Plane flight to Mystery

He couldn’t say what he was escaping.  A restlessness.  A certain ennui.  He was simmering a tepid personal stew..  He was tired of himself.

 The warrior monk  had grown old.  He’d  charged one too many windmills. Now he had sciatica. He’d counted coup on his enemies countless times. This new lot didn’t even know coup.  The took offence at neutrality.   They bashed forward like Vogon. The parking lot was the height of their artistic expression.   They worshipped an old drug in their new way.

Now he was on a plane.

“How much longer?” He asked the stewardess. 

Later he asked her again, “Are we there yet?”  She’d didn’t answer. 

There was only one more day in the year.  2018 was passing. It was the year that all the prophecies about Climate Change,  Donald Trump and fake news proved false, yet another year. The promises of annihilation were untrue but  no one seemed to  care  because truth was reduced like everything sacred to mere construction. The role of speech had devolved to a child ‘waaaaaaaaah’ of infantile protest.  The bankers, lawyers and activists chortled with glee.  

He stared at the passing night.

“I am looking forward to my own bed”, he thought.  He considered the problem of his expanding bladder and the two big men between him and the aisle.  

2018 was another year of waste. Urine, shit, plastic, nuclear. 

Outside the window  chariots ridden by gods  passed the jet plane. A saucer full of aliens descended again to  suck the brains from another Canadian politician. Rumors of intelligence are highly exaggerated. 

I dreamed of bugs crawling in my nose and rats eating my lips well still  i lived, unable to move, feeling the pain and dismemberment.   I was awake.  The pain wasn’t something I could distract myself from. I prided myself on meditation and stoicism but rats gnawing on lids seemed worse than the immediate pain and  loss of sight caused by huge carrion birds plucking out my  eyes.  The last sight , an image of beady beurocratic eyes and huge beak.  It just goes on interminably. The hope is fever and death but what if one remains a wake as the worms pass through the body as it turns to dust.  The problem really is the  attachment to this body.

I’m no longer attached to my body. I’ve eaten so much this year   I’m feeling fat.  No matter what politically correct CBT I do in my mind I can’t see myself as handsome with a protruding gut screaming my sins of gluttony and sloth to all that have eyes to see.   I’m no different than an alcoholic reaking of booze or a sex addict playing upskirt with the childrn. I wonder when I’ll reach my bottom. It’s certainly growing.

The rumble of the plane is exhausting.  The air is stale in this tight cramped position in economy. I think first class is getting their air before us.  I imagine a communist revolt using all that Lenin and Che Guevara taught us.  My shoes feel tight as my heart fails to circulate the blood efficiently through the swamp of my feet.  I have the urge to stand up and scream.  Panic builds.  The claustrophobia returns.  I have a  series of phobias I can indulge in like comic books.  I page through them.  I’ve dwelled on them enough all my life.  

The therapy dog lies at my feet dreaming of chasing rabbits.

I’ve had a grand time with family. As close to returning to a womb as an adult is allowed to in public places. I’ve suckled the nipple of nostalgia.  I’m treated as a white hair.  I have to intellectually construct myself as such, being an adolescent looking out on the world from this bloated corpse. I watched two frail old people adventurously boarding the plane and constructed them as adolescent lovers. I’ve lost the ability to look at old people as such.  We’re all children in a sand box.  

I don’t know how it happened.  Every month I learn of  another person close to me or someone I went to college with dying. The good die young we insist.   I live on.   I can only imagine God has a plan or use for me.  I haven’t a clue. I’m trying to embrace the mystery.  Catholics probably handle dementia better than the rest of us.

I’m reading Evelyn Waugh. It’s 1930. He’s at the coronation of Haile Selassie in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.  I’ve learned the source of the Jamaican name Rastafarian.  I also learn the source of “I and I” a  phrase  I remember from  a Bob Dylan song. Apparently the Syrian Christians since massacred in the millions by Muslims once came to teach in Africa. 

“Are we their yet?”  He asked in subdued voice.

Is there a medical doctor on the plane?

“Is there a medical doctor on the plane?
I’m unlucky this way.  I’ve responded to a medical emergency in flight several times now in the past 2 years.  It is Air Canada this time.  The plane has taxied to the take off position on the run way.  I hope another doctor is on board. There isn’t anyone else joining the stewardess leaning over the man in the section ahead of me.
I walk up the aisle, identify myself.  The man is in the window seat.  He appears obtunded.  The two passengers beside him move out to let me slip in.  He is breathing slowly.  I place my fingers on his pulse talking directly to him. He’s moving very slowly, pupils midway.  He smells of alcohol.  Maybe something else.
I proceed to ask the emergency questions, talking to him, reality testing, conclude he’s disoriented, slurring words, fluctuating consciousness, disoriented.
The stewardess leans over and asks if we should take him back to the terminal.  “Yes, “ I answer that will be best.  He’s irritated and admitted he’s been drinking rum and tea before the flight. He’s a very poor historian given mental state.  It’s all I can do to engage his floating attention.  I don’t know if he’s just taken alcohol and whether the blood level is rising or falling.  It’s best that we return.
The airport’s emergency services come aboard when the pilot gets the plane back to the terminal .  I briefly tell the fellow the salient features and my diagnosis Delirium secondary alcohol and possibly drugs.  He engages the man, professionally and efficiently. It’s apparent this airport team is particularly time aware.  The man staggers and stumbles sailor walking the length of the stationary plane.
The stewardesses thank me.  I find a card, write down my college #, put my diagnosis on the back.  The stewardess are all young and beautiful. Throughout the flight they each stop to thank me.  I am rather happy to have beautiful young women smiling at me.  Bit of a novel experience at my age.
I love the irony or synchronicity.  Being a physician/psychiatrist/ and addictionist I couldn’t be better suited to this particular emergency.
The last emergency I helped with on Air Canada was coming back from Hong Kong.  Pseudo seizures secondary to  metabolic acidosis after panic attacks.  When I was a family physician I’d have been hard pressed to handle either of these cases.  Both were custom made for me today.
Back when I was a gp I was faced with a delivery on a train. Despite delivering a hundred babies in my day I was incredibly relieved   when an obstetrician came forward and  took over.  Personally I'd given a Doctor of Divinity a similar sense of relief when I came forward.  He'd been good enough to heed the call.  
I'll never get cocky though. Handling an angry psychotic  man on one flight had taxed all my skills despite my psychiatric expertise.
 This time I was lucky.  God was kind.
It was good to be of service too.
I rather liked all those  smiling grateful young stewardesses though.  Made me feel like Brad Pitt must feel always.  Not bad. Not bad for an old guy.

Crossing the Atlantic

I have crossed the Atlantic once again. I’m making something of a habit of it.  The first time was such a novelty. Now there’s something of an ordeal.  This flight from Toronto to Dublin only 6 hours yet I’m weary with the cramped strain on back and muscle.  Imprissoned in Economy I ask myself how much longer can I tolerat mere hours of upright sitting in cramped accommodation.  When I was young I sat cross legged hours on end. Now older I am ruined by this position.
Those who went before spent weeks and months at sea.  There was always uncertainty.  Even now I feel we must believe. If someone failed in faith this plane might falter.  Collectively we have dreamed this passage.  Before us men in skin rafts sailed forth from Ireland.  Saints and monks and fishermen.  Vikings are found in the genes of North American aboriginals. Their passage must have been more adventurous coupled with superstition.  I’ve come this far with science.  There are still spirits under the wings and some spiritual force in the engine.  Internal combustion and jets.  Lift and luck.
My grandfather left this land of Ireland to which I’m bound to come with my grandmother to Toronto Canada where my mother and her two sisiters would be born.  Another generation and my brother and I’d be born as well.  Not so many months ago  my brother and I buried my father and mother’s ashes with my grandparents and aunts in Toronto.  We drove by my grandfather’s home. The red brick edifice still remains. I remember the kitchen.  I remember my grandfather and grandmother there. I was a very young child.  But later I’d remember meals in the living room.  And much much lather, my Irish grandfather long gone, my grandmother would die in our Winnipeg home.  I remember her well.
First we land in Dublin.  Trinity College, the Book of Kells, the Archeological Museum, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Christ Church, Dublin Castle. Then on to Belfast. My grandfather grew up west of there, a valley my brother visited.  He’s gone before me and left me a map of the area where grandad was a boy.  I think my mother will be pleased with me.  Canadian she loved all things Irish.  She and my brother were red haired while I began blond before  darkening only to grey now with age.

Laura, Pearson Airport Toronto

Emerald Isle

Istanbul - Best Western Amber Hotel Terrace - Jan 2 2015

My Air Canada flight Toronto to Istanbul was without incident.  Excellent service.  Great take offs and landings.  I’m just tired.  I had an aisle seat and was able to get up a few times so I wasn’t too cramped.  The audio jack didn’t work at my seat. I could have moved but instead just read Robert Ludlome’s Bourne Ascendacy, by Eric Lustbader.  I napped a bit. Chicken dinner and omelette breakfast were served.  I loved the distraction.  Landing I realized I was again in a country where I didn’t know the language and couldn’t read the writing.  From a learned man with adept language skills I’ve returned to being an idiot savant.  I was thankful for the English translations on signs that carried me to Passport Control. The kind man studied me for a bit then stamped my passport and handed it and me eVisa back to me.  No difficulties there.  An information desk directed me to a ‘hotel information’ service where I was able to get a $110 turkist lire shuttle to the Best Western Amber Hotel where I’m staying.  I think the Lire is about 50 cents but I really do have to review that.  I’m carrying american money, canadian money, turkish lira and euros.  My brother and nephew are far better at the rapid accounting that saves them losing money in these transactions.  I simply muddle along and usually am fairly competent with exchange by day 2 or 3 of my travels.
They’ve just let me know my room is ready. I’ve been waiting on the Terrace of this Best Western Hotel enjoying the quite spectacular view of the harbour and surroundings.  I’d certainly love to sail into this extraordinary place of ships since ancient times.
11 am I’m in my room. It’s quaint, lovely hard wood floors, bow legged chairs but all the modern conveniences. I’ve just had a shower so am a bit human. My guide Mehmet called to say he was about 45 minutes away. I could sleep for a day but I’ll  keep moving and the jet lag and lack of sleep will just have to sit on the back burner.  I certainly lost a lot of sleep delivering babies, late night emergencies, even now I get calls in the wee hours and just muddle on with a loss of a nights sleep.  It certainly makes one appreciate sleep.
Well, I’m glad I’m here.  It’s an adventure.  There’s that whining chanting loudly broadcast ‘call to prayers’  outside that distinguishes Moslem religion.   I’m in a different world.  Now to learn about the history and experience the exotic.

Jet Cockapoo - Gilbert

We've made another flight with Gilbert under the seat. He's become a really good traveller.  Rides fine in the carry on then sleeps through most of the plane flight. Taking off and landing are stressful. I worry about his ear equalization. Does he know to swallow. He's usually panting at the end of those parts but no apparent pain.  I figure it must be anxiety. It's also just hot at times in the plane and given his fur coat that might well be sufficient explanation. He's happy to be with me, that's for sure.
In the airport he's fine. I worry he'll pee on something after a 5 hour flight. However, he's a good boy, patient as we wait for baggage. Then he sled dogs us out the door where he really does let go a stream. Here in Ottawa with all the snow the yellow puddle was evident.  More dogs are travelling and the evidence was apparent in the yellow snow patches of the dog walk zone.
My sister in law, Adell, arrived to pick us up. He's ecstatic with family, jumping all over humans and licking their ears. His memory for those who love and play with him is incredible. Looking forward to his seeing my nephews and their partners. There's a young folk love fest he really gets into.  Three guys and almost as many girls willing to throw ball. Lots of great festive holiday cooking smells and treats. How can life get better for a dog!
Thank you Air Canada and Westjet for understanding pet owners and making it more and more convenient for us to travel with our family.
 

Hong Kong Airport

I just flew in on Dragonair from Cambodia.  The stewardesses were exceptional. One even helped a little child down the stairs all the while the little girl was talking a mile a minute.  I really enjoyed my flight from KL to Siem Reap, Cambodia on Dragonair. The services are exceptional.
I loved flying over Hong Kong harbour. It's an amazing harbour. One of the finest, obviously, in the world. A sailor's delight.  I imagine the joy the early square riggers found in putting in here.  Even now the big boats look happy at anchor.
I remember my time here fondly, doing early morning tai chi in Chatterly Square, the only gaijin in hundreds.  Was that the name of the square? I loved that what would be a 'department' in a department store was a city block or more here. I bought my first palm pilot here, the precursor of the iPhone 4 I"m using now.  I loved typing on the little keyboard with the breast pocket palm screen adequate for my needs. I had all the medical texts and references I needed early in this digital game. I carried them with me.  Now their equivalent is on the iPhone. I've wifi and cellular internet too.
The Hong Kong Airport is ultra modern.  There's a space station feel to all air stations , for me raised on cars and trains. My dad took us up in small planes as children but I didn't fly from big airports myself till I was in my teens. Now children fly, coming and going from these air stations, taking for granted this world of hours away versus days.  Next we'll be "beaming" on Star Trek.
My flight from here to Vancouver, some 12 hours in the air, has been delayed by a wait over here for 4 more.  I've already been in the air for 3 hours and 2 hours earlier.  The Air Canada desk was pleasant and helpful, giving me a food voucher for use in Hong Kong airport. I see there's showers and after this McCafe mocha I might 'spruce' up.  If I bought a fresh shirt that would go along way to helping me feel human for this long day of travel.  Eating helps.  Travelling is tiring, surprisingly so, given that all one is doing is sitting and eating and moving through a tiny bit of space around a pale blue dot in the universe.
There must be something in the atmosphere. Psychologically there must be a displacements of sorts.  In the plane the air seems never to refresh but here in airports its something more than the neon lights.  I think it's in the press of people all in transit and all displaced. Sitting in a toilet cubicle I feel a sense of peace in the aloneness. I was in the business lounge earlier today, having flown business class, on Dragonair. There was greater quiet.  Perhaps its in the sound, the constant talk, especially here, where the Chinese do chatter, and the machine noise in the background.  I'll get out my earphones and listen to a bit of Steve Bell.  I'll be seeing him in concert one day too.
I've got some Hermes cologne. The girl at the desk didn't think I'd never need to wash again. I'm of an age where the young can be horrified, thinking I'm serious.  A shower, a fresh shirt, a meal, cologne. All that I need more is Gilbert, the cockapoo,  and a yellow tennis ball. He'd keep me entertained and would love to run the lengths of this huge complex.


   

Singapore

Vancouver to Hong Kong was 13 hours.
 A woman became faint on the plane. Apparently her eyes rolled back and she almost fell over in her chair.  The flight attendant had witnessed this and called for medical help.  She was dizzy when I arrived but could speak so with a nurse I was monitoring her after a relatively complete history and physical,the nurse as translator.  Again the question was whether to turn back the plane and again I felt it wasn't necessary.  Later I wondered if it was a conflict of interest, wanting to get on with the long flight.  She perked up after our care, amazing what relatively thorough and matter of fact history and physical exam does.   She was well on arrival so most likely vassal vagal.  Her history of hypertension, no meds or treatment, with normal blood pressure was a red herring.    The nurse thanked me for my very thorough examination and was most impressed with my attention to neurological and cardio.   I think head injury or drug abuse if asked to help with a broken finger nail these days.  I gave a report to the flight crew who duly wrote down my findings.  The Air Canada equipment was adequate.  The flight crew was exceptional.  I only used the stethoscope and penlight, the nurse used the blood pressure cuff I handed her,  but in retrospect would have like to have known if there was a laryngoscope and needles with fluids for maintaining volume.  I didn't check to ensure that was present. When I was called to help on a Northwest flight there was pretty well all the makings of a combat medical service.  I should have checked more here though it wasn't needed. Can't assume different airlines have the same equipment. Made that mistake once with a hospital emergency and had a hell of time without "standard" equipment dealing with an emergency.   The flight crew consulted their on shore medical expert. Presumably the company doctor agreed with me. We didn't turn back.  I thoroughly loved the nurse, so concerned, caring, competent and bilingual.
Due to turbulence and wind and such the plane arrived late.  I missed my connecting flight to Singapore so was an hour delayed before the 3 hour flight. Singapore Airlines were really special.  I loved the Flight Attendants uniforms.  Great meal and service.
Now I've had a shower and it's night in this beautiful city.  Hannah got me a fine room in Miramar Hotel. Would only be better with Gilbert here.  He likes hotel rooms.  I'm going to the port in the morning so will get to bed now that I'm winding down a bit.  Long flight. I feel for my friend John when he flies home to Australia.  
Here's the Miramar Hotel in the morning.  Nice place.  Central.

Late for the plane after being hijacked by Richmond

I don't know why I'm late.  I'm often late. It's not because of self importance or disregard for others. It's like nail biting. A bad habit and worsened with anxiety.   I know I begin to be late more often when I'm stressed and anxious.
I certainly don't want to be late.
I packed the night before as I always do.  I was up 3 hours early.  Maybe it should have been 3  hour and a half.  The rule is to arrive two hours for an international flight, one hour for a domestic flight.  That's always been the gauge.
I just had difficulty getting away.  Instead of showering and dressing and being out the door in a half hour as I normally could I was double checking everything, worried for my home.  Then it was 6 as I was leaving for the half hour drive to the airport.  i guess I didn't factor in the 10 minutes for parking. I know I didn't factor in stopping for gas but was nearly on empty and worried I'd not have gas when I drove home.  Then I got lost in Richmond.
I hate trying to get to the airport through Richmond.  It's a Bermuda Triangle. If I didn't have my iPhone gps I'd be there for weeks or maybe years.  I suspect most of the people who live their gave up trying to find their way out.
I just sometimes end up on the wrong bridge and land in Richmond. One bridge leads to the airport and heaven while the other leads to the purgatory of Richmond.  I know I should know by now. I've done this airport drive dozens of times and yet every now and then I find myself in Richmond. Once I'm  on the #3 road there are no signs. I  knowing that every years thousands of others make this same mistake. I suspect the various stores refuse to put up signs as a means of trapping tourists in Richmond. They're like those folks who purposely ship wrecked sailors by lighting lamps to mimic lighthouse.  It's terrifying.  And I live here.  The harrowing experiences of tourists is beyond consideration.
No one speaks English in Richmond either.  I've stopped people in the past, before I had the gps. and repeatedly asked them in English or French where I was and they didn't speak either official Canadian language.  Strange bizarre people Very peculiar Canadians.
Aliens live in Richmond.  When I saw Men in Black it all came clear. Probably they landed their space ships in Richmond and got lost and have lived there since.
The kind parking bus driver dropped me at the International Gates when I told him I was going on Air Canada to Azerbaijan.  He helped me with my luggage.  I then hoofed it up to the Air Canada International line waiting for families ahead of me to go to the desk only to be told I had to go to domestic since I was stopping over in Toronto first.
The Vancouver Airport isn't a small place.  After hiking for several days carrying luggage and passing bones of men and skeletons of whales and various frightening Indian totems along the way,  I eventually got to an even longer line. I tried to use the check in machine but it wouldn't accept Azerbaijan as a destination at first and when it finally did,  wanted me to put the diploma size visa of that country in a little envelope size hole for scanning.  I told the pretty Air Canada hostess that I was late for a flight to Azerbaijan. I knew I was late by then. I wasn't looking at my watch having no time for non essentials.  But she directed me to  the long line and I waited and waited.
I began to hate the old and the young and invalid in that line.  They seemed to lack focus.
When I finally gave my ticket to the very attractive middle aged Chinese Air Canada lady hostess, she told me, "You're too late.  If you didn't have luggage I could put you on but they've stopped taking luggage."
"I said, "I normally travel with only a carry on but my colleague wanted me to bring him books. I'm the speaker at an international conference."
""You shouldn't be late."  She scolded me.  She actually scolded me. I'd not been scolded for several marriages. A distant ex was a scolding feminist whereas I definitely was scolded by church ladies in Sunday school when I was very young.  But I'm 'elderly' by some ridiculous definition of the agist young.  I became filled with guilt and apologetic.
""I went to the International departures".
""That's only a ten minute walk"
"I waited in line," I said
"But you're going to Toronto first. You should know it's not an international departure."
And then I bristled.  I thought of all the things that patients don't know and how daily we're sued or complained against as doctors because people don't know.  Here I was a older man, more than 10 years her senior, no doubt, and she was scolding me. She was even implying I was a liar.  I take truth very seriously, indeed more so than some in the courts today.  More so than journalists, and pot smoking, crack using politicians.  More so than presidents who apparently don't know what sex relations are but are supposed to be trusted with nuclear weapons.  
I was calmly responding as an adult but feeling back in grade school with the bullying female teachers.  I remember the one that stripped me naked in class and spanked my bare bum in front of all the boys and girls I played with. It was so humiliating.  Now years later I resisted feeling humiliated.
Her voice was challenging, the tone was even belligerent. She was flushed looking at me.
I knew then that I could say something and she could hurt me now or help me.  So much of my life had been my saying the wrong thing, being drawn into the traps of the petty bureaucrats and all those who seek positions of authority to wield power they lack themselves alone.  All the cowards in the world.  I've fought them all my life.  I've bull dozed through them. I've bowled them over like ten pin bowling pegs. I've championed the underdog.
But now I just wanted to get to Azerbaijan.  A friend had asked me to come. I thought of him and those who wanted to hear my contribution. I thought of all the work that people had gone to this last week to get me a visa  in time to attend.  I thought of my poor assistant moving patients and getting research notes and caring for my little dog.  I thought of all the important things.
She was staring at me, waiting.  I silently prayed and held my savage tongue.
"Can you help me? "  I asked sadly, "I know what the problem is but is there a solution?"
Then she looked in her computer.  She began scanning screens and typing furiously.
The flush went out of her cheeks. The hackles settled.  I didn't know what her day was like. She may have had news that her mother was sick or her boyfriend was having an affair. Because I'd not met fire with fire a wholly different outcome transpired.
She was obviously intelligent, accomplished and effective.  She was positively caring.
"I can route you on a jet leaving for Toronto in an hour. It's arriving a half hour late so there will be time.  That will also allow you to make your connection to Heathrow in Toronto."
With that she tagged my luggage.  I gave it to the luggage attendant.  It wasn't just the books. I was bringing a projector on this trip and was carrying that , my computer and camera  so needed another bag to carry shirts and socks and such.  There was lots of room for the books. I'd also rather liked the idea of taking the books because it ensured I had space in my luggage for the return haul.  I've often had to buy another bag or struggled with purchases I have no room in my luggage for on return.  I like buying gifts to share with friends.  I always bring a toy back for Gilbert. So the books were welcome. I felt just a little guilty about the 'knee jerk defensive excuses'.  Really I'm not a 'bad' boy, it's fate.
I didn't want to tell her about Richmond either.
One never knows who might be one of them.  The people who live in Richmond and don't think it's "unusual".  I think the movie "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers' was made after a writer or movie producer got trapped there years back.
Thanks to her, my prayer, my late found maturity,  I'm now in Heathrow.  I'm noticing too that I'm becoming more peculiar myself with aging.
I found myself wondering if it was  possible she had a part time job as  a dominatrix and there was some blurring of boundaries between her two occupations.   A lot of men pay big money to have attractive women  scold them at my age. Some even liked to be spanked. For all I know she could have just looked at me and felt charitable.
Air Canada rocks and as usual I love their service. Against all odds I'm here in London and the flight here was truly a joy. Now on to Baku, Azerbaijin!