Safe Landing

After some hesitation, I decided to write & publish this story; although it contains sensitive medical content, I believe that what transpired is worth sharing. In KeriMeHome, I aspire to shed positive light on things that can be trying or challenging. I hope my message conveys a sense of hope for readers, especially those who can relate to feeling the co-existence of fear and fortitude.

 

Awakening before the alarm, I turned sleepy eyes toward the specks of sunlight peeking through the blackout curtain. Almost instantly, I became aware of the queasiness in my stomach. A slightly sick feeling that sets in when my body knows it will soon be 37,000 feet above ground in a metal tube moving 500 miles per hour through the stratosphere. 

I have a love/hate relationship with flying. I love the idea of it. I love watching planes take off. That 150,000 pounds of materials can leave earth, soar through the sky, and land at a precise destination fascinates me. The vantage point from up there – although I often can’t bear to look – is awe-inspiring. Yet, an alarm sounds in my nervous system when turbulence occurs, and I end up rapidly soaring toward panic attacks. 

I canceled my phone alarm so as not to startle Zach, soundly sleeping in the same room. I whispered a prayer for safety and support. I asked God to be a little bit closer today, as sailing in the sky is not my thing.

I moved soundlessly about the room making last minute packing preparations. Most important was medication: Zach’s dry meds go into organizers and liquid meds into the 3.4 ounce plastic bottles. I tucked the aqua blue cold packs around the bottles and stashed them in a backpack. next to the seizure rescue medications. We don’t go anywhere without them.

There was an unopened box of crackers near the pleather ice bucket. The crinkly bag made too much noise, but I nibbled on some, trying to calm my stomach. Before I knew it, we had to rouse Zach and get him ready to go. The lined up suitcases by the door would provide the visual cue for the day’s activities. He is our luggage caretaker.

As expected, Zach was super sleepy-eyed, but as soon as he spotted the bags, his eyes popped open and he leapt from the mattress. He checked every drawer, the mini fridge, the closet, and the bathtub. He un-made the bed, piled the pillows, situated the TV remote perfectly on the dresser, wiped the sink dry, and kangaroo-hopped into the hall. We were on our way.

The typical summer mugginess near Lake Michigan was setting in as we drove to O’Hare. 737s were revving and ascending. They looked so strong and steady. I wondered if anyone on board any of those planes was gripping the armrest as tightly as I do upon takeoff. I swear I’ve left dents in some of them. (And on one occasion in someone’s forearm.)

My son, however, is a champion flyer. He loves airports. With TSA Cares, he goes through security checkpoints like a pro. He is strong and can handle luggage like nobody’s business.

Once beyond security, we trekked a mile (or so it felt) to our gate, only to find it empty: there was a gate change, and it was a long way away. O’Hare sees roughly 233,000 passengers moving about per day. That morning, half of them were in that terminal. 

My eyes were watching people and wheelchairs and shuttle carts that beeped loudly (good thing Zach wears headphones). There was even a robotic chair moving through the crowd on its own. I wondered how someone “catches it.” 

We were moving at a quick pace – leaning left to avoid a double stroller…ricocheting right to bypass the people mover. Once at the new gate, we looked out at the planes lined up on the apron. Their tails were prominently displaying stripes, like our flag, and their white fuselages gleamed in the sun. Accordion-like jet bridges spanned the distance between planes and gates. But, at the end of our gate’s jet bridge, there was no plane.

I glanced at the monitor: Delayed. I did not know it at the time, but that delay was a blessing in disguise.

The gate and its perimeter were becoming saturated with passengers. We were standing near a large pole, adjacent to a metal bench. Construction noises were happening nearby. Intermittent sunlight was radiating through the skylights and shimmering onto the black and white terrazzo flooring. Impossible-to-hear announcements were bleating through the air. A baby cried, and a poodle was yelping as it was put inside its carrier case. I was paying extra attention to Zach; noise-reducing headphones help, but sometimes the world is just too bright and too loud. He seemed a-okay.

It was almost time for Zach’s medication. This could be tricky; our plane had arrived but needed de-boarding and cleaning. Should we give meds a little early then? Once on board, it would be cumbersome to prepare meds on tiny tray tables. One fumble and goodbye meds. Also, I didn’t want to be scolded by a flight attendant for having the tray down. I eyed the doorway to the bridge carefully.

“Folks, we will begin boarding momentarily…” I figured we could take our seats and prepare meds before we taxied out.

“Hey Zach,” I said, “give me your arm…gotta put your backpack on! We’re ready to get on the plane!” (My enthusiasm was for him – I was certainly not feeling eager myself).

I straightened one strap over his right shoulder. I looked at his face – he was transfixed on something beyond the gate.

“Other arm…” I said, mustering cheerfulness.

No movement. His body was Tin Man before the oil can.

“Zach, honey, I need your other arm.”

No arm rose.

“Bear cub, I need your ar-”

I looked at his face again. His eyes had rolled up toward the ceiling. The backpack slid down his right shoulder. His body was keeling back. 

Ohhhh no!  No no no no no!! A seizure!!! Right then, right there. A seizure.

I screamed out. My husband sprinted to catch him – 130 pounds collapsing backwards onto a stone floor is treacherous. Two men standing nearby sprung into action. I watched as they lowered Zach’s convulsing body to the floor. The area became a nightmarish carnival with fast-spinning faces in a sea of commotion and frenzy. I felt dizzy and dazed and desperate. 

Just moments ago, I had randomly mentioned to my husband that I stowed the seizure rescue medication in the blue backpack. I crouched on the floor and saw Zach writhing and gasping for air. I began whispering a prayer for Jesus’ help when suddenly I felt a hand on my arm. 

There was a woman with large, deep brown eyes squatting next to me. She wrapped both of her hands around my trembling right hand and said, “I am here for you. Look at me. Take a breath. Breathe for me.”

In all of that chaos, my eyes, and body, focused on her. Her hands anchored me. Her instructions reached me. I looked up and around. We were encircled while the two men and my husband were tending to Zach, who was twisted up, pale, sweating, and gasping.

“Move the lanyard off his neck!!” I yelled. Even though it was not constricting him, I didn’t want it there. One of the men stretched it out. I saw that Zach’s arms, hands, legs, and feet were contorted. If the seizure continued for two more minutes I would need to administer the rescue med.

I kept praying. 

In the blink of an eye, another woman with brown hair in a ponytail bent down, met my eyes, and said, “Can I pray with you, over your family?” Yes, I said. Please. Yes.

This woman put one hand on me, and one hand on Zach. She began calling out to Jesus to come and help us and heal Zach from the seizure. Her prayer was like a soft blanket, enveloping us in comfort and warmth. 

One of the men kneeling by Zach’s head shouted, “He’s coming out of it….it’s stopping!” I looked at Zach’s face, and his eyelids were slowly relaxing downward. 

“Is he breathing??? Is he?? His chest!  Look at his chest!” I know how these things can go. 

“Paramedics are on the way. They’ll be here soon.” A man’s voice from above caught my attention. Did they know he wasn’t breathing??  Is that why someone called 911? I need the rescue med! I started to grab the blue backpack. 

“What do you need? I can get it for you,” said the woman holding my wrist. I could barely get words out.

“He’s breathing! He is. Look!” My husband’s palms were on Zach’s chest.

With the two women on the floor with me to my right, I put my left hand on Zach’s chest. It was rising and falling. 

In all the chaos, I’d lost track of time. “What time is it?” I asked. When someone said 11:55, I reached for the bag with medication. Right there on the floor, next to a trash can, surrounded by all these people, the brown-eyed woman and I prepared his medication. She steadied my hands which were quivering so much I almost dropped the bowl. My husband supported Zach’s shoulders and we administered his regular meds. Zach’s mouth struggled to open, and I wasn’t sure he could swallow. The woman touched his chin gently while I scooped the mixture beyond his pale lips.

“What is that you are giving, M’am?” Suddenly, four paramedics were standing over us. One of them carried a stretcher, and he began assembling it. That made me shake more. What was about to happen? They can’t take him away!

“It’s his seizure medication. It’s due every 12 hours. I had to give it.”

“A rescue medication, M’am? Is that what you mean?”

“No! We didn’t give a rescue med. These are anticonvulsants…his regular medication.”

We went back and forth until I made him understand. He wanted to know the specific names and doses. Good thing I carry this info in my purse. Bad thing my purse was buried in a backpack under books and snacks and crayons. I had to dump things onto the floor.

The brown-eyed woman let go of my wrist. I stopped and locked eyes with her eyes again. It felt like the anchor dislodged. 

I did not realize til that moment that I was crying. My nose began to drip and my hair was sticking to my cheeks. Zach was now sitting up in my husband’s arms  – an EMT was monitoring his pulse and BP, and I saw them take blood.

Somehow there were still people in line to board. A few minutes passed but it felt like hours. Just then, a gate agent touched my shoulder and began talking to me. Through wet eyes I listened as he told me that we could still get on the plane, but we’d have to be cleared by the paramedics first. Policy. He asked if we wanted to abandon the flight and figure out how to rebook something later. 

Faced with a decision that could present intense complications no matter what we chose, my hands shook again. Suddenly, someone’s arm appeared in front of me and handed me a water bottle. “Drink some,” the voice said. And when I looked over, I had no idea who had just done that. Nobody was there. It was a brand new bottle. I cracked the cap and drank.

Then another person approached and offered a beach blanket. “Is your son cold? Does he need this? Or maybe you can use it? It’s all I’ve got.” One after another, people offered support and care.

The brown-eyed woman put her hand on my back. “I know you’re taking care of your boy…he’s okay now…come sit down and catch your breath.” She helped me to the metal bench. I took deep breaths and sips of water. I noticed how in the midst of noise and movement and all-things-airport, I felt a calm come over me. We were still waiting to either be cleared to fly or denied boarding. It might take off without us anyway, I thought.

Blinking tears from my eyes, I stared at the holes in the bench. I breathed deeply. Dozens of tiny hexagons connected like a beehive. I noticed the black and white floor beneath it, through the hexagonal holes. The floor was zig-zagged like a crooked zebra. I lifted my eyes toward the ceiling. Dappled sunlight streamed down in lines through the skylights. The skylights were like Venetian blinds across the entire ceiling. The beams met the glass windows which provided a direct view of lined-up, striped airplane tails. In the windows, a mirrored image of the passengers walking by could be seen. They looked like ghost soldiers marching in a line. Reflections of shiny objects burst like tiny bombs against the glass. I looked at the lights above our heads. Bright fluorescent tubes, that to a sensitive eye, could be flickering. I turned my head. Off to the side, departure screens had multiple columns and rows of illuminated letters and numbers that rapidly shifted every few seconds. My breath caught, and I spun around, almost spilling my water.

My husband was talking to a medic. “Look up,” I told him. He did. “Now look at the floor.” He did. “Look out the window. Do you see what I see?” He did. Lines. Zigzags. Bright streaks. Beams of light. Repeating patterns. Stripes everywhere. It was a highly contrasted, ultra vivid stage to the movement all around us. People, carts, wheelchairs, rolling luggage, moving displays. We were immersed in a living, Escher-like, geometric painting. 

Everything Zach’s eyes took in while standing at that gate imprinted stripes and lines and zigzags on his brain. The high contrast patterns with particular spatial frequency (called tessellation) likely disrupted electrical activity in the visual-processing portions of his brain. Layer in all the moving parts, and there you have the precursor to a photosensitive seizure. 

“I think I know what caused this,” I blurted to the paramedic. I brushed damp hair from my face. He glanced around, nodding his head in understanding. He asked if that kind of thing happened before.

“Yes…flashing Christmas lights, sitting too close to a fire pit, disco balls, strobe lights…yes.”

“That’ll do it,” he said. “Makes sense. Don’t know exactly why they chose to have these crazy floors in here,” he offered. “Too much commotion already.”

I looked at Zach, now sitting in a wheelchair. I touched his cheek and kissed his hair. “I’m so sorry, so so sorry this happened. We are right here, we are with you, and you are going to be okay.” One eyelid perked up and there was a barely perceptible nod. The color was coming back to his cheeks.

I looked around for the brown-eyed woman whose hands grounded me; she was gone. I hoped I’d spot her again…I so wanted to hug her tightly.

The EMT on the phone then pointed to me and gave a thumbs-up. “Hospital doctor cleared you folks. Your decision what you wanna do,” he announced. “Will your son sleep on the plane?”

We both answered affirmatively. 

The gate agent said they could get Zach on the plane – it was still there, and we could board. They talked with the pilots and crew; all knew what happened. He put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, “Your call.”

“Are they okay with us on board?”

“You’re cleared by medics, and okay’ed by American. But we need to know now if you want to go.” He smiled and patted my shoulder supportively.

I knew I could choose to abandon the flight. Part of me desired to crumple up. Cry it out. Call off the day and take cover. All eyes were on me. 

For reasons I can’t completely explain, the “other part” of me rose up and said you’ve got this. I craved the comfort of home, mostly for Zach. If we quit, backed out, left the airport (without our luggage!) we might cause him more distress.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “Let’s get on the plane,” The agent nodded and winked.

Once seated and buckled, I thought of the people who helped, taking time from their busy day to provide comfort and assistance. I was flooded with gratitude. Tucked in the waves of gratefulness were solid assurances that Jesus was right there with us, and would be with us the whole way. I sensed it, felt it, believed it. That calm sensation returned to me. A feeling gripped my stomach, and it wasn’t queasiness this time.

Zach looked content sitting there. I watched his eyes watching the world on the other side of that teeny window. 

Did he know what just happened? I’ve read that people with epilepsy can sense a seizure coming, but often don’t recall the actual event. They may experience profound tiredness afterwards. Some remain confused for a while. I did not know exactly how Zach processed seizures. I hoped he was not riddled by stress or fear from it. 

I closed my eyes. The faces of the people who stepped in to help appeared. Tears welled. I gripped the armrest, but honestly, not as tightly as I usually do. I held their support in my heart; a bulwark of strength for the day.

The blessing in disguise I mentioned? Had the flight departed on time…had we been up in the air when a seizure struck, they may have turned the plane around or made an emergency landing somewhere. Things would have gone quite differently and proved much more traumatic, for everyone involved. I can say that given my pre-exisiting apprehension about flying, if that seizure struck in flight, I’m not sure I’d ever get back on a plane.

Zach’s sweet face looked angelic sleeping on his dad’s shoulder. He may not have known it, but he had so much support and love surrounding him. It warmed my heart to know and feel the truth of that; we were not alone. I will venture to say that we are never alone. And if there is a silver lining to this, it’s that. We never walk alone. There are kind, good people everywhere. It may not feel like it day in and day out in this turbulent world, but in my experience – and in this experience – it really is the truth.

In my experience, too, there is a kind and good God who holds us close. With faith in my heart, I carry that truth with me as well. 

Up above the cumulus clouds, somewhere west of the Mississippi River, the plane rocked and bumped a bit. Inner alarms tensed my stomach. I turned to my music. I tapped shuffle. The first lyrics to fill my ears were: 

When you walk through a storm,

hold your head up high,

And don’t be afraid of the dark.

At the end of the storm is a golden sky

And the sweet silver song of a lark…

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

And you’ll never walk alone

No, you’ll never walk alone…

You will never walk alone…

(“You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Gerry & The Pacemakers, 1963, written by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein for the film “Carousel” – 1945)

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