From the cockpit, I can see the sun setting as the plane
starts descending into Dangriga, a small town on the coast of Belize. I am
responding to a call about a boat that capsized with a young mother and her
infant son onboard. Reportedly, the infant was under water for 20 minutes. The
biggest goal is to get the patient onboard and airborne before dark. I can go
to the lighted international airport outside of Belize City after dark, but I would
prefer to go to the smaller, unlit airstrip located inside Belize City. This would
make the trip from the airport to the hospital for the young boy and his mother
five minutes instead of 25. I start my landing sequence with all of this in my
mind. Before the flare, I tell the flight medic that if we can get airborne in
10 minutes we can make the unlit airstrip inside Belize City before dark.
Luckily, the ambulance with the baby is at the Dangriga
airstrip and, as the flight medic assesses the baby, I start to help the mother
onboard. She is maybe 17 years old with damp clothes and a dazed look. I can
only imagine that the fresh memory of being thrown from a boat into the
Caribbean Sea is overtaking her thought process. She mentions to me that this
is the first time that she has ever been in an airplane. Usually, I take a few minutes
to ensure first-time flyers that there is nothing to worry about — but I don’t
have time for that this evening. I quickly usher her to the copilot’s seat and
strap her in. Looking over, I see that the baby is secure in his plastic
carrier and the medic is taking her seat as well. We’re set to take off.
As I am performing my pre-start checklist, the medic tells me that the baby is responding to our care. The mother looks up at me and asks, "He's getting better?"
For the first time in my life, I freeze before starting up the engine. I have had many flights like this before, where every minute
means the difference between life and death. I am very accustomed to performing
my checklist safely and quickly, but never in my life have I heard a question asked with so much care
and hope.
I have done hundreds of flights with patients who are
minutes from death — and never froze. I’ve disassembled and reassembled an
aircraft engine, installed it on an airplane and flown it without hesitation.
In high school, with my basketball team down by one point — and me on the free
throw line with seconds left to play — I didn’t freeze. But with the sun
setting quickly and the engine start checklist waiting, the care and love that
this young teenager had for her son froze me. After I don’t know how long,
I mumble something along the lines of “Yea, he’s getting better,” while
restarting my checklist. The engine fires up, and we take off toward Belize
City.
A few days later, I step into the children’s ward of the
hospital in Belize City to check on the two patients. The mother has already
been cleared, and I find her diligently adjusting the clothes of her baby in a
hospital bed. She excitedly tells me that her son was removed from the
breathing machine today and is expected to make a full recovery. This time, her
voice is not only filled with the same care and hope that stunned me a few days
before, but it has another element: pure, unfiltered joy.
If I was frozen before, the joy on her face literally melts my heart.
