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. 

Thankful to serve ...

"Why did you choose Wings of Hope?"... "They give me the best opportunity to help others."

A few days ago, Facebook reminded me of a photo I had posted eight years back. I remember it very clearly. The photo is of me showing my mom around the Wings of Hope hangar in St Louis, Mo. I had just started working with Wings of Hope as an aircraft mechanic and would soon be sent overseas for international field work. As typically happens during parents' good-natured visits, you end up answering a lot of questions. The one I remember vividly is, “Why did you choose Wings of Hope?” My parents knew that I was doing extensive research on all organizations that used aviation to help mankind. The simple, and slightly embarrassing, answer is that they were the only ones that offered me a position. But the answer I remember giving is, “They give me the best opportunity to help others.”

Eight years later, I still believe that statement rings true.

Wings of Hope has always given me the preparation, education and, most importantly, the opportunity to help those in need. On the Christmas Eve before I boarded the flight for my first international assignment in Congo, Africa, the last thing I was told was, “You will know that you are doing a good job if every night you can say that you truly used that day to help someone who needed it.”  I still remember that simple saying. Some days may seem more successful than others, being filled with lifesaving emergency flights. Others are not as exciting or lifesaving, but still successful – like using wood and rope to build some neighboring kids a swing set. But the overall goal never changes.

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to use my life to help as many people as I possibly could. It’s the reason I got my pilot’s license and airplane mechanic’s certificate. Aviation shrinks the world we live in. It brings aid to the people who need it. It’s the reason I got my EMT license, because sometimes there is no a doctor. It’s the reason I got my bachelor’s degree in Global Missions – because to do humanitarian work, you need to learn how to be understanding and sensitive to the people you are serving and living among. Because of Wings of Hope and its numerous partners worldwide, I have had the opportunity to work two years in their hangar, four years in Africa, and now I am going on close to two years in Central America. I can’t honestly say that over the last eight years, I have felt that I helped someone in need at the end of each day. But it still remains the goal.

As Thanksgiving Day approaches, I find myself very grateful for Wings of Hope and its incredible team of dedicated volunteers and staff. I appreciate their constant example of hard work, dedication and service – with no regard for personal reward or gain. Mostly, I am thankful for their sacrificial desire to serve others. And I am especially grateful that they have given others, like myself, opportunities to do the same. 

Changes

So here I am waiting at the international airport in Nicaragua at 5 in the morning for my flight to Belize City. The last month has been a whirlwind of meeting the replacement pilot, getting him trained, getting all my belongings packed in two 50-pound bags, and still flying emergency flights throughout the region. Before starting another assignment in another country, I really like to spend a day or two preparing myself for what is ahead. But the day before was filled with taxi rides, meetings, and hand-delivering government letters — which barely left any time for sleep, much less reflection. So the short three-hour flight from Nicaragua to Belize City will have to do.

What comes to mind are the numerous people I have met and served with throughout my time in Nicaragua. As has been true in all seven of the countries in which I have served, I am leaving an incredible group of individuals with hearts synced in one accord to helping our fellow man — especially the people from Verbo Church, kids from Casa Bernabe, and the staff at the Puerto Cabezas airport and hospital. Every person I had the privilege of working with in Nicaragua welcomed me with open arms and accepted me as part of the Puerto Cabezas community. Nicaragua will always have a place in my heart. But as the plane takes off and leaves Nicaragua behind, I start thinking about what is ahead: Belize. An entirely different kind of whirlwind transition is waiting for me the second I step on Belizean soil.

At the airport, I am greeted by fellow Wings of Hope pilot Dave Brown, who had generously postponed his departure date in order to give me a proper transition period. Immediately, Dave starts showing me around Belize City. For me, everything is different. Belize City is a more advanced, developed and busier city than any of my previous assignments. The airplane is different, as are the airstrips we fly into. Airspace can be extremely busy, especially in relation to the airspace in Nicaragua where I rarely would hear another aircraft. I start to feel a little overwhelmed with everything that will be expected of me. When, finally, some normalcy comes: the phone rings. We have a patient to pick up in one of the islands off mainland Belize.

The rush to the airport, preflight of the aircraft, meeting the flight medic, quick taxi and departure to where our patient is waiting bring back memories of the hundreds of flights I have done exactly like this. It was Congo, Tanzania, and Nicaragua all over again. After the flight, I reflect back on my first day in Belize. It started with sitting in the airport in Nicaragua with a mind full of questions and unknowns and ended with a picture that I have become more accustomed to: the sun setting behind an ambulance taking away a patient to receive proper medical care.

Countries change, aircraft change, protocols change, languages change, but the phone will always ring. It doesn’t matter where I am serving, what aircraft I am flying, or how different my living conditions are. The most important thing never changes — and that’s to always answer the call to help relieve the suffering of someone in need. 

Did you hear that?

Pop…pop…pop.  

There it is again. It isn’t incredibly loud, but very distinctive. I heard it a few minutes before, as well. 

As a pilot, any abnormal, sudden sounds while flying make the heart skip a beat. But even more so when you’re a few thousand feet above the scarce jungles of Northeastern Nicaragua. I had just departed the bush airstrip of Waspam with a pregnant lady in the midst of a premature complicated delivery. She is in my back seat with a young nurse. I take a quick glance back at my delicate passengers and give a “thumbs up.” The intermittent popping sound doesn’t seem to be bothering them, but it is definitely making me nervous. The patient seems fairly stable, so I focus all of my attention, first of all, on flying the aircraft—and, second, on finding the source of the sound.

A quick glance at my engine gauges reading normally eases my mind a little. I think, “We’re not falling out of the sky—so that’s a good thing.” My first thought is that it is an electronic problem. “Probably the avionics,” I guess. I remove my headset from my right ear, trying to isolate the source of the sound. I clearly hear it again, and not in my headset. I now focus my attention to the radios and transponder. But a quick radio check with the Puerto Cabezas control tower comes back as clear; they can also read my transponder. My next thought is an electrical failure. I can’t smell anything burning, and my amperage gauge is telling me that the alternator is charging the system fine.  But that doesn’t calm my nerves at all. Obviously, something is not right.

I begin switching on and off all of the electrical lights with my eye on the amperage gauge and circuit breaker panel. Everything that I do checks normal. I cannot seem to initiate nor stop the popping. As my frustration mounts, I begin exploring the possibility of other nonelectric causes. Maybe the stretcher is making that noise as the patient moves around? Maybe on takeoff from the bush airstrip I picked up a small branch or other object that is hitting the exterior of the airplane? A quick glance outside the aircraft and a slight jostle of stretcher doesn’t confirm those suspicions. Every pop is now an annoying reminder of the hours I will spend looking for the cause.

Clear as a bell, the tower lady clears me to land. As I turn base to final, I feel my muscles tense up as the random popping follows my landing clearance. After landing, I try to calm my frustration regarding the noise. We are on the ground. My main priority now is getting the patient safely and quickly from the aircraft to the waiting ambulance. I can investigate the problem after the patient is on her way to the hospital. The transfer goes smoothly. The nurse climbs into the back of the ambulance and tells the driver, “Vamonos.” I shake her hand and thank her for the help she provided. She looks at me, smiles, and responds, “De nada, piloto.”  Her gaze then moves forward, and she blows a few bubbles from the gum she has been chewing throughout the whole flight. Pop…pop…pop.

Still so much more to do ...

It has been over a year now since Wings of Hope assigned me to Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua. So I figure reflecting on this milestone is a good excuse to write.

I am not a very good writer, nor does it come easily for me. The hardest part of writing for me, as I am sure it is for most people, is finding the right story. It’s not that nothing happens here that warrants a story—but after you’ve been someplace a year, you become part of that place. Things that first seemed amazing, or different, become a daily part of life.

All of the 90-plus emergency medical transports that I flew last year directly transformed a life in an extraordinary way. They are all “story worthy.”

I could write about the little girl with a compound arm fracture. Not only did her arm heal completely, but she was the first patient flown from Rosita—a town of 22,000 people that now has access to air emergency services.

I  could write about the numerous pregnant women in complicated delivery or the man with a brain aneurysm. There are also the many babies with pneumonia, and the countless hours spent flying the aircraft while anxiously looking back and hoping the baby is still breathing. Then there is the pregnant girl who named her baby after me. I didn’t even fly her—just visited her after the birth, because her family from a faraway community couldn’t be there to support her.  

These images flash through my mind like a slide show from last year. But, for some reason, none seem like a fascinating story to me. I start thinking of writing about things that occur in normal life over here, apart from my work. I could write a story about learning to ride a motorcycle—while dodging cows, horses, school kids, buses and possessed taxi drivers—or the innumerable funny interactions with all of the local merchants and business owners. As before, none of my ideas are shaping up into stories. I begin to wonder why. How come everything I can think of that has occurred in the past seems just that— in the past, a distant memory? How come my mind is not recalling all of the amazing things that have happened?

I start to focus on what is on my mind and what does have my attention. It isn’t anything that has already occurred or has already been accomplished. It is what can be accomplished in the future. It is Alamikamba, a town that is an 8-10 hour car drive from Puerto Cabezas, but merely 45 minutes by air. With only a little work on the runway, and permission from the government, they, too, can have free emergency air transportation. Also consuming my mind are Kukalaia, Lapan, Raiti and Prinzalpolka—all communities that are in very similar situations to Alamikamba. All could be reached. There is still so much more to do.

Looking back on my one year here, I am filled with gratitude and joy for what has been accomplished. But the unlimited possibilities of what lie ahead are, to me, far more exciting. 

Home

A young lady is quietly awoken from a short afternoon nap. For a brief moment, she thinks she is back home in her village in Nicaragua. As her senses slowly become stronger, she realizes that she is far from home. The last week has been a whirlwind of change, fear, doubt and joy. She begins to remember the last few days. What began as a simple checkup for her pregnant sister at their village clinic, turned into the most intense day of her young life. The doctor found that her sister was showing signs of premature birth, and the baby was in a breech position. She needed an emergency C-section, and she needed it fast!

The next few hours were a blur, full of nurses and doctors preparing her sister for an emergency air evacuation with the Wings of Hope airplane. She remembers seeing the plane come in for landing as the car ambulance rushed to the airport. She smiles briefly as she thinks back to her first encounter with the pilot. He was trying to reassure her and her almost unconscious sister. His funny sounding, but steady, Spanish comforted her as she climbed into an aircraft for the first time in her life. The flight was uneventful, as her worry for her sister distracted her from the wonder of flight. A few hours later at the Puerto Cabezas hospital, her sister safely gave birth to her nephew.

But, now, as she hears her sister quietly crying beside her with her baby nestled close, the joy and relief of seeing her baby nephew born healthy, and her sister recover completely, seem a lifetime away. Her eyes slowly scan her surroundings. They are sharing a bed in a maternity house in Puerto Cabezas. The house was made for people like them: released by the hospital, but nowhere to go in a strange town with no family. In a region of a country that doesn’t have paved roads outside of a few towns, traveling is no small task. The trip home is typically 7-8 hours on a bumpy, muddy road in a hot and dusty old school bus — less than ideal conditions for a newborn baby. Making matters worse, the torrential rains have made the road home impassable. Although it wouldn’t matter anyway, as they do not have any money for the bus tickets. She feels so powerless and alone.

She sees the pilot approaching their bed from a distance. In a house full of pregnant women, it’s pretty hard for him to hide. He has come by every day to check on them and give them money for food and medicine. This time, however, he comes carrying the greatest news. He had a call for another emergency to their hometown. The call came late in the afternoon, so he wasn’t able to make the flight right away. The patient is fairly stable, so he will be flying out early the next morning. He offers to take her, her sister and her nephew home the next morning on his way to pick up the patient. No bumpy, hot, dusty, day-long bus trip. No more sharing a house with 40 other pregnant women. After the most trying five days of her life, she will be going home.

The next morning, all the memories come rushing back as she sees the Wings of Hope airplane for the second time. She asks her sister if she remembers anything about the flight just a few days before. With tears in her eyes, her sister responds, “No. The only thing I remember is thinking I was dying.” As they climb into the waiting aircraft, she embraces her sister and gives a quick kiss to her new nephew. Halfway through the calm, early morning flight, the quiet hum of the aircraft’s engine begins to lull her to sleep. She smiles as she realizes that, this time, when she awakes she will again have that familiar feeling of being back home — except, this time, she will really be there.

Cost of Hope

The bike that saved the day

Hopelessness is a disease, one that completely robs the body and soul of all joy and self-worth.  It slowly creeps into your heart and starts to grow like a cancerous tumor. It makes smart people foolish, turns the active lazy, and the aspiring complacent. Hopeless people aimlessly go through life, feeling helpless and powerless to deal with whatever life throws at them. It manifests itself in many people, on different spectrums of life. However, it is always amplified during times of stress and need.

For one teenage girl from Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua, hopelessness took hold on her way home from a trip to the hospital. She had just been diagnosed with Chikungunya, a virus that spreads through mosquito bites. Although there is no cure, medication can ease the severe fever and pain that the person endures. Her family is from a far out community and sent her to Puerto Cabezas to go to school. She lives in a one-room wooden house with her two cousins. None of them have any money to buy the medicines that help control the extreme symptoms. The nurse tells the girl that she will just have to endure the high fever and joint pains for the next five days, until her body gets rid of the virus.

She collapses on her front porch, totally exhausted from the five-minute walk from the clinic to her house. With the next five days weighing heavily on her mind, she hears her cousin talking to their neighbor. She knows that he works for Wings of Hope, flying patients from remote communities to Puerto Cabezas. A small hint of hope begins to build within her, as she hears her neighbor's motorcycle head down the street toward the pharmacy. This inkling of hope transforms into a reality as the neighbor returns with the medicine. The next few days are full of healing as her body, with the help of the medicine, fights the virus. On her way to school on day four, she excitedly tells her neighbor that she has fully recovered and is so happy to return to school.

For the neighbor, the cost of hope was only a trip to the pharmacy and two dollars worth of medicine. But for the young girl it meant everything – four days of her life being properly cared for with less suffering.

Hope is what fuels change and development. It is essential for dreams to become reality. If you don't have a desire or an expectation to do great things, those things will never be accomplished. Sometimes, the cost of hope is more than a $2 pharmacy bill. Other times, it costs nothing more than a helping hand or an understanding spirit. But with the promise of what can be accomplished by people with hope, it is an investment that the world needs to make.