Angels of Mercy (4) Jordan
It had to happen, given that this condition is psychosomatic. Having a panic attack on a plane was high on my list of nightmares, because I suffered my first violent attack on the day before I had to fly home from Gran Canaria— strangely enough almost exactly four years ago.
The tranquiliser capsule which my first Angel had given me wasn’t sufficient merely as a crutch. Before dinner was even served, I had to take it. What the heck, I thought: it can’t be that far to Amman.
It was far. Less than four hours later, the tranquiliser had worn off. I took half of the white tablet, but to no effect. Twenty minutes later, I chomped down the other half. It tasted like chalk. Was it a placebo?
The flight was barely 1/3rd full, so we had at least a double seat each. I tried to relax as much as possible, shaking quietly, hoping that this thing would pass unnoticed. But predictably enough, the shakes turned to spasms, throwing me clean out onto the floor. Plenty of leg room on Royal Jordanian flights.
All the cabin lights came on; glaring like the sun. Concerned faces bent over me.
“Vital signs are OK!”
There is always at least one medical person on these flights. This meant that the alert was called off. I wasn’t so afraid any more. Assorted passengers and cabin crew tried to pull me free from between the seats. “Wait,” I said and turned around to wedge myself out. I managed to more or less coherently explain that I was having a panic attack, that I was OK—there was no cause for alarm—but that I could not stand up. The people around me relaxed visibly. I was stretched out over four seats and left to stew under at least half a dozen blankets. Next to me sat a guy whose voice I would hear all night but whose face I did not get to see until the following morning: Ian, my Angel Number One. He kept an eye on me all the way to Amman, which was several hours away, holding my hand almost the entire time. I remember him saying something about having had a similar experience. Crazy people stick together. Normal people don’t understand us.
By the time we landed, I was calm, but I had to use a wheelchair to get to the transit lounge. Being wheeled around an airport terminal, with all the other passengers looking on, is not one of life’s more soothing experiences.
“I feel so stupid,” I said: “This is sooo embarrassing.” But even as I said that, I felt myself go again. Ian kept right behind me, clasping my shoulder.
After some ado, we ended up in the medical centre. Ian explained to the staff that I had no money.
“Don’t worry,” they said: “Free of charge”. They showed me to a bed and shortly afterwards, I looked up at the most enormously rounded belly I have ever seen. It was peeking out from underneath a T-shirt, worn by a man in his late forties or fifties whose bulk was complemented with bricklayer hands with which he proceeded to feel around my abdomen with tender care. Ian, standing behind the doctor, winked at me. The shakes returned.
“For God’s sake, can’t you give her a shot of Valium or something?” I heard him ask: ” She’s got to be on the plane to London.”
“No, but don’t worry, we can be back from hospital in time.”
Oh Gods…
“Don’t you have something else you could give her?” Ian again.
Arms as thick as mooring ropes turned me over and touched the fly of my trousers. I jumped as if from an electric shock.
“Don’t worry,” Ian said: “They’re going to inject you with something.”
“Let me,” I got the damn trousers open myself and bricklayer hands pulled them down to expose a single arse cheek.
“Oh, bollocks!” I rolled my eyes resignedly.
The needle went in and I turned back over quickly. Blood whizzes around the body once every four seconds. The effects of an injection are almost instantaneous. The shaking ceased, but then it felt as if a shroud of lead was being lowered over my entire body.
“Oxygen!” the Bricklayer bellowed.
I was lifted onto yet another stretcher. There was going to be a ride to hospital after all.
After some time, I reluctantly opened my eyes. It was as chilly as in a cold store, or in a morgue. According to the captain on the plane, the air temperature in Amman was only 8 degrees. I focussed as best I could. Judging from the state of the roof, the ambulance must have been in active service at least since the middle of the last century. I turned around towards the banging noise that had woken me. A bitten curse in Arabic, then another whack against the oxygen bottle, a push of a button, a hiss and a satisfied grunt. The mask was pushed over my face and the guy who had banged against the bottle kept pressing the button, oxygen hissing annoyingly against my nose when all I wanted to do was go to sleep.
Again the world went in and out of focus. Every now and then, an wailing sounded from above our heads. Gods, I thought: they are using the sirens. It wasn’t as if I had a heart attack or something, but these guys probably didn’t know that.
By the time when whatever had turned my blood to lead was wearing off and I came around properly, the sun was rising over the golden city of Amman. We were still driving. When the ambulance finally stopped, I thought I was ready to walk out, but I could still not quite sit up. Four strong blokes lifted the stretcher out—no fancy collapsible legs here—and dragged the thing down yet another hospital corridor while I looked up from ground-level at towering figures in white coats, raising their eyebrows as they looked down at me.
A short wait followed, then a competent looking man in shirt and trousers entered the cubicle, carrying a clipboard. His expression was firm and reassuring.
“Good morning,” he said, “I’m Dr. Osama.”
Gods, I thought: at least I’m not wearing that T-shirt I bought in Bali:
‘OSAMA DON’T SURF’
This one did, if not literally. He nodded as I described my symptoms. “This is quite common,” he said—Jordan is clearly very different from Thailand. Dr. Osama bade me wait a while and left.
I laid back, much reassured, and coughed. Immediately, a spindly guy in a white coat and black beard stuck his head through the curtains. “You’re coughing?”
“Don’t worry, mate—it’s just smoker’s cough!”
The facilities might not have been cutting edge, but the doctors were certainly on the ball. Dr. Osama returned within a few minutes.
“I’m going to give you an injection of Valium.”
“But I’ve already had an injection! I just need some Xanax!”
He consulted a print-out and shook his head: “Nevertheless, I think it’s for the best.”
Damn, it looked as if I was going to stay here for a while. But resistance was futile. Dr. Osama left and a nurse entered the cubicle with a syringe on a tray and drew the curtains.
The other cheek this time.
I waited for the leaden shroud to descend once more, but instead I remained completely calm and alert. Dr. Osama stepped back inside.
“That’s it—you can go home now.”
I looked at him incredulously.
“Come on, on your feet! That’s a good girl!”
No more dizzyness. I looked around properly for the first time. Ian wasn’t there. He had stayed behind at the airport, although he had offered to come with me. I knew that he was on his way to an important family gathering and could not afford to miss the flight. Instead my bag was carried by a guy in his thirties, wearing a grey scarf and a leather jacket. We looked at each other for a moment, then he turned around to Dr. Osama: “That’s it?”
“That’s it. As I said, common problem.”
I had to agree, but the man, Arkif, started a lengthy argument with Dr. Osama in Arabic. No doubt he could not believe that I had been brought back from the brink of death so easily. But I had. The Bricklayer, Ian explained later on the plane, had given me a jab of Temazepam which made me go out like a light. It wasn’t his fault—they had no Valium in the medical centre and he’d only tried to help.
Arkif became my new Angel. He insisted that I wore his jacket and sat with me, smoking cigarettes in an empty mall until the Royal Jordanian offices opened. It was still very early in the morning; the sun bathed the ochre buildings of Amman in a soft, golden light, only slowly building up to the heat of the day. I blinked in fascination. What a beautiful country! If only I hadn’t lost my glasses on that plane.
***
There is much more to an airline than planes with pilots, cabin crew and perhaps a few ground staff. We shared the lift of the Royal Jordanian headquarters with men and women in business suits, talking in German and English, as well as Arabic. The medical services division was on the fifth or sixth floor. People were busily walking in and out of offices, between the watercooler and the photocopier, all faced by a front desk ruled over by the scariest matron I have ever encountered. As far as I could make out, her uniform marked her as a fully qualified medical officer. Perhaps she was under-employed.
“Where are your papers?” she snapped: “Medical report?”
When Arkif had to leave, I started to shake again—and not just because I had to give him back his jacket.
Thankfully the Matron completely ignored me for an hour or so, before she gruffily pointed to one of the back offices where another medical officer was waiting. He had much better bedside manners. He listened to my tale, nodded, asked a few questions and said that in his opinion, I was fit to continue my journey, but he would give me two Xanax. He sent me back to the front office and a few minutes later, a lady came in with a little pink plastic cup and two pills.
“Oh no,” I said: “I can’t take those now, I need them for the flight. They only give four hours protection!”
The lady shook her head and turned over her hand in which there was an entire package of Xanax. “These two for now, this for later.”
After that panic attack in Bali, I have been able to stop minor recurrences with just half a pill. I have never taken more than one at a time. I have certainly never taken two at once after being injected with a cocktail of tranquilisers. “Are you sure this is safe?”
The doctor came out of his office. “It is safe,” he said: “You can take up to one milligram [4 tablets] at a time, if necessary.” He gave me a look that implied that I’d better do so, if he was to allow me onto that flight. So I complied. And I didn’t pass out. Instead, over the next fifteen minutes, the shaking gradually died down. Apparently, it wasn’t just chilly in the office.
***
The driver, Masam, was late. As I wobbled out of the lift, he set off across the road to the car park with great strides. “Not so fast, my friend,” I shouted: “I’m pumped full of drugs!”
He looked around and gave me a broad grin, but did not slow down.
I caught my breath while Masam rushed around searching for the keys which weren’t on the desk in the car park office where they belonged. When he finally located them, he strode off towards a large Toyota pick-up truck and beckoned me to climb into the cabin. Judging from the speed with which he moved—and drove—I’m not surprised that mania is a common condition in Jordan.
Masam spoke about a dozen words of English to my five words of Arabic (discounting the fact that I can count to seven). He kept offering me cigarettes and chocolates and bellowed: “Welcome to Jordan!”—again and again—as we shot down the motorway at the speed of a formula one car joining the Grand Prix that is the morning rush hour in Amman. At the traffic lights, young men walked between the cars, selling red roses.
“Valentine’s Day!” shouted Masam, offering me yet another chocolate: “Welcome to Jordan!”
With many thanks to my Angels—especially Ian and Mimi—and to Royal Jordanian, the medical staff, Arkif and Masam and all the other people who helped. I gave Masam my real address when he asked for it. Perhaps one day I can welcome him to England.
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni