Musings: ‘This is my 10-13’

I handed off my first flight of the day to my assistant chief plot and pulled the Piper Saratoga out of the hangar and preflighted. Caryn lived in northern New Jersey, and I wanted to be ready just in case. When the call came in from Hackensack Hospital an hour later, Anne was with me at the airport. I watched her face. It was bad. The emergency room doctor first thought it to be a heart attack, but it was worse—much worse. They called it an aortic dissection. Liz was being transported into New York City to a larger hospital, where surgeons would operate immediately.

Although I have no knowledge of medicine, my family does. My son is a doctor living in Pittsburgh, and my other daughter is an EMT. Fortunately I did not immediately understand what was occurring. Anne explained that an aorta dissection means Liz’s main artery had torn on the inside. It is like a pressure hose tearing on the inside and beginning to enlarge as it stretches. She was in tears as she explained that if it rips, it is over. By the time we arrived in New York City, the news was worse. An ultrasound showed the dissection was increasing in size. And, to everyone’s disbelief, there were no surgeons qualified to perform that surgery at the hospital.

My son, Jeff, in Pittsburgh was on the phone with us constantly. As a doctor, he was able to get the straight scoop. The only surgeon in New York City who operated on dissections was out of the country. The best surgeon available was in Houston. He advised us to get there as soon as possible. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, Liz’s insurance company was informed we needed an air ambulance. That’s when things began to slow down tremendously. If you want to hear a pig squeal, tell an insurance company it will have to pay for a $30,000 flight. The hospital, the doctors, everyone was calling back and forth to the insurance company. I spoke to the insurance representative at length. Finally, at 4:30 in the afternoon, we had approval.

The hospital social worker agreed to work late to arrange the flight. I stood over her for a few minutes as she started making calls, and then went back to Liz’s side. She was heavily sedated. Her doctor was not optimistic. Even Jeff sounded grim. We needed to move.

I returned to the social worker an hour later. Head in hand, she was doing her best. I looked over her shoulder. In front of her was a list of helicopter operators. I asked her why she was talking to helicopter operators. She looked up and told me that they all said we needed “fixed wing.” You’ve got to be kidding—we need a jet!

I realized that she had no idea. I reached for my cell phone. To this point I had understood next to nothing, but now I could contribute. I made several calls, only to find that there were no air ambulances based in the New York area. How can that be? Then I remembered years earlier, one of our pilots spoke about his last employer, who was starting an air ambulance company in Florida. It was years ago, and Chris had long since left us to join JetBlue. Fortunately I still had his number in my cellphone. I called. I prayed he was not on a trip. He answered.

I quickly related what had happened. Ten minutes later my phone rang. I was introduced to the owner of the air ambulance firm. I was choking up as I related what I needed. I must have said 10 times: “I’m a pilot, I need help.” He got it. An hour later a crew was assembled at a hangar in South Florida, next to their Lear 35. They were ready to launch but there was a problem—the co-pilot was sick. They could not launch with one pilot, and they had to scrub.

I thought that was the end. We were done. How could I lose my beautiful daughter? Then we had another option. The owner called back and told me that they had another air ambulance, a Lear 60 in the air over the Atlantic, deadheading back from London. They were scheduled to stop in Bangor, Maine, for their required rest period. They could be at Teterboro by noon the next day.

Noon could be too late. I knew it was a long shot, but it was our only option. I asked him to relate to the crew again that I was an aviator, I was a pilot. I was one of them. When a police officer reports a 10-13, it means officer in distress. This was my 10-13. I am a pilot, I am one of you, and I need help.

We spent the rest of the night in Liz’s room. She was slipping away. I remember looking at my watch at about 3 a.m. and thinking only eight more hours, just hang in for eight more hours and we will have a chance.

Just before 5 a.m., an automatic door opened into the unit, and two people ran past Liz’s room. I saw the red jumpsuits. I read the tag on their uniforms: “Flight Nurse” and “Flight Paramedic.”

The cavalry had arrived. Within minutes we were in an elevator, then an ambulance, and then we were at Teterboro boarding a Lear 60 and blasting down that runway, on the way to Houston.

I will always thank God for those folks who transported Liz to Houston, where she underwent surgery and has since made a full recovery. And while my wife, my daughter, and my son’s medical knowledge all played an essential role in saving our Liz, I also thank God that through my life in aviation, I had the knowledge and the relationships that allowed us to get to Houston in time to save my daughter’s life.

These days, when one of our potential new students asks me what they can expect to gain by becoming a pilot, my answer is, “more than you can ever imagine.”

Author Michael Freed has been a pilot for more than 40 years. He owns Ocean Aviation in Ocean City, Maryland.