Midair Medical Emergency

An older woman to my left spent the first few minutes of the flight pacing the aisle and generally moving erratically. At first I attributed it to the normal restlessness of flying, which usually prompts stretching legs and walking off stiffness, but she kept getting up, walking a few rows, turning around, then doing it again. I was reading, noticing it mostly in peripheral vision, but even that was enough to catch urgency in her movement. In fear of further agitation, I did not want to turn and stare at her like I was collecting details. A flight attendant eventually came over, spoke with her quietly, and stayed long enough that I could tell the situation had moved into something the crew needed to handle. Not long after, the intercom came on and the flight attendant asked if there was a doctor or medical professional on board. The cabin was silent, either because no one fit that description or because they did not want to become the center of attention. I wished I could say yes, truly. But I just went back to reading my book.

 The flight attendant asked again, and this time a doctor stood up, moved up the aisle, and knelt beside her. I assumed the first request may have not been heard, or it reached them and met hesitation, but either way, I was glad someone had answered the call. The woman was in the row to my immediate left, so the doctor in the aisle was quite literally right next to me. This meant I was within earshot to learn what to do in this sort of situation: he spoke clearly and evenly, keeping the language plain and without needlessly difficult medical terms; he asked when she last ate and when she last drank water, then followed with questions of what she noticed first, what happened right before she stood up, or whether anything changed suddenly; he asked about medications and whether she had ever felt something similar. He asked all this in a way that moved the conversation forward, sculpting a profile from which he could determine causes and solutions. His questions sounded ordinary, but they were actually looking for triggers and mapping symptoms. Even from a seat away, I could hear and feel how clarity eased the lady. There were some medical devices used and some conclusions made, and as a whole, the exchange was organized and directed. He did this without making the situation heavier than it already was, and he sounded experienced, even if he had never done this exact version of help on a plane. 

What happened on that flight was a great example of clinical confidence, which can be defined as a healthcare professional's self-assurance in using their knowledge and abilities for precise diagnosis and patient care. It is developed through competence, experience, learning from mistakes, and strong interpersonal skills, allowing them to act decisively and deliver high-quality care. I am building this kind of confidence in the most straightforward way possible: by spending more time in medical settings where people actually need things from you. Right now that is at the hospital through clinical volunteering and research, but this would eventually evolve into medical training where the expectation for competence increases. I like that this confidence is not some personality trait you either do or do not have, and that it really is built, one interaction at a time. 

I thought the doctor was pretty cool. I think that anyone who can step into a messy situation and make it workable is pretty cool. I enjoy watching professionals work, especially when they do it in a way that the layperson can follow along. They ask a question that informs the next question, and then the next. They make sense of scattered answers without making the answerer feel stupid for lacking structure. And they stay calm in a tight aisle with three flight attendants hovering and a cabin full of strangers pretending not to listen, keeping their voice steady and their words simple.