Tag: in-flight death

The flight where someone DIED on my plane – Part 2

TProphet0 comment

We were just crossing between Greenland and Hudson Bay when the call came out over the intercom. “Is there a doctor on the plane? Please immediately make yourself known to a flight attendant.” Now, this has happened a number of times when I have been flying. But there was a certain urgency to this call, particularly when it came again, and was amended to “A doctor or nurse on the plane.” Call buttons rang out and a few medical personnel made their way rapidly to the front of the plane, flight attendants speaking in hushed tones. Shortly thereafter, the cabin lights came on. This was no ordinary medical incident.

Over the northern tip of Hudson Bay is about the worst possible place to have a medical emergency. There is no airport closer than Edmonton that can handle a fully loaded 777. And Edmonton is 3 hours away. Sure enough, “follow the plane” in the inflight entertainment shortly showed us tracking to Edmonton. Whatever was happening was really serious. Airlines don’t divert flights unless it’s absolutely necessary, given the high costs of doing so. And they especially don’t divert flights to a third country–where not everyone onboard is guaranteed to be admissible, and where it’ll cost a fortune to get everyone to their final destination–unless it’s an absolute dire emergency. Whatever was happening was a life or death situation.

About 5 minutes later, there was another announcement–one that I have never heard before. “Does anyone onboard have any diabetic test strips for measuring blood glucose?” Now, this could only mean one thing, given everything else going on: diabetic shock was suspected. The victim might already be in a coma. This is an absolute life threatening emergency.

Medical emergency on a plane

Medical personnel attend to the stricken passenger. If you look closely, you can see a bag of saline hanging from the overhead bin.

I snapped a picture quickly, and was quickly approached by a flight attendant who asked whether I was taking pictures. I avoided the question and sat down. “You’re not allowed to take pictures,” she said. I didn’t care to argue the point – the flight attendants definitely had more pressing issues than being the photo police, but they were already tired, stressed out and had their eye off the ball. No need to make the situation worse, even if I was in the right.

Periodically, I heard the sounds of an EKG monitoring the heartbeat, and then the heartbeat stopped. The medical personnel turned the sound way down as not to alarm everyone, but I heard it. When I saw our flight divert again to Chicago, I knew that we’d probably run out of time.

The O’Hare Fire Department, Customs and Immigration came onboard and quickly took someone out on a stretcher. We were deplaned shortly thereafter. When I got to the immigration counter, I asked the officer whether he knew what happened. “The old woman didn’t make it, she passed away,” he said, crossing his chest as devout Catholics do. I replied “On Ash Wednesday, no less,” and the officer crossed himself again, nodding and returning my passport. “Welcome home.”

Life is short. Your time is limited. The economy class meal you just choked down might be your last. Life for today, and make the most of it!

The Flight Where Someone Died – Part 1

TProphet0 comment

So yeah, someone died on my plane. We landed and dropped off a corpse. Full-on, stone cold, dead. Not breathing, passed away, dead.

Wait. Let’s back up and I’ll start from the beginning. American Airlines had stranded me in London overnight at my expense the evening before, but I had made lemons from lemonade. I stayed in the Generator Hostel on an incredible promo deal [expired] through American Express. Including the subway ride to and from Heathrow, it was less than $30 for a night in London, an incredible bargain. So after checking out the nearby incredible collection of antiquities at the British Library (free entrance), I headed to Pret-A-Manger, my favorite London soup and sandwich shop. $10 later, I had soup and a sandwich (food in London is very expensive) and made my way back to the hostel.

And then came an evening involving a Canadian girl, a Bahraini girl, ciders and beers and conversation, early twentysomethings plotting an actual, honest-to-goodness orgy at the tables behind us, a cloud of ganja smoke and somewhere around 3 in the morning I lost track of what happened. I woke up in the morning in my hostel bunk, passed out stone cold with an alarm piercing in my ear. “7:30 AM,” my phone insistently said. “7:30 AM.” Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I wanted to throw it across the room but knew I had a flight at noon, and it was from Heathrow, so I knew it’d be a stream of endless hassle. So I hauled myself out of the top bunk, the room echoing with snoring I hadn’t even noticed, and walked down to the bathroom to take a shower. My pounding head drew into sharp focus the number of beers I’d consumed the previous evening. I realized that I’m way too old for this shit.

Generator Hostel London

Before things got crazy

Hostel life. The more it changes, the more it stays the same. A staple of my early twenties, it became a less frequent experience as my income gradually afforded me more expensive accommodations. Now, as a startup founder, money is again really tight and I’m back to a backpacker budget. The only problem with this is that I’ve done it before. I have become the old guy in a hostel. I mean, not quite. At least I’m self-aware enough to know that I should probably be owning a hostel rather than staying in one, and that my financial condition (a startup founder on a reduced salary) is by choice a temporary one. I am, after all, sitting on top of a budding startup. Nonetheless, yeah. I’m probably too old for this.

The alarm went off way too early in the morning. I dragged myself down the hall and to the shower, realizing too late that there weren’t any towels. Sponging myself off with an old T-shirt, I dressed, packed up as quietly as I could, and made my way onto the Piccadilly Line, carrying my heavy suitcase down the stairs. No escalators here, unlike the newer systems I’m accustomed to in Asian cities. It takes about an hour from central London to Heathrow on the subway, but it’s the cheapest way to go and didn’t actually take any longer than a train would given my starting point. And I arrived at the airport in plenty of time for my flight.

I hadn’t been able to check in online, but this wasn’t particularly unusual on international flights. Foreign airports usually want to verify your documentation before you fly into the US, and US airports usually want to verify your visa before you fly out. So it was a bit of a surprise to me when I was handed a boarding pass with SSSS on it. This was the first occasion of what has now become routine. I was intercepted at the gate and corralled into a separate area where I was tightly frisked and everything I had was searched with a fine-toothed comb. I had officially been added to The List. The only benefit was that I was afforded pre-boarding, and allowed to board the plane before all the other passengers. If you’re deemed a security threat you’re brought to the front of the line, in order to prevent you from mingling with other people in the airport terminal.

The American Airlines 777 had 10-across seating. I barely fit in the 17″ seat. An ample woman plopped down next to me, her mass spilling out over the armrests and occupying about 1/3 of my seat. Yeah. It was going to be one of those flights.