’s where I spent the remaining time at cruise.

After over an hour and a half of thinking and talking and thinking and talking and thinking, we finally are handed off to the final center controller before descending. The frequency is congested with dozens of mid-day flights transitioning the airspace or climbing or descending into it.  Ops normal for a weekday afternoon.  Time to set things in motion

“Center, we are checking on at flight level 350 and are declaring an emergency.  We will require fire trucks to meet us at the runway upon arrival and request the longest runway available.”

An Abnormality

“Ladies and Gentlemen, from the flight deck, we are number one for takeoff.  Two hours and twenty minutes en route to Atlanta once we are airborne.  Flight Attendants, please prepare the cabin for departure.”  I switch from PA to the cabin button on my audio control panel as I wait for the confirmation that everyone is seated in the back.

“Okay, while we wait, I see runway 8 on the pavement, runway 8 in the box.  We are on the EXTAN5 departure, SHAYK transition, first fix is KIDNG.  We’ll LNAV out there up to 23,000 feet and no airspeed restrictions.  Any questions?” the captain briefs as we approach the end of the runway.  I shake my head as a bell rings in the cockpit to let me know the flight attendants are calling to confirm they are ready.

“None.  Okay, they are ready in the back.  Before take-off checklist...”  I finish up the last checklist, flip the last few switches and advise the tower we are ready to go.  We pull onto the over 2 mile long runway in Denver, conduct a last minute sanity check, and before we start pouring jet fuel into the engines at over 3000 gallons per hour, he asks if I’m ready to go.  “Yup,” I reply, “let’s go home.”

The throttles are brought to life.  Moments later, we can both hear and feel as the engines reach takeoff pitch; the deafening sound of rushing superheated air exiting the engine and interacting with the relatively cooler atmosphere combined with the feeling of the deep mechanical whirring of the turbines as they spin at nearly 15,000 RPM.  Still, with all that noise and sound, the airplane only sluggishly accelerates down the runway.  At 5500 feet above sea level, the airplane will need to be traveling over 180mph before there is enough air flowing over the wing to create adequate lift.

“V1,” I call out.  We’ve reached the “decision speed.”  From here on out, there is a very short list of things that are going to keep us from taking-off, so short that even engine fire or failure isn’t on it.  At V1, there is no longer enough runway to stop so in 99.9% of instances, it is actually safer to take-off and come back and land.  Shortly after V1 comes Vr and the call-out, “Rotate.”

The Captain lifts the nose off the ground until we are pitched about 6 degrees above the horizon, waiting for the wings to fly.  It is always at this moment I am most in awe.  At over 180 mph, we just wait for the airplane to fly while it is balancing on its rear tires, nose gear raised six feet in the air. Normally, your butt feels the subtle change of direction as the 180,000lb jet gives up the earth to join the sky.

A sudden jerk to the left.  What the...  My eyes dart from my instrument screen to the Captain.  He’s staring straight ahead.  He moves control wheel abruptly to the right to keep the wings level.  He steps on the rudder to bring the airplane back to the centerline.  With the nose still pitched in the air, I will the airplane to fly.  Less than a breath later, the familiar feeling of liftoff.  Confirmed by the instruments, “Positive rate,” I say to the Captain who then commands the gear to come up.  And we are off.

My senses are heightened thanks to the sudden squirt of adrenaline into my blood stream.  We sit in silence for the first ten minutes of the flight saying nothing to each other than the required checklists and radio calls.  My mind searches for something to justify what happened in that brief second on the runway.  Maybe I imagined it?  Maybe the Captain hit a bump or swerved to avoid a deer.  No that’s stupid.

I look over at the Captain who watching his instrument display as we climbed eastward away from the Rockies and decided to break the ice.  “Hey, so, did you feel...”

He interrupted me, “that was really weird, right?”

To Be Continued