Page 20 of Player Misconduct
“Did you go with him?” he asks.
“No. I stayed behind and read a book.”
“Has he been bleeding? Any black stools? Vomiting?” he asks.
“Yesterday he threw up once,” the wife says. “But we thought it was the heat. He said he was dizzy.”
John’s eyes flick to mine, the trained worry passing there like a shadow. He lowers his voice, enough for me, not for her. “I’ve seen something like this once but not in person and I didn’t treat it,” he says. “Could be a dozen things. Could be nothing. Could be… something infectious. I’ve heard of a recent Ebola outbreak with bats in a few different regions around the world.”
Ebola? My nerves spike at the thought of an infection disease diagnosis. But without proper testing, we won’t know.
“Do you think it could be?” I ask, matching his own voice.
“I’m not sure. He’ll need to be tested in a proper facility immediately.”
It is wildly unlikely, but with a current outbreak, and bats being the primary carrier, at this moment, not impossible. The emergency doc in him is obligated to tell the pilot the worst case. The human in me wants to vomit.
“Okay,” I say, and make my voice steady because mine is the only one I can control. “We act like it’s contagious until it’s not. Gloves on everyone. Minimal contact. Keep a perimeter.”
He nods. “We need to isolate the row,” he tells the attendant. “Clear the two rows in front and behind if you can. Ask anyone who was in direct contact to stay put when we land.” She looks as sick as I feel, but as the true professional under pressure, she nods.
I squeeze Steve’s hand gently, noticing that neither John, nor I have gloves on as we touch Steve. If it’s an infectious disease,we’re also compromised. But the oath we both took makes the decision that the patient comes first our priority.
Steve squeezes back the barest whisper. Everything in me leans toward hope, like a plant reaching for the sun.
“Stay with us,” I tell him. “We’ve got you.”
“Tell the captain we may need to divert,” John says to the attendant when she reappears. “Nearest airport with medical capacity. And call this in as a potential infectious case. CDC will want to meet us.”
She nods, eyes wide. “We’re talking to the cockpit,” she says. “They’re checking routing.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Aleksi appearing at the edge of the cleared zone, tall and inconveniently gorgeous and deeply out of place in this small theater. He doesn’t try to get closer; he doesn’t speak. He just catches my eye and tips his chin, just to let me know he’s here with me, though we both know he can’t offer any help. Still, knowing he’s here goes a long way.
I mouth,“I’m okay.”He nods again and stays put, a lighthouse in a dark night where I have no idea where this will all lead.
The captain’s voice arrives over the speakers wrapped in professional calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We have a medical situation on board. We’ll be diverting to a small airport in Nevada to meet a medical helicopter to take the passenger for immediate assistance. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened. We may experience some turbulence as we descend quickly.”
The ripple runs through the cabin: curiosity, annoyance, fear, the usual human mix of emotions. The attendants do their jobs well, keeping voices low and instructions clear.
John and I stabilize what we can stabilize but we’re at a disadvantage on this aircraft. He needs immediate and specialized medical attention.
The descent is controlled and fast. Ears pop. My stomach lurches. Someone two rows back prays softly. I press my hand to Steve’s chest when the wheels squeak along the runway too hard, and I’m briefly grateful for every commercial flight I’ve hated because none of them were like this. But I realize that right now, my doctor brain is in control, not my Kendall fear brain. Which means that my attention is on the patient instead of anything else. Fear takes a back seat when you’re jumping into survival mode for someone else.
We taxi to a remote corner of the tiny airport in the middle of nowhere. A private airstrip but at least it’s here. The windows become a moving painting of tarmac lights and anonymous hangars. Then the scene shifts: flashing ambulances and a white van with CDC stenciled in blue on the side. The plane’s engines start to shut down, as if it’s just as relieved as I am to have touched down on solid ground… only, this is just the beginning to a long road tonight since the CDC showed up in full hazmat suits.
When the patient and his wife are taken off our flight and loaded into the helicopter, it’s our turn to be the potential problem.
Three CDC agents in full hazmat suits enter back into the airplane.
“Out of an abundance of caution,” the lead says, “we’re going to ask that every passenger disembark and proceed to evaluation and quarantine. We’ll be putting you up in a motel for the night until the morning when we will see if anyone else comes up with symptoms.”
Quarantine. The word lands hard. I knew this was probably coming but it still hits like a slap when it finally comes down.
Deboarding takes forever.
Or maybe it just feels that way because my pulse hasn’t come down since the wordspossible infectious diseaseleft the ER doctor’s mouth.
Rows file out one at a time, each passenger stepping carefully down the stairs of the aircraft–no jet bridge for this disembarkment. The air smells like jet fuel and desert air. I clutch the strap of my carry-on so hard it digs into my shoulder.
