On my flight back to Boston a few weeks ago, this old guy died. Done with life. I’m not exactly sure what happened because I had a few drinks before the Seattle to Boston redeye and then I popped a sleeping pill or two.
The hazy recollection goes something like this. About three hours into the flight the lights came on and the captain starts shouting on the loud speaker, “Is there a doctor on the flight? A passenger needs immediate medical attention!” This lady comes bombing down the aisle towards first class. Moments later, the captain comes on again and is like, “sorry for the inconvenience but we need to make an emergency stop in Detroit.”
Ugg. Detroit. I was still groggy when the plane kicked in its afterburners and barrel rolled into the Detroit airport. Where we promptly sat on a tarmac for several hours.
Long story short, the old man didn’t make it and rather than feel sorry for him, I was just upset. I resented that the guy couldn’t hold on to his life after inconveniencing me and my arrival time. You hold on old man!, I would’ve shouted as I pounded on his chest during CPR.
But for some folks, it’s going to be that kind of day: “The pilot of a Continental Airlines jetliner died midflight on Thursday morning as the plane, carrying 247 passengers, was en route from Brussels to Newark, the authorities said. Two first officers were operating the plane, a Boeing 777. The flight, Flight 61, was expected to land at Newark Liberty International Airport at or shortly before noon.”