Childbrith over the Pacific

Our flight from the Philippines to Hawaii started out as routine as ever—military men and their families returning to the United States. We stood at the top and bottom of the portable stairs, wearing white gloves as we welcomed the passengers. The plane wasn’t full, and the ` laughing soldiers spread themselves throughout the cabin. After we completed the emergency demonstration, we checked that all passengers had buckled their seat belts.

Once the jet leveled off, Jean and I changed into our aprons and passed out blankets, pillows, and magazines to those passengers in the rear of the plane. Meanwhile, Linda set up the stainless steel counter across the front of the galley. She started brewing coffee and arranged the trays and rolls for the dinner service.

The flight to Honolulu was smooth. The sunny skies belied what was to come. After serving dinner and picking up dirty trays, we completed a coffee service and sat down to eat our own meals. Night had now overtaken the plane. As we flew east, most of the passengers fell asleep. A few were reading, their tiny lights dotting the dark cabin interior.

Before starting a breakfast service, Jean and I checked those passengers who might have wanted some extra coffee or juice. We verified bathroom supplies and wiped off the counters, mirrors, and sinks. One lavatory was occupied.

“I’ll check it later,” I said.

After a half hour, the lavatory was still locked. Jean stood beside me as I knocked on the door.

“Is anyone in there? Do you need help?”

No one answered.

Using my fingernail, I pushed the lock mechanism to the right and released the door. Not wanting to embarrass anyone, we cautiously peeked in.

There on the toilet seat sat a young Filipino girl in a flowered dress. She was folded over at the waist, her head resting between her knees. Her hands and dark hair dropped to the floor in front of her. She looked dead.

“Are you all right?” I asked. No answer. She wasn’t dead, but she was definitely unconscious.

Jean telephoned Margie, the senior flight attendant, and informed her of the situation. Margie notified the captain.

“Linda, we have an emergency. Will you make up a bed?” I asked.

She told the passengers in the last two rows about the urgent situation and asked them to find other spots to sit. She then pulled up the three armrests on the last row and pushed forward the seatbacks in the second to the last row. Linda placed blankets and pillows on the three seats and formed a simple makeshift bed.

“Let’s grab her under the arms,” I suggested.

Jean and I half carried and half dragged the young woman from the lavatory. After we rested her body in the newly created bed, we lifted her feet.

A request was made over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, is there a doctor on board?”

An abrupt hush enveloped the plane. Passengers glanced around, attempting to see what was happening. Although we had no doctor on board, we did have a medic. Tom Delaney stood up and walked toward the front. He was tall and thin with brown hair, wearing a khaki uniform.

“I’m a medic. Can I help?”

Margie related the facts about the unconscious teenager and they both walked to the rear of the plane. While Tom examined the passed out girl, Jean and I taped a blanket to the overhead bins to give them privacy.

Tom turned to us and asked, “Where’s the baby?”

Confused, we looked at each other.

“What baby?” we said in unison.

“She just gave birth. Where’s the baby?”

“We found her unconscious in the bathroom,” Jean answered.

Although the young woman was now awake, she did not speak English and we were unsure of her medical situation.

Tom went into the lavatory she had been using. He reached below the toilet bowl into the waste container, and swished his arm around. He brought out a dead baby.

Although covered with brown slime, it was perfectly formed except for a large black bulge on the back of his head. It had been submerged in the toilet for almost an hour.

Tom placed the baby boy in the sink and turned to explain the catastrophe.

“It didn’t make full term,” he said. “It was probably in the womb only five months.”

He and I stood crowded in the small confines of the bathroom, gazing at the tiny infant. It smelled like human waste. I had never seen a newborn before and bent down to inspect it.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the back of its head. “There’s a bruise.”

“It could be a deformity,” Tom said. “That might have caused the mother to abort. Or the bruise might have happened when the baby fell into the toilet.”

He wrapped the baby in a garbage bag (the only large, clean item we had on the plane) and placed it on the lavatory floor. I locked the door and returned to the young woman, who was now sobbing on the makeshift bed. I felt her damp skin and wiped her forehead.

From her hand signals I understood she was thirsty and gave her a cup of water. I propped her up with pillows, permitting her to easily drink.

Tom rubbed her belly, and eventually the birth waste was eliminated. Again he wrapped it in a garbage bag and I placed it in the restroom. Tom returned to his seat once he was sure we could handle the situation.

“Thanks, Tom,” Jean and I said, our words flowing together.

Margie came to the aft galley and said, “An ambulance will be waiting when we arrive in Honolulu.”

Linda sat with the girl, stroking her arm and talking softly to her. Jean and I rested on the rear jump seats, exhausted from the traumatic experience. Before long a young sailor appeared. He wore his Navy uniform and had a blond buzz cut.

“Have you seen my wife?” he asked. “I fell asleep and can’t find her.”

Jerry Smith, an eighteen-year-old from Pittsburgh, had married a Filipino teenager a few months earlier. His wife Divina didn’t know many English words, but Jerry said they loved each other. They were planning to have a family and start a new life together in America.

We told Jerry about Divina’s loss of the baby and brought him to her side. He sat on one of the folded seats in front of the makeshift bed and held her hand, talking tenderly with her.

After the breakfast service we cleaned the galley and prepared for landing. Jerry and Divina sat up, and I placed a pillow between the seat belt and Davina’s stomach.

An ambulance drove up after the plane taxied to the terminal. Two medics in white uniforms boarded the rear of the plane and placed the two evidence bags into a container.

“We’ll take her to immigrations first and then right to the hospital,” one said. “Don’t worry. She won’t have to get out of the ambulance.”

They placed Divina on a stretcher and began to remove her from the aft seats. She reached out for Jerry, crying hysterically. She wanted him to come with her, but the Navy wouldn’t allow him to deplane. He had to continue flying to Travis Air Force Base in California.

Both of them wept and she grabbed his shirt, trying to keep him with her. We watched the sad drama unfold as the medics took her down the stairs. They put her in the ambulance, closed the door, and raced away from the plane. Jerry bent his head and wiped his face.

“I can’t believe we lost our baby,” he moaned.

Linda, Jean, and I listened to his heartbreaking words. Maybe something good would come from their sad beginnings. We hoped there would be a happy ending when they eventually connected in the States.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27