When our heart flies Towards Heaven,
Time stands still.
It does not interfere
Walking through the parking garage the exhaust fans are whirling filling the concrete structure with a loud mechanical sound. I have just finished an eight hour seminar to a group of thirty people when my business associate, Dave who was carrying a large cardboard box with all our left over manuals and presentation material remarked that his cell phone was ringing. I said “You better answer that you never know when it is something important”. We walked another 50 feet toward the parking attendant when his cell phone rang for the second time. He removes the box for his shoulder gently placing it on the trunk of a parked car and answered the phone as I continued to move toward the attendant. As we approached the exhaust grill covering the fan he tapped me on the shoulder.
“It’s for you” he said as he handed me his cell phone. I laughed thinking it was a joke because there was only two people that knew I was with Dave, let alone what his cell phone number was? I placed my hand over my ear to deaden the sound as I raised the phone to my other ear. Straining to hear above the clatter, the words took my breath as my knees buckled slightly. “Your wife has had a brain aneurysm and is being rushed to into surgery. You need to get home!” The sound of the fan was so overwhelming that I was not sure I heard it right. Ducking around the corner of a cinder block wall I asked “Tell me that again.”
The voice over the phone repeated the words with a decidedly serious tone “Your wife has had a brain aneurysm and is being rushed to into surgery. You need to get home! You need to call your mother-in-law.” There was no mistake, I did understand the message. Instantly I reached my hand into my pocket retrieving my cell phone. It was turned off during my presentation and I had not remembered to turn it back on. I noticed it was exactly 5:07 pm on the cell phone screen when time stopped. Turning the phone back on the screen flickered for a moment then twelve messages appeared on the screen. I immediately closed the phone slipping it into my pocket without listening to the messages. Turning to Dave; I said “You need to get me to the airport.”
I frantically I stood waiting for the attendant to bring Dave’s car up from the basement. Without talking we paid the parking fee and jumped into the vehicle, pulling out into the cold driving rain on 44th Street and 6th Avenue in midtown New York City and directly into Friday evening rush hour traffic. Slowly we inched block by block, bumper to bumper as the windshield wipers beat like a metronome punctuating each frozen second as time stood paralyzed. In attempt to restore the world to normality while we waited wedged in a mass of honking horns, we talked about what route we should take to get to the Lincoln Tunnel in the least amount of time. Our conversation was a thin transparent veil that hid nothing but did distract me from thinking about what was happening. I glancing at my watch when it was 5:11 pm, I recall thinking “My god it has only been five minutes!”
“Dave, when we get to Newark Airport, drop me off at Continental Airlines, I know there is a direct flight at 6:30 pm”. He turned his head away from the traffic looking at me “You really do travel a lot, if you know when the next flight home is.” Nodding my head I admitted “Yeah it’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” At that moment Dave got a brilliant idea. “Look at that line of bus moving. They must be headed to the Lincoln Tunnel. Let’s follow them.” Executing a swift lane change and a halfhearted slowing at a red light, the car was inserted into the stream of buses heading out of town. Swiftly we rounded two blocks watching the Lincoln Tunnel signs pass over us with each turn. On the next right turn we could see the entrance to the tunnel as it consumed the long line of buses, but a large flashing yellow sign announced LINCOLN TUNNEL BUSES ONLY. With a touch of disappointment in my voice I said “Dave, we’re we had a problem were in the wrong lane, this entrance is for buses only.” Quickly surveying the snarled mass of traffic and blinking light glistening on the wet pavement, Dave made an executive decision “Hang on we’re going in. What are they going to do to me, give me a ticket? I’ve got Maryland plates, I can plead ignorance.”
I pulled my cell phone out and dialed my brother, who works for Continental. “Hey Karl I need to get on the next flight home. Check and see what you can do. We are heading into the tunnel. Call me back when you know something.” At that moment the world went dark and silent as we enter the mouth of the tunnel. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as red reflectors streamed by. Traffic flow began an even pace as bus exhaust crept into our vehicle. Panic was surrounding me as emotions surged like a rising wind of an approaching hurricane. I can not allow myself to think about the implications of what is occurring. My mind is denying the situation, as I concentrate only on the deplorable traffic conditions and the remote possibility of chasing the last flight home. I can do this. I am in charge I tell myself as feeling of hopelessness and despair starts my mind spinning.
A brilliant white flash mimicking a nuclear blast startles me exiting the tunnel as we emerge into daylight. I squint as the tangled blur of vehicles and tail lights overwhelm me. Upon exiting the tunnel my phone rings with my brother calling. “Sorry there was a storm here and all the lines are down. All I keep getting is that the computer can’t connect to the server. I wish I could help.” In a false assembly of macho strength I play it off. “Thanks Karl, No big deal, I’ll be at the airport in a couple of minutes.” My heart sinks as my ace in the hole rolls snake eyes. I feel that I’m being sucked out of my body and transported to a world where no one else exists, where the air is to thin to breathe. A wave of isolation saddens me as reality stalks my sanity like a hungry tiger. I attempt to soothe myself with an insincere mantra “It’s going to be alright.” Inhaling deeply I want my heart rate to slow.
The traffic is brutal as we inch along bumper to bumper. Each second sears my skin like drops of molten lead. I look at Dave and he is absolutely focused on the task at hand, darting one car length at a time to advance the vehicle at every partial opening in this mass of humming steel. I feel guilty that Dave was pulled into this nightmare for his anguish is evident gripping the steering wheel with sufficient ferocity that his knuckles are white. Destiny does not allow us to chose who we share these moments with. From an early age masculine culture breeds into us two primal principals, a guttural instinct to fight and an absolute rejection of failure as a possibility. Complex higher brain functions of intellect and reasoning is stripped away as baser reptilian brain functions dominate. Human civility melts away under the flood of adrenaline and endorphins that course through my veins. Fierce animal instincts emerge from being trapped in a steel cage on some remote asphalt jungle.
Focus on controlled breathing I tell myself as being caged in NJ turnpike traffic without any ability control my surrounding pushes me to the edge of reason. It is not hard to imagine crossing the thin line between sanity and madness. In fact madness seems to be a logical evolution. At that moment in time I am capable of just about anything as all ends seems to justify the means. I resist the urge to open the car door and take off running to the airport cursing everyone along the way. That decision is illogical, but there is a strong desire to take control of events. The feeling can only be described as “running down the center of the interstate naked with your hair on fire”.
To relieve his tension, Dave begins telling me a story. I smile and nod, but don’t hear a word he is saying. I decide to distract myself by listening to the twelve messages waiting on my voicemail. The first three messages are business related as I advance thought them. The first about my wife is from my mother-in-law. “Your wife isn’t feeling well and her friend Perri wants to take her to the emergency room. Call me as soon as you get this.” I then listen to two additional calls with increasing concern from my mother-in-law. “Hey, this is Perri, I’m really concerned about our girl, because she can’t remember your name or even her own last name. She’s extremely disoriented. Call me as soon as possible.”
I forward my phone to the next message and my heart stops a beat. It’s my wife calling “Hey, I wanted to let you know that Perri is worried about me and she is making me go to the hospital……..I don’t know why she is so worried………Something is going on with me and I don’t know……….Where are we going, Perri?........Why are we going there?........Anyway I’ll be home later call me then…….” The message goes silent as I press the number 9 to save the message. I am quiet for a moment as I realize that maybe the last time I will ever hear her voice. A cold chill grabs me as I fight back my emotions. I need to be there, somehow I can fix the situation, and somehow I can make it right.
The next two messages are from my office attempting to locate me. This was followed by one more message from my mother-in-law and two more from Perri. Each message is increasing in concern and severity of her condition. I immediately call Perri the strongest of the group, knowing I would get the truth without sugar coating. “Perri, sorry I didn’t get my messages sooner, but I had the damn phone turned off. What does the doctor say?”
Completely in charge and control Perri begins “She has had a CT scan and they found two brain aneurysms. There is a small one on the right side that is of no concern. However the one on left side of her brain has ruptured. It is located in the front temporal lobe and is slightly smaller than a golf ball. It’s in a bad place located at the intersection of two major veins going to the brain. They are contacting a neurosurgeon to come in evaluate the test results. They are running another MRI on her now. I’ll let you know what the results are. You need to get home, honey.”
“Perri, you know I’m trying. Tell her I’m on my way.” Another wave of helplessness washes over me as I hang up the phone. As the head of the clan, I have always been the hunter, provider, defender and protector. There is no problem I can’t solve and here I sit motionless in New York traffic impenitent. I look over at Dave, he is still talking. I have not heard a word he has said.
The closer we get to the airport the worst the traffic gets as time creeps like a slow motion replay. We have been stuck in traffic for an eternity as I look at my watch again, realizing it has only been 50 minutes. It’s 5:57 pm and I’m never going to make it through Newark airport security on Friday evening in sufficient time to make the flight. I rack my mind to recall the flight schedules. “Is there a later flight home on Friday?” I can’t remember as I rub my forehead hoping to relieve the tension building in my temples. Oh my god, I totally forgot I was headed to my mother’s home in central New Jersey for the weekend before I got the call. She is still expecting me for dinner.
Retrieving the phone from my pocket, I inhale trying to conceal my emotions. I can’t make her worry any more than she will. I need to be strong in control without conveying panic “Hey mom, how are you doing?” Her voice clearly is elated to hear from me “I’m doing just fine with my son coming in town. I’ve got dinner almost ready for you. I’ve cooked some pork chops, scalloped potatoes and red cabbage. The food will be ready whenever you show. How was your presentation?” I needed this simple conversation to continue, it was comforting to be normal for a second.
I don’t want her to carry this burden, not at this moment. In the past bad news is conveyed only after a resolution is known. My sincere desire would be to carry the weight until after the operation and call the next informing my mother what had happened. Telling her everything turned out fine, so don’t worry. I have no option; she is expecting me home for the weekend.
“The presentation went fine.” I paused to gain courage “I got to miss dinner…….”Before I could finish my sentence she interrupts me dismissing the guilt she though I was feeling “On I know, you need to have dinner with some of your business associates. I’ll just leave the back door open and you can sneak in whatever time your done. We’ll go down to the club tomorrow and have breakfast together in the morning.” I needed so much to hang on to this small piece of sanity, but the world was in chaos.
Slowly I begin “No, I wouldn’t trade one of your home cooked meals for a dinner with a bunch of stuffed shirts. I need to see if I can fly home; our little girl is headed into surgery with a brain aneurysm.”
A deadly silence fills the awkward void as a baseball to the stomach makes her involuntarily exhale her last breath of air. “Oh my god honey is she going to be alright?” timidly she asks with hope in her voice.
With surrender I reply “I don’t know. All I know is that she is in the best neurological hospital in Midwest. I’ll call you back if I can get on a plane.” Guilt overwhelms me for needing to burden my mother with such bleak news as she sits alone at home. I’m sorry I’m not in control of events. I can’t protect you like a son should.
She offers an idea “Did you talk to Karl about getting you on a plane?”
Stoically I answer “Yeah, the computer at the airport is down and he can’t get through.”
We conclude the painful discussion “Tell her we are all praying for her.”
Unable to maintain composure I close “I’ll tell her. Remember I’ll call you as soon as I know something new and for god’s sake to worry, she’ll be fine.” I close the cell phone before I could hear say goodbye. There will be no goodbyes today.
Anger sweeps over me in waves as the traffic has come to a standstill. “How the hell can anyone live in this god forsaken place? I would go nuts and kill someone just from frustration of trying to drive in this mess everyday.” Dave looks at me saying something in response to my rhetorical question but I never hear the words.
The rain has stopped with dark grey clouds parting exposing crystal blue sky where the setting sun is highlights cloud margins with golden white halos. Distracted by the surreal painted sky, I wonder to myself when did the rain stop. Dark blue grey hues of clouds mixed with powder blue, mustard and creamy white appears ominous. Staring at the sky for a long time fear begins to grab me. I can not decide if this stunning sky is a positive omen or not. The calm could be the eye of the hurricane, a gentle reprieve from destruction waiting on the horizon.
In the distance is the exit sign for the airport. I ask Dave to pull on to the shoulder so we can circumvent traffic. For the first time our vehicle picks up speed as tangled masses of steel is left behind. The access road to the terminals is open as we breeze past terminal A and B heading to terminal C. Dave pulls up to the skycap as I leap out of the car grabbing my luggage. A few simple words are spoken as I thank Dave for the ride, turning toward the ticket counter. Inside the terminal is a mass of travelers shuffling slowly in monstrous long sinuous lines. There is no time to stand in line. Glancing at the counter I see an open first class line at the far end of the counter.
Nervously I wait for the ticket agent to appear from the back room. “Please help me, I’ve been notified that my wife has been rushed to the hospital and I need to get on a flight home.” The polite lady with black hair immediately begins to search the computer. I interrupt her typing with “What about the 6:30 flight?”
Without looking at me she says “I’m sorry sir that flight has already pushed off the gate.” Glancing at my watch the time is now 6:35 pm. My shoulders slump as my forehead comes to rest on the counter.
“Our last flight is 8:30 pm but it is oversold.” she admits with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “Did you check the other airlines?”
“No I haven’t had a chance, but its Friday night. If you’re oversold everyone is oversold.” I mumble in resignation.
She is determined to solve this dilemma for me. “Well American has a 9:30 flight to Chicago but there is no connection…….No flights for United………US Air has an open seat to Pittsburg, but the second leg is oversold……….We could look at Delta to Atlanta to Dallas to Kansas City which would arrive in Kansas City at 7:20 tomorrow morning?"
Reaching for straws I ask “What about Midwest Air out of terminal A?”
As the optimism begins to melt from her face “Midwest stopped flying into Newark last month.”
“Shit, I should have gone to La Guardia instead of Newark.” La Guardia airport is basically a dump which has a terrible departure record because of a short runway and crowded airspace. While there are a lot less flights, travelers avoid La Guardia because the lack of public transportation, so flights into La Guardia cost half as much as Newark. Why didn’t I call Midwest and try the 7:30 pm direct to Kansas City? I know it is not typically full.
I’ve now got to get creative. I could rent a car and drive to Philadelphia. The thought of going back to the tarpits turns my stomach. How long a drive is it to Hartford? Three hours on either Interstate 95 or the Merritt Parkway on Friday night is a disaster. The door slams shut as she points at the screen “No flight from Philadelphia……No flights from La Guardia………No flights from Hartford.” The problem is that all the flights travel from the west coast to the east coast during the late afternoon to connect with the international flights that begin flying off the east coast in the evening.
I resign myself to working the best opportunity which is the 8:30 flight. “How many are on the standby list for the 8:30 pm flight?”
“Sir you would be number four.” she says. Hope is growing in the back of my mind as she finishes her thought “……but the flight is a regional jet which only seats 50……..and 44 have already checked in.”
Unable to contain my anger I lash out “When are you going to decide to fly real planes instead of these damn toy planes. A three hour flight in one of those cigar tubes is inhumane.”
“I’m sorry sir, but between Labor Day and Thanksgiving the flight has such a low capacity that we take the 737 off the route” She explains.
Did the airline ever think that the reason the flight is under utilized is because the public doesn’t want to be crammed into a torture cell for three hours. “Whatever……what is my best chance to get on the 8:30 pm flight.”
Responding in her best corporate customer service training which is devoid of any humanity “Your current return flight on Sunday is a restricted fare………your best opportunity is to buy a full fare one way ticket which would raise your priority on the standby list ahead of employees and non-revenue producing fares…………Then we could book you also on the first flight out in the morning at 7:00 am which has only one seat left.”
Knowing where this conversation is headed I ask “Okay, how much?”
In a sheepish timid voice she responds “It would be seven hundred and fifty four dollars.”
“Can I use my frequent flyer miles to buy the ticket?” I ask assuming I have two hours to waste which is about how long it will take to clear all the hurdles in order to try to use frequent flyer miles.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that from the airport.” She says unable to make eye contact with me anymore. That’s right providing travelers the ability to access their frequent flyer miles at the airport would make it to easy and someone may actually cash a ticket.
Disgust for the entire airline industry boils over. I’m what the industry calls a whale. I travel over a hundred times a year. My combined staff probably travels two hundred times a year. I collectively spend somewhere around one hundred thousand dollars a year on company travel. I am considered the hope of the industry, but yet in my hour of need I am treated with no regard. I could understand ignorance, but my frequent flyer account number is attached to my record and anyone interested could see the value of my loyalty. No it is not ignorance; it is simply apathy, arrogance and greed. Do they really think that I don’t have options? Are they so secure in bankruptcy protection that they can act so cavalier to their future? Do they understand that by screwing me out of $500 in my hour of need they are jeopardizing a hundred thousand dollars a year for life? I feel violated as I have exhausted the boundaries of what the industry jokingly calls customer service.
I’m done with this conversation. I understand that the poor lady in front of me is genuinely trying to help me and she is only doing her job as best she can, but in my anger and disgust I can no longer separate her from the industry she represents.
With a dismissive tone I tell her “Just get me on the damn plane”, as I turn to answer my cell phone.
“This is Perri. Here’s the latest. The doctors tried to complete a coiling of the aneurysm and it is bleeding too great.” Coiling is a procedure where a small catheter is inserted in the femoral artery in the groin and is navigated into the brain where the aneurysm is located. At the aneurysm a thread like titanium wire is pushed or coiled into the weakened area. Slowly the aneurysm is filled with coiled wire so that if the aneurysm ruptures it can not bleed into the brain.
Perri continues “Apparently the bleeding won’t allow the thread to coil in the aneurysm and it is essentially being flushed into the fluid surrounding the brain. They have no other option than to go into the skull and surgically clip the bleeding aneurysm.”
A cold chill runs down my spine as I feel the cold hand of death standing next to me. The surrounding chaos of the airport shrinks away as I stand alone in the crowd only hearing a faint voice on the other end of the connection. No questions or inquiries can ease my sense of dread. I can not bear the thought of her being afraid and lost without me by her side to provide strength and comfort. Hoping for the best I ask “How is she doing?"
Providing some relief to my concerns “She is doing great just acting like it’s just another day at the park.” My heart starts beating again. “She is still very confused and keeps asking where you are.”
In oblivious distress I reply, “Perri, I’m doing everything humanly possible to get back.”
I breathe deeply attempting to steady to nerves. “The flight is oversold and I’m listed number four on the standby list, it’s not looking good. If I had wings I would fly myself.”
Perri continues “She is schedule for surgery at 7:30 pm and it should take about four hours. Call me as soon as you know if you have made the flight.” Glancing at my watch the time is now 6:50 pm about ninety minutes before the surgery accounting for the time change. How ironic that she will be rolled into the operating room at the same moment as my flight departs. I look up at the gate agent holding my ticket, grabbed it and head for security. The situation was understood, so pleasantries were not necessary. The mere thought of the gate agent muttering “good luck” or “hope you make the flight” seemed like the most insincere thing she could do. Fortunately she knew better maintaining an awkward silence, while forcing her lips into a hopeless crooked little smile.
Slowly I move toward the escalator. There is no reason to hurry because all I can do is kill time. I’m relieved to see a long line at security. A slow mindless shuffle blanketed on both sides by faceless strangers provides me time to digest the severity of the events to come. I can not make eye contact with anyone as my arms hang lifelessly dragging a small black computer bag as if it is a treasured family pet tethered to my side in a sign of unending loyalty. Security is crowded as people strain at the process of rushing onto the next destination. New Yorkers are already genetically predisposed towards rushing and straining but Friday evenings always dials it up a couple of notches.
Past security the airport is a madhouse with gangs of angry travelers marauding around the concourses looking for someone to scream at. The tension in the air means that it has not been a good day to travel for large groups of people. I realize that if I am locked up with the general prison population for ninety minute, there is going to be a riot. I need to place myself to isolation. I need a place to hide. The President’s Club is a place where I can sit alone in comfortable overstuffed chairs staring out the floor to ceiling glass windows at the black nothingness of the asphalt tarmac. Slipping past discreet frosted white glass doors into the executive club, there is a long line of disgruntled gold elite travelers using the private booking agent in the club. Most travelers don’t know that a world of privilege and comfort exists behind a velvet rope. The club is a small vestige of a long lost world of what air travel was like when someone valued you as a customer. It’s like the Disneyworld of air travel, a world of suspended disbelief, a world where sofas don’t have metal bars to prevent you from laying down, a world where you can plug your computer in to find powerful wireless service. Like Disneyworld the entry fee is prohibitive to most.
I quietly wander the floor until I see a black leather chair unoccupied facing the window in the corner of an entertainment nook. It feels good to sit as I stretch my legs slumping backwards so that my head rests on back of the chair. The room is crowded with travelers that should have been somewhere else a long time ago. Tension of the airport has even permeated this last circle of civility. Small audible snippets drift past as people grunt into small cell phones, “……….you wouldn’t believe it, they cancelled………..I was originally booked on……… Yeah my baggage ended up in……..I have no idea when we are going to………”
Wondering how much battery life there is on my cell phone, I notice that the time is only 7:15 pm. My god has time stopped altogether. This must be one version of hell; similar to the version my grandmother would warn me about. “It’s like standing in a cool refreshing mountain stream with a incredible burning thirst and each time bent over to sip from the cool stream the water would recede a fraction of a inch from your lips, never allowing you to quench the burning thirst.” In my version of hell I am burdened with an incredible desperate urgency to fly somewhere, but each time I look at my watch it’s the same time, never closer to departing. To put it a different way, it is like holding a raving mad rabid dog at arms length by the back of the neck. You understand the incredible urgency to disengage, but can do nothing except hold your arm still and level as the muscles burn for what seems like eternity. Once again I inhale deeply trying to loosen the tightening grip of anxiety surrounding my chest.
The battery on my phone is almost depleted. In the concourse it is nearly impossible to find an electrical outlet to plug anything in, but here behind the velvet rope I am surrounded by end tables designed as laptop docking stations. Reaching into my travel bag, I withdraw a small black phone charger. Leaning over to reach the table, I can’t believe it when my phone charger won’t fit the receptacle because of the brick like transformer at the end of the plug. The thought that I can lose contact with the real world during this crisis infuriates me. I need to conserve battery until I can find a real electrical outlet. I begin to become restless as the air in the President’s Club suffocates me. Deciding that its time to head to the gate I pass the long line of angry gold elite travelers which now stretches out the frosted glass door into the concourse. The mood of the crowd is continuing to descend deep into despair.
Arriving at the gate there is already another long line of irritable travelers. I wonder if I have covered every conceivable option which would increase my chances of getting aboard the last flight of the night. My best option is to communicate my dire situation to the gate agent in attempt to leverage human compassion. Standing in line behind me is a couple of overweight drunk Rutgers football fans that missed their earlier flight because they drank to much in the airport bar and forgot what time their plane departed. They have now been trying for the past six hours to locate a plane to Cincinnati to catch the football game the next morning. I overhear one of them say, “We can fly to Pittsburgh and drive three hours to Cincinnati. That will get us to the hotel at 3:30 am and the game doesn’t start until noon.”
Having exhausted every connection combination in the nation only a couple of hours ago I mention “There is a Pittsburgh flight on US Air that leaves terminal B in about 90 minutes.”
Showing a bit of relief the Rutgers fan replies in a thick New Jersey accent “Hey, thanks a lot. We’ll check this last flight to Cincinnati and if that does work, we can run over to terminal B. Thanks again.”
Having broken the ice with some useful information, we trade small talk about the unusual Rutgers season, when the conversation changed to what should have been a relatively innocent subject. “So, where are you going tonight?”
Never having been in the current situation before I am unsure on what to say, I stared blankly at the two drunks for what seems like a long time. Finally I decide that sharing would help me unload some of my baggage providing an opportunity for a total stranger to reassure me that everything was going to be fine. With reluctance and embarrassment I sheepishly in a quiet tone say “My wife has had a brain aneurysm and is going into surgery. I’m trying to get home tonight.”
From their reaction you would have thought that I just revealed myself as a child molester or pissed on the family bible. They both looked down at the floor and turned their backs on me without saying a word. Stunned I stood thinking what was that all about? It was like I had the black plague. I took me a few minutes before the angry surged coursing through my veins with a violent fever. As a volcano erupted I had a difficult time controlling myself and not kicking the crap out of these two drunken fools.
Who the hell are these two losers? Two fat slobs that can’t keep their face out of a beer mug long enough to catch a plane. How dare they judge me? Wining and crying about the bad day they are having. They can’t even imagine what a bad day is. My ears begin to burn as my blood pressure spikes. I tell myself that it was stupid to have divulged my crisis and I need to calm down. Getting arrested for beating the daylights out of two drunks is not going to help me.
Arriving at the front of the line I place my arms on the counter and lean toward the gate agent. In a quiet and controlled voice I repeat my story ending with a simple admission “I’m number four on the standby list and I just want to make sure that I have covered every possible option which would get me on that plane.”
The gate attendant is a robust black lady with thick features and dark ebony skin. Her uniform is misshapen as it stains to contain her. Her hair is a cross between an old fashion afro and a swept back wild nappy look. It has been a long trying day for her as she ignores anyone except the one person directly in front of her. While her movements are methodical an overwhelming sense of exhaustion punctuates each slow deliberate task. She acknowledges my request without lifting her eyes from the screen. It’s just another day at the coal mine. You can tell there are no stories she hasn’t heard and none that will allow her to bend rules.
Once again I lean forward speaking in a soft voice. “By the way the two guys behind me are really drunk and seem like they are headed for trouble if they get to Cincinnati. I question if they really should be traveling?”
The comment contains enough concern that she lifts her eyes from the computer screen and bends around my shoulders to take a good look at the two drunks who are now screaming at someone on their cell phones. She looks back at me and nods slightly “Thanks, I’ll look into it.”
As I walk away from the counter, she picks up the microphone and in an emotionless voice announces “If you are waiting on standby for the Cincinnati flight, that flight is full.”
Watching from the corner of my eye I notice the two fans slump in disbelief that they are going to miss the big game. They immediately start blaming each other as to who was responsible for missing the flight. As I sit down waiting for the next flight to board I mumble to myself “You still are not having as bad a day as me. Now go home and watch the game on television.”
Mental fatigue is beginning to take its toll on me. I remember that I spent an entire eight hours in front of a crowd lecturing today. The effect of all that activity is accumulating as my tired limbs argue with my racing overcharged mind. Finally the announcement to start boarding my flight is broadcast over the concourse in a familiar emotionless monotone voice. Eagerly, I stand as each person boards the plane one by one, standing directly ten feet in front of and in plain view of the gate agent. It takes forever to load the plane and begin processing the standby list. The first two standby passengers are asked to come to the counter. They enter the plane as the gate disappears with them down the Jetway.
My heart sinks as the last chance of getting on the flight seems more remote with each passing second. Silently I stand as my only hope of getting home is about to push off the gate. Five minutes pass as the Jetway door remains open. I consider running down the Jetway and forcing myself onto the plane. I come to my senses and dismiss the urge thinking about how difficult my travel life is already without getting myself added to some high security terrorist watch list. As if by magic the gate agent returns and consults her screen. “Mr. Brown” she says handing a boarding pass to a young college kid.
I can’t contain myself and blurt out “What about me!”
She looks up, grabbing my ticket and says “You need to get on that plane, because I need to get this plane off the gate.”
A surge of emotions makes me shudder as I run towards the door. “What seat do I have?”
With a stern Baptist authoritative voice she replies “Honey any seat that’s open. You have the last seat on the plane.”
As I approach the jet door I stop and pull out my cell phone and push redial. “Perri, I made it on the plane! I can’t believe that I did it! What’s going on?”
The relief in the voice on the phone is comforting as I catch my breath. “Thank god, we all need you here. She has been prepared for surgery and we are with her as they are rolling her into the operating room. She seems to be doing fine.”
The flight attendant is tapping her foot and staring at me through the jet door. The second I enter the plane the door will be closed and the flight will depart. I look at her a hold one finger up. “Perri, can I talk to her? Can you hand her the phone?”
I strain to hear as the engines begin to whirl. Assuming there is no room on this flight for carry on luggage, I toss my shoulder bag at the ground crew and gate check my bag. In a weak voice I hear my wife say “Hello”. My mind explodes with guilt at not being there as tears fill my eyes.
“Honey, how are you doing?” I ask stiffly suppressing my trembling voice.
In a display of strength she offers the traditional, I’m trying to walk it off. “I’m okay, I’m not sure what’s going on, but they said it’s pretty serious. Where are you?”
I hold a hand over one ear to lessen the deafening sounds of the jet engines. “I’m on the plane in Newark. I’ll be there before the surgery is complete, I promise. Don’t worry everything is going to be fine. You need to be strong, okay.” At the same moment I’m next to her providing her hope, but also ten thousand miles away trapped in a foreign world. The whirl of the turbines is so loud that I can no longer hear the faint voice on the phone.
The gate agent is sternly reprimanding me as she is briskly running down the Jetway. “Mr. Blue, there is one seat open on that plane and if you don’t have your butt in it immediately, you will be walking home tonight. I’ve got to get this plane off the gate. Do you understand?”
Without saying a word I closed my phone without saying goodbye and head into the jet. Passing each row of filled seats the passengers give me an “it’s about time look.” Finally I locate the last open seat in the second to last row of the aircraft. Preparing to sit in the open aisle seat the young man in the window seat looks at me and says “There’s someone sitting in that seat.” In shock I can’t understand what he means. Glancing up and down the aisle nobody else is standing except the flight attendant. I stand dumbfounded trying to understand why he would say that, when all of a sudden the rear restroom door opens and a middle aged housewife steps out. She is just as confused as me as we face each other as the sounds of the engines fill the rear of the aircraft.
Once again the air in my lungs is expelled as if I was struck to the abdomen with a baseball bat. This idiot got up to take a piss when the flight attendants where counting the seats before departure and her seat appeared to be open. The realization is crushing as I am unable to either speak or move. This all has to be a cruel nightmare that I’m unable to awake from. Real life could never be this sinister and evil to provide hope and then snatch it away so arbitrarily. My heart bleeds for the blood of my blood. From the darkened back of the plane I see the gate agent making her way down the aisle.
In her emotionless professional I don’t give a damn attitude she explains “I’m sorry Mr. Blue but you need to get off this plane, my flight is now late.” Broken and despondent I silently obey and slowly shuffle behind her towards the front of the plane.
Somewhere in the middle of the plane a gentleman in an aisle seat grabs the gate agent by the elbow and tells her “I can wait and take a bump here in Newark if someone really needs to get home.”
She looks at him, smiles slightly and continues to walk past him to the Jetway. I’m horrified at the complete lack of compassion or interest in doing the right thing. This is where legendary stories of customer service are created, stories that are told for decades, stories that forge missionaries to preach the virtues of great companies, but I am sentenced deal with a person that a long ago lost all passion for what their job is. The gate agent’s only concern was to get the door of the plane shut in order to ship of another 50 problems to some other gate agent in a far away city. This is Continental Airlines, the company that paint their plane each year proclaiming the winner of the JD Powers award for customer service.
I wait at the counter for the gate agent to complete sending my flight home without me. When she reappears I stand on the other side of the counter and stare intensely into her eyes. I want her to feel every ounce of my disappointment and pain. I want to make her understand that her actions impact real people. She coldly looks through me like I’m not human, but some sort of pesky insect that needs to be crushed. Finally I lean over the counter and with as much sarcasm as I can muster and says “I only hope I can do the same for you one day.” I turn and walk away from the counter, dismissing her with no greater concern than her showed me.
I can no longer forgive the airlines for their lack of courage and empathy. This is a wrong that can never be righted. There is no longer an affinity with the people that I spent so much time with. The mere thought of returning to this airport tomorrow attempting to catch another plane makes me sick. Vile disgust churns sour bile in my throat as my hopes are dashed.
With great regret I pull my cell phone from my pocket. “Perri, the bastards pulled my off the plane. I’m not going to make it. I’m sorry I tried.” My mind was a raging torrent of sorrow, anger and impatience.
Her response recognized the pain and loss I was experiencing. “I’m so sorry honey, but don’t worry we are going to stay here with her until she gets out of surgery. Her mom and daughter in-law is with me.”
Although I was helpless and emotional destitute I knew she was with her closest friends and family. Abruptly I ask “What’s going on?”
With a controlled calm, Perri answers “We are not going to know anything for a while, she just when into the operating room. I’ll call you from the waiting room the second we get an update.” I look at my watch and calculate the time until the surgery is complete which will be sometime after midnight.
Perri has been my wife’s best friend for over 25 years. They have followed each other in management positions through a half dozen companies. They are a set inseparable in work or life. Perri was the one that recognized the problem when my wife was dismissing a severe crushing pain as just a migraine headache. They had a close mutual friend crippled by stokes and Perri was highly sensitive to the symptoms. Reluctant to go to the doctor, my wife would have left work that day and went home to sleep it off, certainly never awaking. Perri recognized the loss of memory and disorientation as a fatal sign of serious trauma, immediately took control. Talking to my wife on the phone she demanded “Girl, I’m coming to get you and we are going to the emergency room. No room for discussion.”
Perri drove past a dozen hospitals until she was at one of the best neurological hospitals in the nation. Once in the emergency room it can take hours to be looked at and admitted. Many brain aneurysm patients die in the hospital waiting for treatment. Perri has always been a strong decisive woman that is fiercely loyal and protective. After waiting about ten minutes, Perri took control by cornering the attending physical of the emergency room setting him on his ear. “It is my understanding that heart attack or stroke victims take priority over all other patients in this emergency room.” Two minute later my wife was on a gurney heading for a CT scan.
I begin to break down when I thank Perri for what she did today. “Perri, your saved our girl’s life, if it wasn’t for you…………..”
She interrupts me not allowing me to uncork the rising tide of emotions which would turn me into a hopeless quivering mass. “Look honey, we can talk about that after our girl is fixed up. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”
I realize I’m just wandering down the concourse, not knowing what I’m doing or where I’m going. It late enough in the evening that most of the travelers have been either pushed into plane headed for somewhere or decided to give up returning home. An eerie calm pall permeates the concourse. There is only one place in world I want to be if I can’t be at the hospital. I need to heal. I need to go to the center of my strength, the place of personal power. I need to go to the house I grew up in.
I pull the phone out again breathing deeply to steady my voice “Hey, mom. I didn’t make the plane. How about that late dinner I stood you up on earlier?”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry. What are you going to do?” she asks.
Tired and not wanting to talk about tomorrow I muster the energy to answer. “I’m on the 7:00 am flight tomorrow.”
Trying to be helpful she offers “Why don’t you get a room at the airport hotel instead of driving all the way down here and getting up early to drive back to the airport? I’ll pick up the room charge.”
“No, it’s not the cost. I’ll not going to sleep much tonight. Sitting in a hotel room would drive me insane. I would prefer to spend the time driving in order to spend some time together. It would make me feel better if I was at the house.” I reply.
“I understand. I can heat up dinner and you can have a cocktail to relax.” I close the cell phone turning to the escalator for the monorail. Every ounce of emotion has been drained from me. My mind is numb as a tension headache is a constant pounding reminder of my wife. I am a lost soul wandering aimlessly like a zombie unwilling to interact with anyone. Just leave me alone is painted on my forehead in neon lights.
Standing in the monorail elevated above the airport the New York harbor is clearly visible. In the distance the Statue of Liberty is bathed in warm orange light, a solitary sentinel in a black lifeless void. For generations people have passed this symbol of hope wishing for redemption, wishing that tomorrow’s promise is fulfilled. The statue buoys my spirits. Leaning against the glass, I can’t recall thinking about anything at all. The defensive mechanisms take control turning off consciousness and reason.
In a familiar routine I exit the monorail and head downstairs to the car rental facility. I remember that I forgot to reserve a car, but because I practically live in this company’s cars, so I walk directly to the executive aisle picking out a white nondescript Impala and drive to the exit booth. I like the fact that the parking garage is abandon. Without saying a word I hand the attendant my license and gold membership card. A few minutes later she hands me back my cards along with a contract as the gate opens allowing me to leave without a single word of interaction. There is no need for urgency as I follow the labyrinth of ramps, exits, crossovers, merging lanes and underpasses until I am on the New Jersey Turnpike heading south.
This stretch of the turnpike from the airport to the Garden State Parkway is a surreal wasteland of chemical plants, refineries, piers and power plants. It always reminds me of another world at night as you pass huge jumbled masses of pipes dotted with thousands of security light. Protruding from the industrial wasteland is dozens of stacks extending high into the horizon with bright blue and orange flames dancing on poles as the natural gas is burned off in the refining process. A strong order of natural gas mixed with petroleum and chemicals invade the confines of the rental car. The landscape at night is a photographic paradise that I’ve dreamed about exploring some night.
My phone rings with my stepson on the line. He is a complete wreck sobbing out of control. His contorted gasps make what he is saying unintelligible. Calming him down I tell him the only thing I know for sure “Look Troy you need to be strong, you can’t get your mother upset. There is only going to be one outcome to this situation. No other outcome is acceptable. You understand me there is only one acceptable outcome and you need to focus on it.”
It takes a few minutes but Troy calms down and realizes the truth in my comments. “Your right there is only on acceptable outcome. Thanks. Call me when you hear something.” Helping Troy gives me back some strength, knowing that his situation is improved.
The car drifts off the turnpike at exit 11 and rolls towards the tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. Out of reflex, seventy cents is pulled from my pocket and drops into the basket. Miles disappear as I sit in a silent trance listening to the hum of wheels on the asphalt of my childhood. The closer I get to the house the more confident I feel. I am surrounded by forests and meadows of my youth as the spirit of my father and grandmother invigorate my soul. Being grounded to the land is the source of my power and I make the only decision I could, which was to come back to the center of my life to heal the spirit.
The car pulls off the exit driving itself. There is a sacred place just next to the house which I always must pass. Over a have a century ago the developers of where I grew up preserved a half mile of pristine American beech forest. The warm gray trunks frame the narrow lane to create a natural cathedral as great as any church in all of Europe. The moist rich forest floor was the playground of my childhood as I spent thousand of hours cradled under those sheltering boughs. I see myself as a child running down the slopes in fall with the entire forest ablaze in yellow and gold. I see years pass like pages in a book. Where did all the years go? In this cathedral of youth I whisper a small prayer of hope. As if a summer breeze touches my face, a solemn peacefulness sweeps over me as I know with absolute certainly that there is in deed only one acceptable outcome.
Mother is standing on the porch as I pull into the drive. As we hug she breaks into tears. It’s been a long difficult day for everyone. I look into her worried eyes and say “You need not worry everything is fine. I know this to be the truth.”
She draws strength from me and heads off into the kitchen telling me “Why don’t you fix yourself a cocktail.”
I fill a glass with ice and reach into the cabinet, pulling out my father’s favorite “Dewers White Label. I pour a drink that even my father would be proud of. Sitting down at the table mom brings in a plate of food. We sit together while I pick at the plate not really hunger. I can’t recall the last time I ate. I guess it was a muffin for breakfast before the seminar at 7:00 am this morning. After a while we move into the living room where I fix another stiff scotch and sit in my dad’s chair. This chair has always been the absolute center of the world’s power in my life. I can feel the past. The conversation is superficial as we discuss my brothers and sisters. Mom is careful not to ask about the white elephant sitting in the room. Time is frozen as I glance at my watch a thousand times, but no longer worried about the outcome of the surgery. Once again time has stopped, refusing to let next chapter start.
At 11:45 the phone rings, its Perri. “The nurse just came out of the operating room to tell us that our girl in doing fine. The aneurysm was successfully clipped, blood was re-established to the brain and she has in their words tolerated the procedure well. They are planning to close her up and take her to recovery in about 45 minutes. I’ll call you back when they are done.”
Looking up at mom I nod as tears of relief roll down her face. I give her a big hug and decide this news deserves another drink in celebration. I can relax as exhaustion and scotch allows the stress to melt from my limbs. We watch the clock until the phone rings again at 12:50 am. “Okay I’m with her in the recovery room and everything is fine. She is talking and asking where you are, but she won’t remember what’s going on.”
“Thanks Perri. I’ll get to the hospital around 11:00 am in the morning. Give her a kiss for me.” As I smile at Mom letting her know the storm has passed; now we just need to see what damage has been done. “I’ll need to be up by 5:00 am in order to catch the flight home.” As I note that the time is now 1:12 am. I walk up the stairs and falling into the big overstuffed comforter with all my clothes on.
I’m too exhausted to undress. As I relax with my eyes closed an image appears in my mind. The image is indistinct and covered with snow like an old television with bad reception. I focus on the image trying to discern the details as it drifts in and out of focus. Suddenly I realize the faded image is my wife in the recovery room laying there asleep. I must have tapped a spiritual connection by coming to this place of my childhood. Allowing the energy of this powerful place to fill me I direct myself as a conduit transporting the energy to a recovery room a thousand miles away. I feel the white crispness of what seems like static electricity. Can this connection be real or has my exhaustion advanced to the point of hallucinating. It is of no consequence to me as I drift into a deep slumber holding the faded image in my mind.
What seems like a split second later I hear someone calling to me? Opening my eyes a searing pain rips through my temples. “It’s 5:00 am. I am cooking some eggs before you leave.” I stand up only to realize that my body feels like it has been in a car wreck and was eject from the vehicle at a high rate of speed. On top of it all I wasn’t content with a normal mental and physical beating I decided to add a hangover to the mix. Barely able to see I climb into the shower looking around for my travel bag. I totally forgot I checked my bag at the gate last night and it is quietly resting in some distance location. It’s acceptable to look rough hewn today considering yesterday as I run my hand through my wild spiked hair.
Feeling terrible I choke down some eggs and three cups of coffee while saying goodbye. Other has feeling like a dump truck ran over me; I cruised back to the airport, hardly stopping at the car rental facility and security. At the gate it’s another completely packed flight. I think to myself, “Why the hell doesn’t the airline add another flight or two maybe try to grow the business?”
The plane is loaded and we take off. My pounding headache and sour stomach won’t allow me to sleep during the three hour flight. Without incidence the plane lands and I walk off and go to the luggage claim. The lady behind the counter looks up “Mr. Blue, I just left a message on your cell phone,” Reaching under counter she hands me my luggage. I think why it is so easy today and such a mess yesterday? Jumping into the car I drive directly to the hospital getting instruction on how to get into ICU. At the hospital I press a button as a camera projects my photo to the ICU receptionist. The door swings open as I take a deep breath and walk in. My heart is racing as I find the door to her room. I stop for a second and prepare myself for what I’m going to see. I gather the strength and turn the corner. A small face turns looks at me with a huge white bandage covered in wires and medical equipment. I notice a weak smile as a tear rolls down my cheek.
I Did Not Die
Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
Navajo Prayer
Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
Navajo Prayer
