His seatmate couldn’t believe her eyes as he stood up. “But he’s a pianist!” she protested.
Her protest fell on deaf ears. Thomas was already halfway up the aisle. The stage fright he felt before a performance was nothing compared to what he felt as he reached the first rows of the plane.
A man in his fifties was lying unconscious on the galley floor, where the crew had carried him to give him some room.
“We need more space,” Raymond exclaimed. “That is, your patient needs it. Ask the two male flight attendants to go take care of the other passengers, so there’s more room. Keep only the woman here with you. Ask her what happened before he passed out,” he ordered.
“It would be better if there were fewer people around,” Thomas suggested shyly. “But could you stay and explain what happened?” he asked the woman.
The two male flight attendants left. The woman clearly felt flattered to have been chosen to help the young doctor.
“He asked me for something to drink. When I brought him a glass of water, he seemed agitated and was sweating heavily. At first, I thought he was having a panic attack because of the turbulence. He wasn’t making sense and started acting aggressively. He kept asking for his bag and was wheezing as if he couldn’t breathe. Then his face went white and he fainted. Do you think it’s a heart attack?”
“Maybe, but I suspect something else,” Thomas heard himself say, as if his father had possessed him. Then he watched as he took the man’s pulse and declared that it was slow but steady.
“Take his hand and tell me if it’s cold,” said his father. “I can’t do that part.”
Thomas grabbed the man’s hand awkwardly, as if he were shaking it, surprising the flight attendant.
“Cold,” he mumbled.
“All right, now lean in toward his mouth and tell me if it smells like apples.”
“Are you kidding me? This isn’tHouse,” groaned Thomas, citing the medical TV show. The flight attendant raised her eyebrow.
“Do as I tell you!”
“His breath doesn’t smell like apples,” Thomas said, straightening up as the flight attendant stared.
“So, he’s not in ketoacidosis,” Raymond concluded. “Push hard on one of his cheeks, at the place where the jawbones meet. Don’t ask me why.”
Thomas did as he was told, and the man moaned.
“Now we know he’s just unconscious, not in a coma,” explained the surgeon. Raymond ordered his son to roll up the man’s sleeves and look for needle marks.
“There’s a big one,” Thomas said in a confident tone. And once again he found himself speaking without intending to: “Didn’t you say he’d asked for his bag?”
“Yes,” the flight attendant replied cautiously.
“Bring it here.”
She hesitated, then complied.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked, handing over the man’s luggage.
“I sure hope so.” Thomas sighed.
His father scowled. “Keep your snide remarks to yourself and go through his bag. You’ll most likely find a long, rectangular, orange plastic case containing glucagon. We’ll need that.”
Thomas found the kit just as his father had predicted. He opened it and discovered a syringe filled with a solution and a bottle containing a powder.
“Now, do exactly as I say. It’s easy, you’ll see. First, take the seal off the bottle, then plunge the needle through the plastic lid and push down on the plunger to empty the solution into the powder. Just likethat, perfect. Now mix it all up. And now suck the mixture back up into the syringe. I’m impressed, you’ve done really well.”
“And now?” Thomas asked worriedly.
“Lift up the front of his shirt. Use your left hand to pinch some flesh between your thumb and your forefinger, to create a fold. Hold the syringe like a dart, making sure not to touch the plunger.”
“There’s no way I can give this guy a shot,” Thomas said under his breath.
