Gayle Woodson - After Kilimanjaro

AFTER KILIMANJARO

Copyright 2019, Gayle Woodson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2019

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-660-2 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-63152-661-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936488

For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Book design by Stacey Aaronson

All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To my husband, Tom:
Fellow Traveler, and the Love of my life.
Let the red carpet roll on.

The first stage is seeing mountain as mountain and water as water; the second stage, seeing mountain not as mountain and water not as water; and the third stage, seeing mountain still as mountain and water still as water.

Qingyuan Weixin, ninth century

To get lost is to learn the way.

African Proverb

I s there a doctor on board?

Every physicians nightmare. Medical emergency in midflight.

The woman in the next seat grabbed Sarahs arm. Did you hear that? Theyre calling for a doctor.

Why did she have to tell this nosey woman that she was a doctor?

There had to be at least one other doctor on boardsomeone who wasnt jet-lagged and sleep deprived. She had not slept a wink during the five-hour layover in Amsterdam. Besides, she was trapped in her seat by vegetarian lasagna. The other choice was salmon, and her mother always said you shouldnt eat fish on an airplane.

The PA system repeated the plea. Is there a doctor on board? The woman beside her snatched the lasagna and commanded, Go!

The plane was packed. Rows and rows of weary people. Just like the midnight crowd in the waiting room of the Philadelphia Memorial Hospital Emergency Room.

But this wasnt a hospital. Just a tin can, stuffed with hundreds of people, hurtling in an eight-mile high arc between continents. No X-ray. No EKG. No stethoscope. Probably no defibrillator.

Two flight attendants in Delft blue uniforms hovered over a foot projecting into the aisle at a peculiar angle. A familiar queasy wave washed over her, and she prayed for something simple. A hangnail, airsickness even a nosebleed wouldnt be too bad.

Please God, dont let it be a heart attack.

The man connected to the foot slumped forward, face plastered to his tray table. Sarah grabbed his wrist. No pulse. But his heart had to be beating because he was breathing. Wheezing, yes, but still breathing. He wasnt dead. Yet. She tapped him on the shoulder. Sir, are you having any chest pain?

No, he whispered.

A woman kneeling on the seat beside him brandished his food tray like a sword. This is fish, isnt it? Hes allergic to fishhe told you that!

A flight attendant grabbed the tray. He ate the salmon?

I thought it was chicken, he muttered.

Sarah glanced at the name badge. Anika, do you have an emergency kit?

Yes, Ill go fetch it. Both blue uniforms fled to the galley.

Airway, breathing, circulation. The emergency ABC mantra.

He wasnt breathing so well, and his circulation sucked. No room to get his head between his knees. And if he needed CPR, hed have to be on a flat surface. She lifted his head to stow the tray table. Lets get you out of this seat.

He didnt respond. Floppy as a rubber chicken. She grabbed him by the armpits and tugged in a futile attempt to get him out into the aisle, but he was glued to his seat. His lady companion had disintegrated into blubbering and moaning, and a little boy with curly red hair and freckles in the next row peeked over the seatback and giggled.

Poor man, his life was slipping away, as surely as if he were being sucked out through a rent in the side of the plane. Sarah was his best hope, his only hope, and she was failing miserably. She locked her arms around his chest and pulled with all her might, but he wouldnt budge.

It was hopeless.

Until help appeared. A young black woman with closely cropped hair and a clipped African accent. Golly, he seems in a bad way. Can I help?

Yes, please. Grab his knees. Not the worlds smoothest transfer, but they managed to get him stretched out in the aisle without banging his head on something. Within seconds, his lips went from gray to pink.

Youre a Godsend, said Sarah. He looks a ton better, just getting horizontal.

Whats your working diagnosis?

Anaphylaxis. Hes allergic to fish.

Anika returned with the emergency kit, a black canvas bag stuffed with pills and bottles and bags and needles. Sarah snapped a tourniquet around his arm and searched for a vein while her colleague poked through the bag, muttering to herself, Adrenaline, adrenaline, where are you?

Anika tapped the African woman on the shoulder. Are you a doctor?

Yes indeed. In fact, I am a surgeon. She pulled a colorful plastic tube from the bag and waved it at Sarah. Whats this?

An EpiPen.

Pre-packaged adrenaline?

Yep. Stick it into his thigh. Its a sturdy needle. You can poke it right through his pants.

Wow, this is very cool. We dont have anything like this at NTMC.

Sarah threaded a needle into a vein and popped off the tourniquet. NTMC. Thats Northern Tanzania Medical Center, right?

Youve heard of it?

Thats where Im headed. Sarah connected the tubing and started the flow of sugar water into the vein.

The man opened his eyes and gazed up at the women bending over him.

Anika wrung her hands, Should I ask the pilot to land the plane? He says he can stop in Khartoum.

Sarah tried to suppress a gasp. Like Sudan?

Thats the closest airport.

The man sat up slowly. His blood pressure was 90 over 60. No need for an emergency landing. Sarah plopped on the floor and sighed with a blend of relief and exhaustion. Adrenaline had propelled her through the crisis, but now she was spent.

The African surgeon cleared her throat. Youre going to NTMC?

Yeah, Ill be there for a year.

I guess well be working together. She extended her hand. My name is Margo. Margo Ledama.

Im Sarah Whitaker. Now I know at least one person on this continent.

Anika pointed out that the man could not stay on the floor. We must keep the aisle clear. Unfortunately, the plane is full. I have no place for him to lie down.

They helped him back into his seat. Margo rigged a way to hang the IV fluid from the overhead compartment and winked at Anika. You should bump us up to Business Class for this.

I wish we could do that. I can offer you some little rewards. And I need you to fill out some forms. In the galley, she presented each doctor with a business class amenity bag and a clipboard.