Proficient Pilot: Dodging a bullet

I awoke the next morning, however, with a low-grade fever. It was natural these days to wonder if I had contracted the coronavirus. I drove to a nearby urgent care facility for a COVID-19 test. I would not have the results, however, until at least the next day. In the meantime, I inexplicably ignored the infection.

While speaking on the landline that evening with friend and fellow pilot, Steve Maiman, I suddenly began feeling confused. I was having difficulty forming sentences and stringing words together. I could not convey my thoughts and began feeling delirious. I was really scared and ended the call abruptly. (Steve confirmed days later that I sounded as if I were in serious mental distress.) I then discovered I could not remember how to hang up the phone. My wife, Dorie, had just entered the room, so I asked her for help. She gave me an odd look and told me to push the red button. I instead kept pressing some other button and finally gave up in frustration. “What do I do with this thing?” I asked while holding out the handset. “Put it in its receptacle,” she replied patiently. I could not comprehend what she meant, so I just laid it on a table, the dial tone continuing to blare from the handset.

I then realized I did not know who or where I was. This was terrifying.

Was this the end of my 68-year flying career? Had I made my last flight without knowing it was my last?The next thing I remember is speeding somewhere in the back of Dorie’s car. She was talking on her cellphone to my son, Brian, and the only words I could understand were those asking him to meet us at the Las Robles Hospital in nearby Thousand Oaks, California.

I knew I was in real trouble but could not communicate my fear. I leaned back in my seat, dreading what lay ahead. Looking through the sunroof I saw a familiar image: a Cessna single silhouetted against the dusk sky. It seemed to be heading in the same direction, toward the hospital, a friendly pathfinder leading the way. Then the little airplane turned away. I soon began to comprehend that I might never fly again, that I might never again cavort about the sky. Was this the end of my 68-year flying career? Had I made my last flight without knowing it was my last? What is wrong with me!?

The next thing I remember is commotion. Men in white lifted me onto a gurney and began rolling me somewhere. Lots of insistent voices. Bright lights. Noises. Needles stuck in my arm. Probes positioned everywhere. The only words I heard loud and clear were “possible stroke.” Oh, my God. It’s true. My flying days are over. I will never again experience the freedom and joy of flight that has sustained me throughout my life.

After a night of more needles, poking, medications, examinations, and virtually no sleep, a doctor arrived at my bedside with the diagnosis. He said my urinary tract infection (UTI) as well as dehydration had led to a systemic and almost fatal infection called sepsis. In addition to a variety of other potentially unpleasant symptoms, patients often exhibit “altered mental status” and “expressive aphasia,” a horrifying loss of one’s ability to produce written or spoken language. (There probably are some who would prefer to experience me this way.)

The doctor continued by telling me that the antibiotics would take care of me and that my brain MRI and other tests confirm I did not have a stroke. “Other than feeling weak for a while—your body took quite a beating—you should return to normal with no residual or ill effects.” He then handed me a prescription to be filled after I was discharged. After the doctor left, a nurse told me how lucky I was. “UTIs kill more older people than almost any other condition.” She also told me that I owe my wife a trip to the jewelry store for getting me to the hospital in the nick of time.

Brian drove me home two days later. I told him we needed to stop to fill some prescriptions. “Sure thing,” he said. I retrieved the paper from my pocket. It specified a long-term antibiotic and said in bold print, “Drink more water. You could have saved yourself a lot of misery.”

I reclined my seat, began to relax, and looked through Brian’s sunroof. There was another Cessna; it seemed to be inviting me back to the sky.

And it turned out the COVID-19 test was negative. Life is good.

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