Fast Flight

by George Ivanoff

  ‘Okay,’ said Dillon.

  ‘But it also means you need to be extra careful about infections of any sort. The medication will make it difficult for your body to fight them off. The drug also has some side effects. There is the possibility of kidney damage if you don’t stay hydrated. So you must drink plenty of fluids every day. You’ll also need to stay out of the sun as much as possible.’

  ‘I think all of that will be a lot easier than the daily light box sessions,’ said Mum.

  ‘You bet,’ agreed Dillon. ‘Way better.’

  It occurred to Dillon that he would have to do the opposite to his previous routine. He used to try and be out in the sun as much as possible. Now he would have to limit his exposure. It would take some getting used to.

  ‘Well, I think that’s pretty much it,’ said Doc J. ‘Although I’ll endeavour to check in one last time before you’re discharged.’ He pushed the chair back and shook hands with all three of them in turn.

  Dillon noticed his handshake was firm and emphatic. It felt reassuring. It made him feel like everything was going to be great.

  ‘Well,’ said Dad, suppressing a laugh, ‘no more time travel for you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Doc J stopped in the doorway and looked back.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Dad laughed. ‘It’s just a story I used to tell Dillon, while he was in his light box. A little bit of fantasy can make reality bearable.’

  ‘It’s not entirely fantasy,’ said Doc J.

  Now it was Dad’s turn to look surprised.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Dillon, eagerly.

  ‘You can time travel,’ insisted the surgeon. ‘In fact, you are doing it right now. All of us are moving forward into the future. Second by second. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. We can only progress in one direction, of course. And it’s rather slow-going. But you do get to see a lot along the way. I’ve always thought of it as rather exciting.’

  He smiled gently and left the room.

  ‘Into the future!’ declared Dillon.

  Dillon was sitting up in bed writing as Mum entered the room. It had been seven days since his operation.

  ‘Good news,’ she said. ‘You’ll be getting discharged tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Dillon, putting down his pen. ‘I am so over this whole hospital thing.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Mum. ‘It’s hasn’t been that bad, has it?’

  ‘You mean,’ grumbled Dillon, ‘apart from the poking and prodding, and the sounds at night that keep me awake, and terrible food with too many soggy vegetables, and that funny smell everywhere ALL the time. And it’s boring!’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ conceded Mum. ‘It’s not wonderful. But you’ve had books and DVDs, an iPod, an iPad and a laptop. What more could you want?’

  ‘Friends,’ suggested Dillon.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Mum. ‘I see your point. But we’re going home tomorrow, and I’m sure your friends will come for a visit.’

  Dillon grunted.

  ‘And hasn’t Jay been sending you emails?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dillon glumly, ‘but it’s not the same as actually having him around.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got some more news that might cheer you up,’ said Mum, looking pleased with herself.

  Dillon looked interested.

  ‘You know how you wanted a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes!’ Dillon felt like he was about to jump out of bed with excitement.

  ‘But there will be rules,’ insisted Mum. ‘I’m not going to have you raking up insane bills. It’ll be a pre-paid phone, with twenty dollars of calls per month. You reach the cap and your phone stops working unless you add money to it yourself. Got that?’

  ‘Got it!’ Dillon was just happy about finally getting a mobile. He’d work within the limits and then see about getting Mum and Dad to maybe extend them, a little at a time.

  ‘So, what are you doing?’ asked Mum, sitting down on the end of his bed.

  ‘Writing a letter,’ said Dillon. ‘Well … trying to anyway.’

  ‘A letter?’ asked Mum. ‘How very twentieth century of you. Who to?’

  ‘To the family of the donor.’ Dillon’s face was serious.

  ‘But I thought they couldn’t tell you who they are?’ said Mum.

  ‘They haven’t,’ said Dillon. ‘And the donor’s family aren’t given any info about who got the liver, either. But the nurse said I could write a letter anonymously and that it would get passed on to them.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mum smoothed out the bedsheet, the wrinkles suddenly interesting. ‘So … what have you written?’

  ‘Not much,’ admitted Dillon. ‘I can’t seem to get past thank you. It doesn’t seem enough. But I don’t know what else to say.’

  Mum nodded. ‘And they probably wouldn’t know what to say to you. Maybe that’s why the donor program prefers to keep things anonymous?’

  ‘I guess.’ Dillon put the paper and pen aside and picked up his iPad. ‘Of course, I might be able to find out who the donor was.’

  Mum looked at him with surprise but didn’t say anything.

  ‘You can find almost anything with Google.’ Dillon held up the iPad and waved it about. ‘Entering the date we got the call, with search terms like “liver”, “transplant” and “organ donor”. Checking online newspapers for accident reports.’

  ‘Are you going to?’ asked Mum tentatively.

  Dillon shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He dropped the iPad onto the bed. ‘If I can’t think of what to say in a letter, what’s the point in tracking them down?’ He shrugged. ‘They probably don’t even want to hear from me. I might be a horrible reminder that the person they loved is gone.’

  Mother and son sat in silence for a while. Dillon traced a finger over the iPad screen.

  ‘You know …’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘What?’ asked Mum, encouragingly.

  ‘Part of me hopes that they’ll find me,’ he said slowly, not looking up. ‘That the donor’s family will Google the date and transplant recipient and … and find me.’

  ‘I think,’ said Mum, shifting herself further up the bed so she was beside him, ‘that, for now, it’s okay if you’re just thankful. You have been given a tremendous gift that has come from someone else’s tragedy. You don’t have to write a letter straight away. Give it some time. After you’ve adjusted, after you’ve learned to live a normal life … then maybe the words will come. When you’re ready.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Dillon.

  The following day, Dillon was discharged. Dad had already returned home in order to go back to work. But Mum was still with him.

  ‘Am I glad to be getting out of here,’ said Dillon, as they waited at the nurses’ station. ‘Hospitals are sooooooo boring.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mum. ‘I know. You’ve only complained about it a thousand times or so.’

  Dillon stuck his tongue out playfully. Mum did the same.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Grayson,’ said the nurse behind the station. ‘Here is the discharge paperwork.’

  Both Dillon and Mum reddened a bit.

  As Mum turned her attention to the nurse, Dillon looked around the nurses’ station, with its waiting area, which was like a guard post dividing the patient rooms from the outside world. No one in or out without the appropriate forms.

  Yep, I’ll be glad to get out of here, he thought.

  Then he noticed that he was being stared at. Over in the corner of the waiting area were a middle-aged man and woman. They were both watching him.

  As he turned to their direction, the man immediately looked away. But the woman continued to watch. She even smiled at him. It was a small, sad smile. A smile that could break your heart.

  Dillon noticed that the couple looked tired and haggard – as if they hadn’t slept or eaten in days. He wondered if their son or daughter was in one of the rooms, recovering from an operation.

  He went over to Mu
m, who was filling in a form on the counter. ‘How long is this going to take?’

  ‘Be patient,’ snapped Mum. ‘They’re not going to let you out of here until all this is done. Leave me be and I’ll get it finished a lot quicker.’

  Dillon huffed and went to sit down. The couple were watching him again. Dillon smiled and waved. The man’s eyes welled up with tears and he clutched a hand to his mouth. The woman touched his arm softly, but it seemed to do little good. He got to his feet, shaking his head. ‘I can’t do this,’ he croaked, and rushed from the room. Dillon thought the woman was about to do something similar, but she took a deep breath and composed herself.

  Dillon couldn’t seem to look away, even though he felt awkward about watching. It felt like he was intruding on a very private moment.

  Slowly, the woman got to her feet and made to follow the man. But part way to the exit she stopped and turned back. She looked at Dillon again. He saw a resigned determination wash over her face. It was as if she had just come to a decision – an important, life-changing decision.

  And then she was walking towards him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in a raspy voice. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘You’re Dillon, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dillon, puzzled by how she knew.

  ‘I … I …’ She hesitated. ‘I just wanted to meet you. To see … to see what you were like.’ She reached out a hand and rested it on his cheek. Dillon could feel the trembling of her fingers. ‘You seem like a nice boy.’

  She took her hand back and turned to go, then stopped again. She turned back to look at him one last time, with eyes so sad they could have drowned a city in tears. ‘I am very glad that your operation was a success.’

  Dillon’s eyes widened. He suddenly recognised the sadness in the woman’s eyes. It was the same sadness he had seen at the funeral when his grandfather had died. It was grief!

  As the woman made her way to the door, Dillon knew who she must be. And that she had found him.

  ‘Wait!’ he called after her.

  The nurse glared at him disapprovingly. Mum turned to stare at him questioningly. The woman stopped in the doorway but didn’t look back.

  Dillon hesitated, his throat tightening, his mind uncertain.

  ‘Thank you,’ he finally said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  The woman nodded and rushed out.

  Dillon surges forward through time.

  Seconds, minutes and hours pass.

  Days, months and years …

  Sixteen years into the future.

  It is midnight … on the dot. Magic hour. That time of night when anything might happen.

  A young girl is strapped down onto a stretcher. Tubes and wires are connecting her to plastic bags and monitors. There are dried tears in the corners of her eyes.

  Machinery whirr into action and the stretcher is lifted into the air. Up into the belly of the waiting aircraft.

  Inside, the nurse secures the stretcher to the wall and starts doing obs.

  The girl begins to cry again.

  The nurse attempts to calm her down. He tells the girl that her mother is on the way – that she’ll be here soon and that she’ll be on the plane to Melbourne with her.

  The girl nods her understanding, but continues to quietly sob.

  The pilot comes out of the cockpit, has a word to the nurse, then approaches the girl. He is tall, with close-cropped blond hair and a fair complexion. He has a friendly smile and welcoming eyes.

  ‘Hey there,’ he says to the girl. ‘I’m told you’re going to Melbourne for a special operation. A transplant.’

  The girl nods shakily.

  ‘Guess what?’ continues the pilot. ‘I know how you feel. Really. You know why?’

  The girl shakes her head, intrigued. She has stopped crying.

  ‘Because, sixteen years ago, when I was eleven years old, I was in your place,’ he says. ‘I was rushed onto an RFDS plane like this and flown to Melbourne so that doctors could put a new liver into my body.’

  The girl’s eyes are wide with wonder.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Jade.’ The girl’s voice is tiny and tremulous.

  The pilot extends a hand. He gently takes hers and shakes it. ‘Pleased to meet you, Jade,’ he says. ‘My name is Dillon and I’ll be your pilot today. And I promise to get you safely to Melbourne.’

  The Royal Flying Doctor Service of Australia (RFDS) began as the dream of the Reverend John Flynn, a minister with the Presbyterian Church. He witnessed the struggle of pioneers living in remote areas with no available medical care. Flynn’s vision was to provide a ‘mantle of safety’ for these people, and on 15 May 1928 his dream became a reality with the opening of the Australian Inland Mission Aerial Medical Service (later renamed the Royal Flying Doctor Service) in Cloncurry, Queensland.

  Over the next few years, the Service began to expand across the country, and by the 1950s was acknowledged by former Prime Minister Sir Robert Menzies as ‘perhaps the single greatest contribution to the effective settlement of the far distant country that we have witnessed in our time’.

  Until the 1960s, the RFDS rarely owned its own aircraft. Progressively, the RFDS began to purchase its own aircraft and employ dedicated pilots and engineers.

  Today, the Royal Flying Doctor Service is one of the largest and most comprehensive aeromedical organisations in the world. Using the latest in aviation, medical and communications technology, it delivers extensive health care and 24-hour emergency service to those who live, work and travel throughout Australia. The RFDS has a fleet of 66 aircraft operating from 23 bases located across the nation and provides medical assistance to over 290,000 people every year.

  Did you know? The Royal Flying Doctor Service was granted use of the ‘Royal’ prefix in 1955 after a visit from Queen Elizabeth II!

  This story was inspired by the real-life experience of RFDS patient Brendan Wells. Brendan was born with Crigler-Najjar Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that meant his liver was unable to process and remove bilirubin. The toxic chemical is a by-product created by the body during the natural breakdown of red blood cells. To reduce the amount of bilirubin in his bloodstream and control the severe jaundice that it caused, Brendan spent about six hours every day sitting in an ultraviolet light box.

  All that changed in 2010, when he was flown to Melbourne in the middle of the night by the RFDS for a liver transplant. While Brendan’s illness was uncommon, the evacuation was routine for RFDS Central Operations, which makes at least one interstate flight per week for Adelaide residents requiring life-saving or specialist surgery at an interstate hospital – day or night.

  Brendan made a rapid recovery after his surgery, and now has the freedom to travel. ‘A couple of years ago that was completely out of the question,’ said his father, Tim. His school’s Year 7 camping trip to Kangaroo Island was completely off the agenda, and even Christmas holidays visiting relatives at Port Pirie were difficult. Tim would have had to spend half a day dismantling the light box to take it with them, and the transplant team at the Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne had to know their every move in case a liver became available. Ideally, Brendan was meant to be no more than thirty minutes from Adelaide Airport so he could be flown out quickly.

  Life today is not without its complications. The seventeen-year-old must take an anti-rejection drug every twelve hours for the rest of his life. It suppresses Brendan’s immune system, so he has to be very conscious of avoiding infection. Side effects from the drug also mean that he has to stay out of the sun and drink plenty of fluids to limit kidney damage. But, as Brendan says, ‘I don’t have to go under the lights anymore. And I don’t have to worry about people at school asking, “Why are you yellow?”, which they did a lot.’

  ‘Brendan knows the gift he has been given and he is highly respectful of the opportunity,’ Tim said. ‘It is why we are very happy to promote the “Flying Doctor” and organ donation. Your money goes w
here it is needed, and it makes a difference. Brendan has the scar to prove it.’

  Whether it is transporting patients from hospital to hospital, by air or by road, the RFDS play a vital role in inter-hospital transfers of patients in less urgent cases in many parts of Australia. This particularly includes transferring patients from small hospitals in rural and remote areas to larger hospitals in regional centres or metropolitan areas, where more specialist services are available.

  Every day RFDS Central Operations (SA/NT) conducts an average of twenty inter-hospital transfers of patients from a country hospital to a major metropolitan hospital for life-saving treatment or a higher level of care. Once a patient is admitted to a country hospital, often their condition can deteriorate or tests reveal an urgent need for specialist treatment at a major hospital.

  Urgent transfers can sometimes involve organ transplant patients or a newborn baby requiring heart surgery interstate. Inter-hospital transfers are not just for people living in the country – 1 in every 20 people transferred has an Adelaide postcode. In 2014–15, RFDS Central Operations conducted 6857 inter-hospital transfers throughout South and Central Australia.

  Across Australia in 2014–15, the RFDS performed 59,596 inter-hospital transfers in addition to 4336 aeromedical emergency evacuations, 332 patients transferred from clinics, and 409 repatriations.

  During times of difficult communication the phonetic alphabet is of great use. ‘S’ and ‘F’ can sound the same, as can ‘D’ and ‘B’. Spelling of names is sometimes required. For example, ‘Smith’ is transmitted as Sierra Mike India Tango Hotel using the phonetic alphabet.

  LETTER

  PHONETIC

  SPOKEN AS