When dying on a plane
Sunrise from Mount Sinai. St.Catherine, Egypt, January 2022
A frail man in a wheelchair, dressed in a white track suit, catches my attention. He is parked next to the line boarding the plane along with his family. Maybe he is waiting for some assistance, I wonder. My thoughts leave him behind and drift to finally returning home after months in strange lands. I find my seat to start and looking for my book… Out of the corner of my eye I make out the apparently sick man’s wife and daughter carrying him and seating him right behind me. There is a loving tenderness in their eyes but also exhaustion after long suffering alongside a loved one. I wonder why is he traveling in this condition. Is he traveling for treatment?
…I finally find my book, put on my music to mute the world around me. Don Quixote rides out with Sancha Pansa to chase giants disguised as windmills, until I hear a moan that takes me back to the flight cabin 10 km above the sea. Another moan, but this time it makes me shudder, as if I was the one in pain. Now the moans come in regular intervals and every time they pierce through my ears. I turn around to find the now motionless man with his eyes closed and regular moans leaving his immovable mouth. I look around, all passengers seem busy with sleeping, reading books or watching movies. His wife is standing next to him holding his hand while the daughter looks concerned. No one seems to notice the plight of the man. I wish I could help, but there is nothing I can do. I think to myself at least he has his family around and they seem to deeply care about him.
A frail man in a wheelchair
Giving up on the thought that there might be something I could do. I pick up my book again, where Don Quixote frees a group of prisoners convinced they are slaves in need of freedom. In regular intervals I hear moans, to be reminded of his suffering and hope for him to get better. Hours pass and Don Quixote is caught by the priest and is forced back home in a cage. I wonder why my headphones have been muting the moans. I take them out and listen… It seems that he is feeling better. My thoughts fade back to La Mancha, where I stop at the line: “Until death it’s all life; I mean that I have still life in me, and the desire to make good what I have promised”. This resonates with me. There is still much I hope to achieve in this life. Looking out of the window I see that the plane is descending - I turn around to check on the fragile man - he seems asleep. Something is off, he looks frozen, a bit pale. I stare at his chest to see if is moving, to be interrupted by the plane hitting the runway. As soon as the plane slows down – his wife unbuckles her seat belt and gets up to check up on him, while the other passengers are slowly packing their belongings.
“Hamed, get up, we landed” she says
No reaction
“Hamed?”, her voice becomes a desperate plea
The third time she screams his name.
Still no reaction
In her blind desperation she slaps him across the face to wake him up – her daughter hurries and restrains her before she can strike again. A stewardess carrying a first aid kit comes running, while another one calls for a doctor.
“Hamed, get up, we landed”
A woman puts away her book and gets up – her unease with the unexpected responsibility is written on her face.
“Hamed we are in Germany, wake up”, the wife screams through her tears, “Hamed!” she keeps shouting
“Mother, say: There is no god but Allah. Say alhamdulillah – praise be to Allah” the daughter reminds her in anguish.
I sit and observe what is happening around me, no different than the chair I am sitting on. I wish I knew what to do. I remember my failed medic training.
“What does he have?” the doctor asks upon arrival.
“Cancer”, the wife responds.
The doctor freezes. There is no first aid to cancer, even I know that.
The wife in tears keeps screaming his name “HAMED”, while the daughter reminds her to praise God and say “La illaha illa Allah”. This cycle keeps going on for what feels like an eternity.
The doctor still frozen, like a statue.
The stewardesses in their calm professionalism, have already called for an ambulance and started to usher the passengers out of the plane to clear space for when the paramedics arrive. Passengers on the other side start to slowly disembark in silence, like on any other flight.
The cycle of screaming “Hamed” and “Say: Alhamdulillah” is yet unbroken.
My turn comes, as I get up, my own mortality comes to my mind.
What promises have I yet to fulfill?
What will I leave behind?
What is this the meaning of all of this?
As I am exiting the plane, the screams get fainter and the siren of the ambulance comes closer, I start seeing the answers to my questions clearer and clearer, while I feel something warm on my face. Every day I have is a gift and nothing can be taken for granted.
“Death eats up all things, both the young lamb and old sheep; and I have heard our pastor say, death values a prince no more than a clown; all’s fish that comes to his net”
