A Bad Joke

There were so many differences between my two ambulance rides to Heathrow that it is impossible to draw a fair comparison between them. Most importantly, absolutely nothing went wrong -- finally -- on the short trip from the London hospital. No blood transfusions, no emergency stops, no rush hour sirens blaring, and best of all, no sudden departures due to stabbing stomach pains.

Because we were already so close to the airport, the airline doctors verified that I was "fit to fly" before we'd even checked out of the hospital room. Memories are foggy on this particular point: it is possible that this was yet another behind-the-scenes activity, where an actual checkup was not required. Or the airline physician may have simply been one of many faceless white labcoats that I met in England. No handshakes, tight smiles, professional and courteous (friendly, even) while ticking down the clipboard with a ballpoint pen.

The point is that our ambulance did not take us to the little-known Heathrow infirmary this time. No. Instead, we drove right onto the tarmac, right up to the plane. Wish I'd had a better view from the sheltered back of the vehicle, to see if there were chain link fences or barbed wire, or if it was just like any other service road. Luggage trucks and food trucks and me, all getting ready to be loaded directly onto a freshly refueled 747.

While my health may have been vetted by the airline, there was still the simple matter of airport security. Even as far back as 1990, the UK took their airport security pretty seriously. A uniformed guard had been scheduled to meet our ambulance. He wore an army uniform, I think. Something much more significant than the airport security I'd been used to: camoflauge fatigues, thick black boots, and an M-16 slung over his left shoulder.

The four of us had already shuffled onto the damp pavement -- Mom, the RAF doctor and nurse, and yours truly -- stacking suitcases, overnight bags, cardboard boxes, rugged tackle box looking things, and two small coolers.
Paperwork exchanged hands. Passports, tickets, medical references, signatures from Pan Am. The guard slowly looked through these. Serious. Sharp. Mom's passport was brand new. He examined everything carefully.

"What's in the coolers?" he asked. A formality, I think, a casual question about the piles of obvious medical supplies that had formed nearby.

"Plastique," my doctor said.

Silence.

More silence.

The guard didn't exactly straighten his posture -- he was pretty straight already -- but he noticeably stiffened. "Pardon me?" he asked.

"Umm..." my doctor began. "I was just..."

"Open them," the guard said. The M-16 has somehow moved into his hands. He used the barrel to point to the blue and white coolers.

My doctor continued to stammer, obviously medical supplies, just joking, blood, see, in case he needs another transfusion, this one, too, I'm sorry, really really sorry, just a bad joke, nothing here but medical supplies, obviously.

I don't know if I was standing, or if was in a wheelchair (it's entirely possible that Pan Am would have wanted to "load" me, precious cargo, to make sure insurance provided for any unfortunate personal mid-air tragedy). Either way, my head was certainly down, eyes most likely closed, please, please, please whispered repeatedly under my breath.

Please let us get on this plane. Please don't let a lousy joke prevent us from boarding. Please don't send us back.

"I shouldn't need to explain to you the gravity of what you just said."

The rest of us were on the sidelines, watching the conversation unfold. Nobody else needed to bother responding. "I know," my doctor said. Penitent. Remorseful. "I really didn't mean it. It was just ..."

"Just a bad idea."

"I know."

"Don't let it happen again."

Please, please, please.

"I won't."

"Then go," the guard said, left thumb pointing back over his shoulder. "Go."

Thank you.