George Dunea
Chicago, Illinois, United States

As a former frequent flyer, I recall a crisis at 35,000 feet in which I played a part. I had just settled down to watch for the second time the exploits of a policeman who never failed to solve a case, however difficult it might seem to ordinary muggles. A message for help came over the loudspeaker, and I stood up, a little apprehensive, for you never know what drama you may find yourself in. Squeezing myself past the high BMI lady in the aisle seat who was avidly ingesting her frugal meal, I began to wend my way towards the front of the cabin.

There, I was greeted with evident relief, though I noticed a flicker of hesitation in the stewardess’s eyes. In those days, the pilot’s cabin was his fortified off-bounds castle. Yet without further delay, I was ushered into this airplane’s inner sanctum.

There I found blood everywhere: blood on the floor, blood-stained napkins strewn all over the cabin, even drops of blood on those impressive dials and levers that I had no time to admire. And there was the captain, scrunched up in his seat, blood streaming out of his nose. He was leaning forward and spitting mouthfuls of blood into a paper bag, the stewardesses meanwhile rushing about and bringing more napkins.

I felt reassured, thinking this bleeding would easily be controlled with firm pressure, provided I resisted the temptation of checking too frequently whether it had stopped. I began with napkins, then used my bare thumbs to compress both nostrils for half an hour at a time. Soon, my hands were dripping with blood, and the pilot volunteered, reassuringly, that he had recently been tested for AIDS. Meanwhile, the airplane continued through the night, seemingly on autopilot but under the co-pilot’s watchful eye.

For about an hour, there was no sign the bleeding would stop, and I still could not see even where it was coming from. We decided to seek advice from the ground, so the co-pilot contacted a doctor, who had nothing to suggest. The captain, still spitting and spluttering blood, then chose to divert the plane, sadly wondering, “What is going to happen to all these poor people?” Ground control was contacted again, and preparations began for an emergency landing.

I was only half-strapped into the accessory jump chair because one of the buckles did not work, and they were both too busy to help. The co-pilot did most of the maneuvering, with the pilot giving instructions and occasionally pulling down a lever while I was desperately holding on to his nose, trying to keep my fingers out of his field of vision. “Can you see, can you see ?” I asked several times, as I seemed to obstruct his view.  But the computers did most of the seeing, and soon the lights of a big city appeared on the black horizon.

From the cockpit, the view was spectacular, unforgettable, and panoramic. In front of the cabin, a huge sickle-shaped moon, with brilliant city lights flickering from side to side and forming a huge semicircle. Then the airport lights came into view, and we landed on an illuminated runway. As the airplane came to a halt, the bleeding also stopped.

Now, a woman paramedic boarded the plane and took over aggressively. She applied a cuff to the captain’s arm and took his blood pressure, then began to question him. “Do you take any medicines?” she asked. “Only one aspirin a day”, he replied.

She then walked him to the gangway just outside the plane, sat him on the floor,  produced a massive syringe out of her bag, and instilled epinephrine up each nostril. Then she clamped a tusk-like clip on his nose and began to write her report. The captain, now bearing a remote resemblance to a rhinoceros, sat on the floor for some time, then got up, straightened up his jacket, and returned to the cockpit.

Meanwhile, someone had shoved a gift certificate in my back pocket. Then the stewardess gave me two bottles of Sprite to rinse my bloody hands, the water having been turned off during the landing.  Soon we took off again, and as I returned to my seat, I was met by the curious eyes of the passengers, who had been largely unaware of the drama that had just taken place.

Back in my seat, the movie was over. A happy ending, no doubt. Yet I felt defeated, wishing I could have stopped the bleeding whilst in the air by applying a packing or inserting a catheter, as is done in emergency rooms. I was tactful enough not to question the wisdom of  injecting a large dose of epinephrine, especially as the bleeding had already stopped. Nor did I question the cost-benefit ratio of the pilot’s taking aspirin for primary prevention, especially considering that in this instance, an aspirin a day nearly kept this airplane away!