The Other Mile-High Club

Losing Consciousness Somewhere Over the East Coast

In mid November, I board an afternoon flight from St. John, Antigua, to Miami, where I connect to my flight home in the early evening. Landing in Miami, I clear Customs and haul my extremely heavy and awkward bag halfway around the terminal before finding the spot to recheck it.

The truth is: I’m too frugal to spend nine dollars on a luggage cart. My attitude is that if I want to do ocean sailing, I need to be physically strong enough to get my gear to and from the boat without assistance. I’ve never done CrossFit and am not even sure what it is, but I have a feeling that my wrong turn after Customs ends up being some sort of CrossFit workout, complete with grunts and curses. Once I know for certain I am hauling the bag in the wrong direction, I do an about-face on the ramp and put on my you-better-steer-clear-of-me-and-this-bag-that-is burning-my-biceps face.

My gear is rechecked. I go in search of my gate and refill my water bottle. Next up, a hazy IPA. We have been at sea in a small sailboat for fifteen days, and after celebrating our victory in the land of rum, I want a cold glass of Hazy IPA.

Later I will blame what happens on that one beer and the three coconut shrimp that I chase it down with. I will point my finger at the large bag of red licorice I cram in my mouth right before boarding my flight.

During the three-hours en route to Washington, I feel unwell, plagued by stomach cramps. My middle seat in row fifteen makes excursions to the restroom inconvenient. During my second trip aft, I ask for a cup of ice.

It’s a Friday night and the plane is packed. There are no vacant seats, not even near the toilet. Even the galley where I get the ice is crammed full of flight attendants. My only course of action is to return to my seat. I’m traveling alone, and it doesn’t occur to me to let anyone know that I am not well.

I feel warm throughout the flight and reach up to increase the flow of air. The woman to my right reads her book; the woman to my left is curled up with a jacket covering her. The jacket sprawls over onto me and I push it off in annoyance.

After I get the cup of ice, I put a cube in my fingers and hold it on the back of my neck as I lean forward in my seat.

I’m not sure what happens next. I don’t have my laptop, but suddenly I see it arching over my head, the display going crazy.

She’s seizing, I hear someone say.

The she is me.

A man sits next to me. Later I will learn that he’s an EMT who had been in the exit aisle, just a couple of rows behind me. He’s asking me my name and my age, holding my arm, telling me to stay awake.

How are you feeling?

I can barely talk.

I do feel better but better is relative.

Losing consciousness is as close to dying as the living get. I’m barely conscious but I’m grateful that people are helping me. I keep reaching out to the man next to me. I’m also reaching out to the woman on my left who is also holding onto me.

People stand in the aisle. A flight attendant. A man who must be the pilot. The EMT has the medical kit on his lap. It’s slightly smaller than the one we had on our fifteen-day passage at sea. That one had everything you’d need when help was very far away. This one, too, seems similarly equipped.

There’s a blood oxygen monitor on my finger. The EMT is taking my blood pressure. He reassures me that I did not have a seizure. I have a low heart rate. I already know this. Bradycardia, a resting heart rate under sixty beats a minute. Elite athletes have this. A cardiologist has given me a clean bill, although I follow up with him.

The EMT, whose name I later learn is Sean, asks me if this has happened before. He keeps asking me how I am feeling.

The next thing I know is that I am lying on the floor in the aisle of the plane.

I’m going to give you some oxygen to feel better, Sheila, Sean tells me. He tells me I passed out again.

My stomach is cramping. I roll over on my side. Sean slips the oxygen mask over my mouth, just like the flight attendants do during the safety demonstration. As promised in the demo, the bag does not inflate, but the oxygen flows. I’m groaning from the pain in my gut, but I’m beyond caring what anyone thinks. No doubt everyone on that flight is happy that Sean is there and has taken charge.

A doctor has come onto the scene, but Sean has matters in hand.

We’re not going to divert, I hear someone say.

We’re a half hour outside of DC.

Two announcements assure the other passengers that there is a medical situation on board, but it is in hand. The passenger who is sick will be deplaned before everyone else.

Sometime later, Sean, who is sitting in the seat above me, leans over, puts both arms on me and says,

We’re landing now.

The wheels rumble onto the runway.

I have been asking about my eyeglasses, without which I’ll be lost.

We’re going to find them, people reassure me.

Three EMTs in uniform board the plane. I insist that I can get off the floor and onto the wheelchair on my own.

Feel better.

Feel better.

I hope you feel better.

A chorus of individuals say those words as the EMT wheels me down the aisle and out of the plane. I’m caught between the urge to laugh or cry.

I chuckle.

I do, I reassure them. I do feel better.

It’s funny. Myself and three others sail a fort-two foot sailboat seventeen hundred miles from Virginia to Antigua without incident, but on the flight home, I join the mile high club, the one where you experience a medical emergency during the flight. My friend of forty years tells me that when she was a teenager flying home from Venezuela she took her younger brother to the lavatory and passed out mid-aisle. I’m in good company.

Stuff happens. The good news is I’m healthy.

My doc says: Stay hydrated.