Illness, responsibility, change, happiness and home

 

Not long after we completed our air trek from Scotland, my father fell seriously ill and had to go to the hospital. The local hospital, it turned out, didn't have the ability to perform certain tests to determine what was wrong with him so we had to take him to another hospital in another state.

Our Beech 18, before my grandfather acquired it, after originally belonging to a feeder airline, then becoming an executive transport, had belonged to an air ambulance company and we still had all the original equipment stored away.  So we pulled out the personal transport interior -- couch and seats, mini kitchenette, etc. -- and reinstalled the ambulance facilities, including two emergency stretcher beds, jump seat, medical storage units, over head bars to hang IVs from, and so forth.  The plane thus transformed, I flew my father and mother, who was looking after him, first to our local hospital and then to one much farther east and much better staffed and equipped.

There it was determined that dad had an intestinal bleed and had lost so much blood he needed a transfusion.  He also had a serious infection. He needed surgery immediately.  I left my mother with dad and flew back home to see to my children, who were being watched by my aunt, whom I had flown up from her college town.  I flew her home, then some time later, when my dad was ready to be discharged, flew down and brought her back to take care of my kids again while I flew a couple of states east to pick up my parents and bring them home.

Unfortunately, while at the hospital my father had acquired a very bad flu-like bug.  My mother got it, too, and shortly after they were home, both fell very, very ill.  My mother, who was not quite as sick as my dad, refused my insistence that they go to the hospital.  She said she knew what the treatment would be there and that she could prescribe (she's an MD, although retired) whatever a hospital would and she knew that I, with my training and experience, could provide better care for them than they would receive from strangers in the hospital. I had to agree with that logic, although reluctantly, because I worried that there might be a medical emergency, heart attack, stroke, some complication from dad's surgery, their illnesses getting worse, that I could not handle.  I argued this with my mother but she was adamant.

So, keeping them in quarantine in their bedroom in separate beds, I took care of them.  My mother recovered first, after a few very bad days and a week or so of general weakness and malaise.  But my father,  weak from his previous medical emergency and surgery, was so ill that I was afraid we might lose him. He was unable to eat anything for days and ultimately lost more than 10 percent of his body weight, despite supplying him with IV peripheral parenteral nutrition, which he had had at the hospital so we had the blood tests and necessary information for our pharmacist to prepare the correct formula for him. I flew into the city to pick this up.  Eventually, my dad did recover, but he had a bad cough for several weeks and really didn't get back to his old self for about two months.  And his diet is now restricted -- no alcohol, no fried foods and no spicy foods being the changes he is most unhappy with.  On his menu now is a lot of yogurt, apple sauce and assorted non-acidic foods. Pablum, he calls it.

This episode was difficult in so many ways, especially because I not only had to take care of my mom and dad, but also my children, while keeping them away from from my parents so they wouldn't catch whatever they had, something they didn't understand. (And, yes, I wore a surgical mask when interacting with my parents and children.)  I also had to deal with ranch issues, which my father always did and is something I'm not remotely qualified to do, but that I had to do.  Someone had to make the final decision on so many things.  Of course, I relied on the ranch foreman, but he could not take ultimate responsibility for a plethora of things.  I hope I made the right decisions.

But these issues were not what affected me most -- I had to deal with high-demand, high-stress situations before any number of times in the Navy.  What really got to me was the realization that my parents are old.  That may seem something that should have always been obvious to me, but, although I suppose intellectually I knew they were old, emotionally, mom and dad were just mom and dad, always there, always the way they were when I was a kid, a teen, a young adult, solid anchors in my life that would always be there, unchanging.  But now I saw them as frail, helpless old people struggling simply to breath, to eat, unable to even sit up in bed without help.  It scared me.  It forced me to acknowledge that they are in the end stage of their lives and I won't have them forever, that one day they will be gone and I will be, in a very central part of my existence, alone.  Everything I've achieved, whatever I've accomplished, has been due to the upbringing and encouragement provided me by my parents.  When I went astray -- and I've done some really stupid things -- they steered me back on course without judgement or criticism. 

I have processed all these emotions now, and realize that my role going forward is to take care of them, be the one in charge.  My mother's refusal to be hospitalized will probably be the last time she will over-rule my judgement in an important decision.  It is now my obligation to see to their health and happiness.  I will shield my eyes from the inevitable future and just live with them day by day, appreciating each hour that I have them with me.

I mention all the flying I did because had I not flown the Beech back from Scotland with an experienced co-pilot and thus got a lot of time and refresher instruction in it, becoming quite comfortable at the controls, I couldn't have done it.  I hadn't flow the Beech in years and and had no thought of ever doing so again. If I had suddenly to absolutely have to fly it all on my own, it would have been a problem, to say the least.

But as it was, I scarcely thought about flying it solo with no co-pilot.  Even flying to Rochester, Minnesota, a mighty long haul at some 850-plus nautical miles, to get dad to the hospital was no problem, from filing flight plans to navigating around or over storm fronts, taking off and landing smoothly. The most challenging episode was when, due to various circumstances, I had to try landing at our airstrip after dark.  It is not lighted. It's just a landing strip and nothing more.  I figured that I would try it and if I didn't like the situation I had sufficient fuel to fly to an open airport (the local airport closed at sunset). But there was enough starlight and light from a quarter moon to pick out the field and provide depth perception, so that, as experienced as I had become at landing there,  I was able to set the Beech down as easily as if it had been broad daylight.

I didn't think twice about flying my mom, aunt, my friend the vet tech (about whom I written) and the ranch foreman's wife and her friend down to Denver to do Christmas shopping. We stayed at the Art Hotel, which was a rather bizarre experience, but fun.  The most enjoyable diversion was visiting the open-air Christkindlmarket, a German-style Christmas bazaar.  A funny aside: when I parked the Beech and we all deplaned, I heard one of the ramp workers ask another, "Where's the pilot?"  Ah, good old spontaneous sexism.  Gotta love it. 

What ice accumulation does to an airplane.

On the flight back, we encountered heavy icing and I was again glad that dad had kept the plane's de-icing equipment intact, and I was able to handle it.  My passengers had no idea that I was dealing with an "issue."  Even my mom was not particularly concerned, but, occupying the co-pilot's seat as she was, she could see the concentration on my face and had sense enough to keep silent and not distract me. The other ladies chatted away in the cabin, completely unaware, which was as it should be.  With the help of ATC, I was eventually able to get to an altitude free of ice and we completed the flight uneventfully.

I flew in and out of various local city airports to get prescriptions filled and buy necessary items for dad's recovery.  On some of these trips I took my mini-me with me since she had missed out, being too young and -- horrors! -- a girl, on the grand adventure her brothers had enjoyed.  So I made it a project for just the two of us to have our own special times together. We even flew to Spokane to watch the State Street Ballet's presentation of The Nutcracker at the Martin Woldson Theater at the Fox, which she watched with fascination, behaving like a perfect lady (and, of course, now she wants to be a ballerina).  We stayed at the Davenport Tower and ordered room service, which awed my little girl: you just make a phone call and they bring you dinner! Who could imagine such a thing? She loves waffles, so for breakfast we dined at People's Waffles, which also delighted her, and the wait  staff was very kind and attentive to her.

When el jefe arrived at the nearest major airport, instead of him making a connecting flight to the closest feeder airport, and me driving down to pick him up, I flew the Beech to it and was waiting for him when he deplaned.  He was surprised to see me waiting at the gate, I can tell you.  He picked me up and raised me over his head and spun around as other passengers eddied past us.  He was even more surprised when I said I had flown down in the Beech, but pleased.  We collected his baggage and were in the air heading home in something more than an hour after he deplaned.  I asked if he wanted to drive, but he said he would just right seat it.  We talked practically non-stop as I filled him in on events and he updated me on his situation.  

I landed at our local airport to refuel.  We had been flying between an overcast at 8,000 feet and an undercast at 3,000 feet.  We descended through the undercast, getting some ice and turbulence, finally breaking out at 800 feet in snow flurries.  We landed into an eight knot wind 20 degrees to the left. El jefe called out the numbers for me as I made the approach, something I hadn't enjoyed the luxury of for quite some time.  I crossed the fence at 75 knots with 2000 rpm and 20 inches, 45 degrees of flaps, cutting power just before the wheels touched. We rolled out in about 900 feet.  El jefe said, "Not bad -- for a girl!" and I stuck my tongue out at him.  He said, "Lean over here a little closer and do that again!"

I taxied up to the pumps and Randy came out to do the servicing.  I introduced him to el jefe.  It was in the twenties and jef was not dressed for winter weather so we did not linger.  I told Randy to come in to the burger shack when he was done and I'd buy him a cup of coffee.  I steered el jefe into the shack and, introducing him to the fry cook, whose name I had learned was Alexander, but everyone called Butch, and ordered us a late lunch.  El jefe was wowed by his bacon cheeseburger, and the fries he said were the best he'd ever eaten.  

The FBO had seen us come in and he stopped into the shack to say hello, so I was able to introduced him to the hubster, who, he said, he'd already met.  I'd forgotten about that.  I had dressed to please el jefe, but the FBO, who, I had come to realize,  was a bit of a roué, but in an amiable way, eyed me as I sat on a counter stool, unabashedly ogling my somewhat thigh-revealing get-up with appreciation. 

He draped his arm around my shoulder, squeezed me against him as he stood beside me and said, "Oh, honey, what you do to an old man." Then turning to el jefe he said, "Mind if I borrow Wanda for about 15 minutes?"

Jef, ever up to verbal banter, said, "Borrow?  Borrow?  Let me see your money on the counter top!"  

Butch was wiping dry some glassware but stopped, looking from one to the other of us, half smiling but clearly not sure if the men were serious. I shook my head slightly at him and he went back to drying.

The FBO said, pulling out his wallet, "Let's see now, I think I've got a five in here.  Can you make change for that?"

"Sir, you insult me and my fine merchandise!" said el jefe, and was about to say more when I interrupted, saying, with brilliant wit, "Oh, you guys!"

Just then, Randy came in after stomping his feet on the porch to shake off the snow from his boots, a swirl of cold air tumbling into the room with him.  He said he'd put 220 gallons (at $6.45 a gallon) into the Beech and topped off the oil, checked everything and all was okay. I bought him his coffee and the conversation turned to other things.  I asked after Jim, the crop duster, and learned that he was down on the Redneck Riviera, flying banners and doing fish spotting and whatever else turned up.  He used to spend winters in Mexico, Butch said, but now that was too dangerous.  The cartels would kidnap him and force him to run drugs, or else just kill him and take his plane.  El jefe asked who Jim was and I explained.  

"Hard way to make a living," he said.

"And dangerous," said Butch, recounting some close calls and near things Jim had experienced, and also telling about one of the AgCats that flew out of this field crashing after tangling with some telephone lines.  I hadn't heard about that. The pilot was badly injured and no longer able to fly.  That news put a damper on the conversation and after a pause the FBO said he needed to get back to work, and gave the eye to Randy, who said he did, too.  And I said it was time we got going as well.

When we stepped out on the porch from the heated shack, the air felt icy cold.  It was snowing steadily now, big heavy wet flakes, but as we walked over to the Beech I looked down the runway and could, I believed, make out the end. The ceiling looked to be lower than it had been.  Jef started to do the walk-around with me but I told him I didn't want him to catch cold, since he wasn't even wearing a jacket and to get on board.  He saluted and said, "Aye, aye, ma'am!"'

When I finished the walk around, brushing off the little bit of snow that had accumulated -- mostly it melted as soon as it touched -- and climbed into the plane, shivering from the cold and regretting my choice of attire, el jefe was waiting in the cabin with a lap blanket for me that he'd found tucked under a seat.  He pulled the cabin door closed and secured it as I made my way forward to the cockpit and slid into my seat, my mind already on the task of getting airborne and navigating the flight ahead. We went through the checklist together, then I started the engines, and turned the cockpit heater and windshield defroster on full. I could see our breath in the icy air and there was frost at the top of the windscreen. Jef got on the radio and picked up the latest weather. It was worsening.  When I taxied to the end of the runway, I could only see about halfway along it through the falling snow.  I knew that as we headed down it our view would keep opening up, so I was not concerned.  I reset the directional gyro to the runway heading, set the flaps at 15 degrees, applied the brakes and advanced the throttles to 25 inches, then released the brakes and eased the throttles up to 36 inches, props 2300 rpm, while keeping an eye on the directional gyro, using the brakes and as we picked up speed the rudders to keep the plane centered on the runway. When the tail began to rise, I kept the nose slightly high so that the attitude indicator bar rested about a quarter inch above the horizon.  I held that attitude until we gained flying speed and the plane naturally became airborne.  As we passed the end of the runway I raised the gear and flaps and closed the cowl flaps. I maintained full power until we reached 80 knots, then reduced manifold pressure to 28 inches and propellers to 2000 rpm, holding the airspeed steady at 112 knots as we climbed.  We encountered icing through the first layer of clouds. It built up rapidly but the Beech's de-icing defenses handled it, though I did have to push the throttles up to 33 inches, the maximum continuous power setting, and the props to 2200 rpm to keep gaining altitude at a reasonable rate. Once we were through the icing layer, I reduced power to normal climb until we reached 7,000 feet, then reduced power to 27 inches and 1800 rpm and turned for home. 

It was hardly snowing at all at our air strip when we approached it at twilight. The ceiling was a thousand feet, the windsock, barely discernible in the growing gloom, scarcely stirred. There was snow on the runway so I kept power on as we touched down, holding the plane aloft as long as possible, letting it skim lightly into the snow till I felt the wheels on the gravel, not wanting to risk a nose-over if it proved more than a few inches deep, but otherwise the landing was routine and we rolled out in less than 700 feet, the snow acting as a brake.  My mother had heard us come in and drove down from the house to meet us.  I wanted to get the plane into the hanger and out of the weather and was glad el jefe was there to help me manage that.  I told mom to stay in the car, but she got out anyway and did what she could to assist us.  Then she drove us up to the house.  Through the trees, lit up as it was with Christmas lights, it looked like a fairy mansion and I felt content that, finally, everyone was home, everyone was in good health, and we didn't have to go anywhere for any reason.  I began singing the old Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas" and my mother and my husband both joined in.