Short Story #3

This one's for Mom.

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The Bottle of Champagne

The flight attendant’s cool voice sounded over the intercom, asking if there was a doctor onboard. I half-smiled incredulously.

            Every time I fly, someone needs a doctor. Every time I push the call button above my seat to offer my services, the flight attendant approaches and gives me a sweeping glance. She takes in my petite frame, short hair, and baggy fleece pullover. She asks if I’m a nurse. I say, no, I’m a physician. She says thank you in a tone of polite rejection. Then she accepts the second volunteer, a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair and a corduroy suit jacket. My children whisper furious insults at her back. I glance down the row and calmly tell them to let it go.

            This time, though, it was different. I did not press the call button. I sat attentively, listening for the sounds of a patient in distress. There were none. It was probably a case of popping eardrums, or lightheadedness, or panic induced by swollen fingers. Calm words and regulated breathing would cure them all. People don’t realize that half of practicing medicine is simply refusing to get worked up about things. Over the years, I’ve debunked countless, unfounded fears of illness with reassurance and the occasional Tylenol. It’s not laziness on my part. In fact, it takes a lot more energy not to offer treatment, to gently wade through floods of tears and to soothe anxiety with words of reason. That’s the truly exhausting part of my job.

            The intercom chimed to life once more. The flight attendant’s voice, more urgent this time, called again for a doctor. I sat up a little straighter in my uncomfortable seat. We were six hours into an eight-hour transatlantic flight. I hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Soon I would have to navigate the streets of an unfamiliar city and stumble over the words of an unfamiliar language. Surely, I thought, surely someone else can handle this. Someone who actually likes the attention and glory forced upon the healer of minor injuries. I had seen the man across the aisle reading the Journal of the American Medical Association and completing the multiple-choice test in the back; that’s not something people do for fun. He had even made sure to carefully fold over the pages so the attractive young woman next to him could see the dense articles and the pictures of x-rays. But now he was feigning sleep. I could see his eyes fluttering open every so often, shutting tightly again as soon as he felt my gaze.

            I am not a guilt-ridden individual. I consider, I choose a course of action, and I do not dwell on what-ifs. It’s what makes me a good doctor. But at that moment, as the flight attendant rushed down the aisle with a cup of ice and a towel, her face lined with concern, I stopped to reassess.  An unfamiliar twinge of shame filled the pause. Shame that I had, if only for a moment, become cynical at the world, at its melodrama and little injustices. Yes, people are filled with flaws, but isn’t that all the more reason to care for them? To heal them? 

            Rising from my chair, I walked briskly down the aisle until I found the site of the dilemma. A small group of people hovered over a row near the back of the plane. Between the whispering bystanders, a man was stretched across three seats, his head resting on a pile of rough airplane blankets. He was unconscious, his face tinged with gray, his forehead damp with perspiration. I pushed through the audience and asked them to please go and sit down. The man’s wife, looking stricken, told me the man had passed out without warning and showed no signs of waking.

            He looked bad, but he was still breathing in quick, shallows gasps. I removed the blankets from beneath his head and used them to elevate his feet. I wiped the sweat from his face with a cool towel and gently spoke in his ear, trying to coax out some sort of response. And I waited. All of the fainting spells in churches, on planes, and in theaters that I’d ever treated drifted lazily through my memory. This was the true nature of medicine, of life: sudden dilemmas in difficult places. Often, waiting patiently is all we can do.

            The man groaned softly and his eyes cracked open. I bent over him, blocking the  harsh light from above, and asked if he knew where he was. He did. I asked his name, his age, his hometown. A shaky nod from his wife affirmed that his answers were all correct. The plane’s first-aid kit was scant, but included a stethoscope, which I used to check the man’s heartbeat. Weak, but regular. I told him to keep his legs elevated, to take deep breaths, and to tell me if he felt faint again. I reassured his wife that he would be fine, that this was a common complication after heart surgery, and that he should go to the hospital once we landed to make sure everything else was fine. Then I went back to my seat and sat very still, eyes open.   

            Two hours later, we landed smoothly. I collected my coat and bag and waited for the paramedics to board so I could give them a quick summary of events. They cheerfully thanked me and joked with the man as they lifted him onto a gurney, despite his protests that he felt much better. I walked away from him down the aisle. Just as I was about to exit, the flight attendant stopped me, thanked me sincerely, and handed me a bottle of champagne. Bemused, I took it and kept walking.

            I did not want champagne. The sleep-feigning doctor flashed through my mind. He probably would have gladly accepted it; too bad he was nowhere in sight. Maybe I had only imagined him. The only real thing was the bottle, heavy and cool in my hands. The next time I passed a trashcan, I gently deposited my burden into the bottom. Then I walked sleepily down the hallway to customs, ready at last to slip into dreams.