Shite Flight

I looked anxiously at the dial and prayed it would last. I pushed the stewardess call button. It had become dark while the plane circled over Nova Scotia, waiting for a break in the fog so that the flight could land. The crew has dimmed the cabin's lights in hopes the passengers will calm down, accept their situation and perhaps fall asleep. I made eye contact with my husband's concerned face. The little wrinkles around his eyes were now visible, worry lines; he hadn't had them before, and they had arrived quickly on his young face in the last year.

“Mame, can I help you? I'm startled from my thoughts. I looked up at the stewardess but suddenly couldn't form the words. Exhaustion has overtaken my brain. We'd been sick all week, hiding, sanitizing, fretting and waiting to be well enough to travel. We had to rebook our flight twice. All we wanted were the comforts of our own home. This hospital visit had extended so much longer than planned; they always ended up longer.

“It's our daughter.” my husband fills in for me. We were always doing that for one another; it is as if our brains have become one over the time we have been together. “What do you need?” asks the stewardess.

“Were a medical transport. She's on oxygen, and her tank is getting low. She needs medications and enoxaparin shots to keep her blood from clotting. We're starting to run out of everything because we've been circling for so long.” he pauses. The stewardess is no longer listening. Instead, she has locked eyes with our smiling curly hair and big blue-eyed, chubby daughter. She was giving her a look of sadness.

“I'll tell the pilot, we knew she was on the flight. We will need to land somewhere else so she can get the medical support she needs.” she gave our daughter one last small smile that didn't quite meet her eyes.

“Wait,” I say, and she stops. “It's not just her medical needs; she's a baby. She needs milk; she's tube fed. She also needs diapers; we've run out. The flight was only supposed to take a couple of hours. We brought only the necessities. “

The stewardess winces. “I have the milk we use for coffee and tea; I could give you that to feed her. We can move you and try and give you some extra space. I have towels, no diapers. “ she said apologetically.

“That'll be fine,” I say, although it really isn't.

I watched her walk off to the front of the plane.

Suddenly there was an announcement overhead.

“I'm sorry, folks; it doesn't look like we will land in Halifax tonight. We're running low on fuel, and the conditions are not good. We also have a little passenger who requires medical care. We will be turning around and landing in Montreal. You'll all be offered hotel vouchers for the night and we will try again in the morning. “

The stewardess returned with the sad container of milk and some towels. We move to seats in the front with more legroom. We're not allowed to sit in the seats with the extra space on the wings because they are emergency exits. We couldn't safely open the exit door and assist the other passengers with our daughter. They always say to secure your mask first. I would never put myself first; whoever made that rule wasn't a mother. They didn't understand the innate need to sacrifice yourself, to give anything to save your child. I'd die for my child. I wish I could die for my child. I look down at the sleeping baby in my arms, and I watch her chest move as she breathes. I check her saturation levels, and they are in the high 80s, which is acceptable, but she is requiring a lot of oxygen to maintain those numbers. The actual pain of being a mother, the worst possible feeling, is when your child is dying, and there is nothing you can do. I wanted to rip the heart and lungs from my body and leave a note -” make sure she gets the organs. Make sure she knows her mother loved her”. I would do it if only for the small or relatively large issue; my organs were too big for her tiny body.

My husband carefully takes the end of the ng tube coming from our child's nose and draws it back with a syringe. He places a small amount of her stomach contents on a ph test to ensure the tube is still in her stomach and has not moved to her lungs. He nods and begins to gravity-feed our sleeping child with the coffee milk through the tube.

Once she is fed, I remove her pants. I stroke the bruises on her chubby leg. Tiny needle pricks can be seen all over her thigh. I paused, searching for any space that was not too sore from giving her the injections. Finding none, I settle for an area of soft muscle with no lumps under the skin. She stirs as I inject the liquid. Her diaper is so wet it has soaked through her pants. I carefully wrap a towel around her and then cover her with a blanket to keep her warm. Her lips were blue, and her skin was mottled.

“Such a lovely child. She's been so good the whole flight. Happy and all smiles. I swear I didn't hear a single cry.” says an elderly woman from behind me.

“Yes, “ I reply. “She's pretty tough. She doesn't sweat the small things”.

“Hun, will you hold her? I need to stretch my legs,” he nods, and I carefully transfer our precious bundle. I hold in my stomach and scootch past him. I smile and make eye contact with other passengers as I walk the aisle to the washroom at the back of the plane. Once safely inside with the door locked, my breathing quickens. I look in the mirror and begin to cry massive ugly tears. I let myself fall apart, feeling everything for a moment in the privacy of the micro-washroom. I lean over and puke into the toilet. My sadness and stress are overwhelming, and my body is helplessly trying to purge it. I give myself a couple of minutes to compose myself. The floor of the washroom reeks of the ammonia-like smell of urine. I stand up so I do not puke again. Wiping my face and aligning my sweater, I step back out of the washroom, smiling and return to my family.

When I return, he is bouncing her on his knee. She holds a crayon in each hand. Her oxygen tank is empty. I make a face of concern. “We're over Quebec now,” he says in response, “the flight team is searching for a backup tank.” I sit down, snapping a picture of our smiling child. Then I reach over and take her into my arms. I hold her tight, burying my face in her hair. I inhale the scent of her baby wash deeply. It's Johnson and Johnsons' natural line; the product had been discontinued, so I bought up all they had left at the pharmacy. This smell was my child, it was her scent, and I loved it. I kiss her round full cheeks and then each of her blue fingers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing here in Montreal shortly. I apologize for the inconvenience and, hopefully, will have everyone on their way soon. The local time is 1:00 am. We ask that you allow our special passenger to disembark first before standing or removing your bags from the overhead compartment. “

The landing is rough. The plane bounces, and I hold her little body close. I am conscious of how the change in altitude impacts her breathing. When the plane comes to a complete stop, my husband stands to begin gathering our luggage. I am taking the time to post a quick update to our Gofund Me page and Facebook group. “Unexpected landing in Montreal. Even in a towel without food, meds or oxygen, our baby shark has no complaints.” I add the picture I snapped earlier to the post.