A transient event
After six weeks visiting friends and relatives on our obligatory annual trip to the United States, my husband and I were ready to return to Manila. We felt like we had made the most of our time, with a jolting surprise as a bonus.
My husband’s two sisters live in New Jersey, so it’s a mandatory stop and we do something in New York at the same time. This year, my son planned to join us for some jazz events so my husband selected some performers whom we thought would be worth spending NY-type prices for: Brazilian singer Milton Nascimento and Senegalese singer Youssou N’Dour. Before we left Manila, my husband had reconnected with a boyhood friend who found him on the Internet. We got together with him and his wife to enjoy the music and grab some seafood dinner afterwards. Alas, my son never made it as severe weather in La Guardia preempted any landings.
From New Jersey, we drove to Ohio where my son lives and where I lived before. We joined my retirees’ association to visit the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center (NURFC) in Cincinnati. The term “underground railroad” refers not to a physical railway but to an informal network of black and white Americans sympathetic to slaves in the US; they provided pathways and safe houses to help the slaves escape to freedom. The museum inside the NURFC exhibited original artifacts (including a restored cabin) and reproductions, interactive images, photographs, quilts, and other media to tell the story of slavery in the US.
On June 12, the local Philippine association sponsored a panel discussion on Jose Rizal to mark his 150th birthday anniversary. Marilou Diaz-Abaya’s movie about Jose Rizal set the stage for the panel discussion. Thanks to the organizer, Ping Serafica, the Filipino community did itself proud with a good attendance. Usually, events like this do not draw the crowd that picnics or birthday parties do.
We went out with friends to catch up with one another over leisurely meals. A friend treated us to a lavish brunch at the storied Faculty Club of the university. On another occasion, we re-visited a Turkish restaurant with a friend whose husband had just safely overcome the uncertainties attendant to deep brain surgery (DBS). Over scallops and Chilean bass, we relived with a friend the details of her messy divorce from a scoundrel.
A favorite couple introduced us to their new haunt, a restaurant which serves a refillable bowl of fresh salad greens. The food was so good that it stimulated our brains to talk about safe topics instead of Obama and the Democrats, about which we disagree violently.
Alas, it was soon time to leave. On the day of our flight, we woke up early, got to the airport quickly, checked in, and in no time we were airborne. The Delta crew came with the dinner and soon we started to settle down for either a movie or a nap.
As I was preparing to make myself comfortable with my book, I turned to my husband to ask if I could have his pillow when I realized that he looked strange—pale and with a fixed stare. I shook his shoulders and called his name but he did not respond. Sensing my alarm, my seatmate, Heidi Doctor, quickly told a crewmember, after which we heard the PA system ask for a doctor to “assist someone in 39A.”
In a jiffy, neurologist Dr. Roderick Hizon and cardiologist Dr. Dante Morales, both Filipinos, as well as several Filipina nurses were at our side. The other Filipino passengers nearby offered their pillows, blankets, water, etc. With a practiced calmness, the medical group took over. They asked Heidi to vacate her seat so my husband could use the three adjoining seats to lie down and raise his legs. I took off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and clamped an oxygen mask on his face. ER nurse Jocelyn Datud hooked him to an IV. Another passenger nearby, Judith de la Cruz, gave her seat to Jocelyn so she could continue to monitor the IV. Row 39 looked like a mini-ICU in mid-air.
As the doctors were assessing whether my husband was having a heart attack (“family history? chest pain? EKG results?”), the Delta crew brought up the option of re-routing the plane to Alaska so we could go to a full-service hospital in Anchorage. At that moment, we had to decide quickly. After a three-way consultation among the doctors, the Delta crew, and the two of us, my husband said no. He had no chest pain and his EKG last year was normal. The doctors and Delta rep Mary Kliep made us understand that it was our decision.
This incident brought to mind some conversations I would have with our kababayans in the US. Some of them blame our cultural values like “bayanihan” or “pakikisama” for our country’s slow progress, saying that these Third World values hinder our modernization. I always tell them that the Philippines is a work in progress.
Maybe they are right, but when I think of the incident, I wondered how we would have fared if Judith, Heidi, Jocelyn, Drs. Morales and Hizon had ignored those values. Perhaps we need to think deeply about our priorities.
P.S. An MRI and MRA pronounced my husband’s heart healthy; what happened was just a transient ischemic attack.
Violeta P. Hughes-Davis, 72, is a balikbayan who retired from the Ohio State University.
