Touchdowns & Takeoffs on a Saturday Afternoon

Saturday afternoons in the fall have always been my favorite time of the year. Growing up in Ohio as a huge football fan, it meant spending a few hours watching The Ohio State Buckeyes football team play. Last Saturday was no different as I turned on the game at the pilots’ apartment in Belize City, Belize. After a few quick touchdowns, I was feeling pretty good about our chances of winning – when the phone rang with a request for a flight to Dangriga to pick up a patient. My football addiction is often disturbed by calls dispatching me to fly, so this didn’t come as a surprise. I was especially relieved that the patient was in Dangriga, as it is only a short flight, and I figured I could get back in time for the start of the second half.

The flight medic arrived promptly, and we made a hasty departure out of the municipal airport in Belize City. Twenty minutes later, we arrived in Dangriga to meet our patient: a baby girl in respiratory distress. She was intubated and unconscious, although just starting to wake up as we loaded her into the airplane. The nurses from Dangriga and our flight medic worked diligently on the hot apron for almost an hour getting the baby girl stable enough to fly. Once I got the go-ahead from the medical professionals, I quickly loaded up the worried mother and took off toward Belize City. After leveling off at 1500 feet above the Caribbean Sea, I heard the medic say the words that I dread the most: “TJ, the patient is crashing.”

I have heard those words many times before, and I can see still the faces of the ones who did not survive the thousands of emergency flights I have performed. I pray this sweet baby girl isn’t one of them. I figure the only thing that has changed exteriorly for the patient is the altitude. So I quickly descend to a few hundred feet above the choppy sea and, after a few minutes, the baby stabilizes and we safely arrive in Belize City. At the airport, we are met by our ground ambulance – which briskly takes the baby and mother to the hospital.

After a few hours of cleaning, refueling and restocking the medical supplies on board the aircraft, I stop by the hospital to check on the baby and mother. I find them in the pediatric ward. The baby is resting, but on a breathing machine. The mother is sitting on a plastic chair with her hands in her head, completely exhausted from the day’s events. I spend a few minutes talking with her and get her a street burger from outside, after hearing she hadn’t eaten all day.

As I exit the hospital with the sun setting and the “short flight” ending after hours of fighting to keep the child alive and delivering her to a capable medical facility, I can’t help but think, “I wonder if the Buckeyes won?”

In Good Hands

As a medevac pilot, my job is to transport people who are seriously ill or in distress to desperately needed medical care. Once we drop off our patients, I can only hope that I am entrusting their care to people who have the resources, expertise and compassion to help them heal.

In reality, you never quite know what you will encounter when you step into a hospital across the world. The emotions of the people waiting to hear about their loved ones, the tired but usually dedicated hospital staff, and the tense but unspoken stress of the unknown fills most waiting rooms. Most patients that we bring to the main hospital in Belize City are not from the city, but from remote communities. They are worried, scared and unfamiliar with their surroundings – which is why I like to check up on them after they safely arrive and have received proper treatment.

                One of my favorite places is Karl Hausner Memorial Hospital in Belize City. Every time I step into the lobby, I immediately notice the cleanliness of the facilities, the professionalism and dedication of the staff, and the genuine respect and care shown to patients. I have entered countless hospitals across Africa and Central America, and this definitely ranks among the best. A recent visit was no different. As I greeted the ladies at the security desk and gave them the names of the three patients I flew that day, one remarked, “Wow, busy day,” with a friendly smile. The rapport I have with the hospital staff not only makes my job more enjoyable, it assures me that they are personally looking out for our patients. 

The first patient I see is a 6-month-old girl with pneumonia that I flew from San Pedro. In the neonatal ICU, I find the mother holding the little girl and administering a vaporizing treatment. She happily tells me that her child is already recovering, and the doctors think the visit will last only a few days.

Next on my list is a young boy from Punta Gorda, whose leg was broken in three different places when he got hit by a taxi. I don’t have to look far before I see the boy and his parents anxiously waiting in the room outside the ICU. The boy is already prepped for surgery and, after a few minutes of chatting, they are whisked away to accompany the boy to the surgical theatre. 

My last stop is to see a young lady from Dangriga who was in premature labor. Outside the maternity ward, I encounter her parents. They excitedly tell me that their first grandchild was born healthy and without complications, and their daughter is resting comfortably. The new grandfather pulls out his flip phone and enthusiastically shows me a grainy photo of his first grandchild. After some quick congratulations, I make my way outside the hospital. I purposefully pass by one of the nurses’ stations to wish them a happy nurses’ week and tell one of them that all three of the patients I brought them today are doing well and receiving proper care. She smiles and says, “TJ, that’s our job.”

These words express a pride and ownership in treating patients that is extremely comforting to me. I know that my efforts to help these patients can only be as successful as the care and treatment they receive once they are delivered to the hospital. And, at least at this hospital, I know our patients are in very good hands. 

Grass Roots

It’s undoubtedly a picture that occurs in every small airport across the U.S.: A few small airplanes are in the pattern practicing takeoffs and landings, as a father with his son are sitting on a wooden bench near the grass runway marveling at the miracle of flight. This specific picture occurred more than a decade ago at the Red Stewart Airfield in Waynesville, Ohio.

One by one, the aircraft gently touch down on the soft airstrip. The next one is a yellow and red taildragger, but there is nothing soft or elegant about this landing, as the aircraft roughly bounces down the runway. Zoom into the picture and you will see the instructor of that yellow and red taildragger glancing out at the father and son and joking to his young student, “We should charge to have people watch you land!” As I taxi the yellow and red taildragger back for one more trip around the pattern, I look back at my first instructor – clearly, not amused by his joke.

Learning to fly was difficult for me, especially the landings. It did not come naturally. It took a lot of work, patient instructing, and a good amount of my hard-earned money. As is true for all pilots, the learning didn’t stop with getting my license. I vividly remember things that used to scare me as a young pilot – namely, crosswind landings, rain, and controlled airspace. But, as with any skill, the more you work at it, the better and more confident you become. It also helps if you have good teachers.

I have been incredibly blessed with amazing instructors, including my first instructors at Red Stewart Airfield, Pat Patten of Flying Medical Service, and the many instructors who volunteer for Wings of Hope. Each has taught me something that I still remember today. I have been able to use their knowledge to help thousands of people over numerous countries – and overcome my fears. My short aviation career is filled with stories of landing on the sides of mountains in Tanzania, operating on “airstrips” that resemble cattle paths in Congo and Tanzania, crosswind landings in 25-knot gusting winds in Nicaragua, and navigating short airstrips on islands off the coast of Belize.

It’s been 11 years since I received my paper private pilot’s license certificate on the grassy apron of Red Stewart Airfield. Over those years, more than 85 percent of my 2,300 total hours of flying has been used to bring health care to those who need it. I have piloted an aircraft from the earth and safely returned back 2,800 times. That may not seem impressive to some, but it’s encouraging for a student pilot who used to struggle to make one safe landing without his instructor intervening.

Flashback to that grassy airfield in that small town in Ohio: If I were to return today, that father and son would see a much smoother landing by a pilot who has honed his skills through instruction and experience. Despite the many changes in my piloting these past 11 years, however, two things remain constant: I continue to enjoy using aviation to help those in need – and I still flight plan around controlled airspace.

The Day I Froze

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.