Nose dive

Tampa, Florida

I AM RIDING on the employee parking lot bus at the Tampa airport, my workday finally over. The bus is packed with other employees ending their shifts. It has been a very long day for me, a turnaround, four flights in and out of various airports, Tampa-Atlanta-Milwaukee-Tampa, with several long sits (waiting around between flights) making my day even longer. It is early December, unseasonably cold and dry in Tampa.

I touch my face and suddenly blood starts gushing out of my nose. I am shocked. I don’t know what to do other than lean over so I don’t get blood all over my uniform. I have never, ever had a bloody nose in my life, the common childhood affliction just never happening to me. Riders on the bus gasp and start passing tissues and napkins to me. There is so much blood, it looks like my head has been cut off.

Someone on the bus dials 911 and questions are relayed to me. How old am I? Am I on any medication? Has this happened before? I give muffled answers as I can’t raise my head, can’t remove the wad of tissues pressed to my face. The bleeding won’t stop. Paramedics are summoned and I get off at Stop 2 to wait for them.

I am lifted onto a gurney and rolled into the ambulance along with my rollerboard bag and my crew tote bag. My big uniform purse is placed on my lap.
Then the questions begin:“You’re a flight attendant? Who do you work for? Do you fly international? Have you ever been in a crash??”

I have been asked these very same questions my entire career. That’s why I take my wings off when I duck into a grocery store for a last minute purchase. That’s why when I’m out in public and not at the airport, I button up my uniform sweater, try to look inconspicuous, incognito as a secret agent. The crash question is particularly amusing. Do I LOOK like I’ve been in a crash?

I am rolled into the emergency room of the nearest hospital, my nose continuing to stream blood. Yep, here I am, Delta’s finest, blood all over my face and hands, a blood-soaked fistful of tissues mashed on my nose. The ER doctor comes into my cubicle. He starts asking me questions:

“You’re a flight attendant? Who do you work for? Do you fly international? Have you ever been in a crash??”

Two years later I am in Namibia, looking at several shipwrecks still foundering off the treacherous, aptly named Skeleton Coast. Huge waves break on the beach. No one swims here, or fishes here. The surf is too dangerous, the currents too strong. Fog drifts along the shore.

Parts of an airplane that crashed decades ago while trying to rescue survivors off a shipwreck still litter the sand. It is eerie, spooky. I kneel inside the remnants of the old, rusty, crumpled airplane engine and take photos.

Now when I am asked, “Have you ever been in a crash?” I can answer with a resounding “YESl”

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