“I'd like to thank all of you for attending this meeting to help me in finding solutions to a multitude of problems I am currently plagued with. You all know the specifics of the tragedy so I will be brief. I would like to tell you about something you may not know about, the behavior and outcome of one passenger in particular.” I slowly and articulately expressed my encounter with the rude businessman during flight 2605. I then removed from my pocket the court summons I had recently received, unfolded the legal papers and held them high for all to see.
“I have received accolades for my actions and decisions while in the service of this company during the ordeal that ensued and afterward. Here I hold in my hand a legal document naming me as an incompetent crew-member who among other horrendous assertions is being accused of making a conscience decision to bypass injured passengers who could have been saved.” I slowly rotated my body to allow all present to view the subpoena. “The passenger who survived, due in part by my allowing him to relocate on the aircraft, will most likely be awarded hundreds of thousands of dollars from our carrier's insurers once the frenzy for money is concluded.” I then reached into another pocket, removed and unfolded another document and held it high in my other hand for all to see. I proceeded. “I, on the other hand, who supposedly performed my duties in the highest tradition of my profession have been threatened with possible termination by my supervisor Shana James.” The room fell silent as I had made my point.
Barry Lane quickly seized the initiative as he sensed things were becoming uncomfortable. He had thought long and hard on the situation prior to this gathering and had come up with a plan that he emphasized more then once would be fair.
“Concerning your lack of pay, the airline would allot you maximum hours flight time each month whether or not you flew those hours. For this consideration Eduardo, you will be required to undergo psychiatric therapy by a physician to be agreed upon by you and the company.” The kind executive went on to mention that the physician would then advise the airline in the person of Barry Lane, of my progress. The selected physician's initial report would dictate the direction the company would take in the future. Mr. Lane also added that for the present, I was to be kept off the Mexico City all-nighter.
While some may have thought this was too generous and I should have been fired, others surely thought I deserved much more.
Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to seek professional help especially when it became clear that my F/A insurance was going to cover the cost. I looked forward to the therapy. I remembered nothing in the Flight Attendant Manual discussing crew insanity.
“Who could I contact regarding information and assistance in this matter?” Then I recalled Mike Lottergan's advice to get in contact with Reva. Yes, it was time to tap into AFA. I recalled how the feisty union rep told me that I did not have to speak to the company back in Mexico City. I knew she was based in SFO and made it my business to get her contact number. The smart lady would help if I should have to clash with the airline regarding these issues. There was no need to fill Reva in on the specifics. She was there in the middle of it, she saw the chaos, she could relate. This surviving F/A deserved to have the best psychiatric assistance for what he went through and Reva was going to make sure I got it.
“There is just one big loophole concerning the union's contract with the company though, Eddy.” The lady was on top of things. “In wording concerning mental illness and therapy the contract states that the three parties involved, the patient, the company and the insurer covering the cost, each get to select the name of a physician concerning the diagnosis. In almost all contested cases, the company's doctor and insurance's doctor overrule the patient's doctor.” Her voice became very soft and the words came through very slow. “Eddy, we have got to figure out a way you can get the airline to pick the doctor you want.”
If I made the choice, my selection would be wasted and down the road that could come back to bite me in the butt. I recognized that it was now time to survive in the maze of a bureaucratic grinder, the world of insurance, diagnosis, expertise and the cost of it all. Another minefield now appeared and I had to be extremely cautious.
Edmundo entered Daisy's office at Terminal 5 with a smile, and projected naivete' and vulnerability.
“Gosh, this is all new to me Daisy, I've never seen a psychiatrist.” My superior was prepared and had done her research well. I believe she perceived that my recent behavior reflected the possibility of a devastating eruption on a future flight if I went over the edge. The list of doctors she compiled was impressive. There, near the bottom of the alphabetical list, was the name Ramljak. I fixed on the name and hesitated which caught Daisy's attention.
“Have you heard of that doctor?'
“No, I just am trying to pronounce his ethnic name,” I quickly replied.
“He's a good doctor,” she stated much to my surprise.
“You know him?”
“Not personally, I know someone who sees him and she raves about him.”
“Yes, three diagnoses determine the validity.” I remembered Reva's words. Now the company was about to give me their selection. I was filled with excitement. I pretended to study the list and Edmundo continued.
“Do you believe this Doctor Ramljak can help me?”
“I believe he can.” my concerned boss assured me. “I'll make the initial appointment for you.”
“I will trust your recommendation Daisy and I promise things will be like before.” I walked out of the flight lounge damn well sure that things would never be like they were before. Never. Ever. Yet, I felt confident in knowing that I had eliminated a possible future legal ambiguity.
Dr. Joseph Ramljak had done significant work with the Vietnam era vets who endured far greater bedlam than I could ever dream. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was in its infancy of being accepted as a factual mental illness. Joe Ramljak, M.D. was at its forefront in many respects. I respected Father Riley's opinion of the man for the priest was wise beyond his years. I supposed that is what occurs when you finally connect the balance of body and spirit. I would remember the physician's name mostly because I kept rhyming it with applejacks.
My decision to seek therapy created another dilemma. There were those in my family who strongly advised that the only thing to do was to put the whole affair as far behind me as possible and get on with my life.
“It was a gift.” Those who believed they could see the whole picture advised me so. I could agree that I had received a gift but it seemed flawed by tremendous pain. The fallen angels voices argued for another path.
“You're worthless!” There were facts I could not ignore like the report on Carl and Dieter. There was also the memory of the faces of the mothers at the crew memorial services. Eventually the opinion in my family softened. They seemed satisfied that I was making progress toward the return of the pre-accident “Eddy.”
I entered the second floor corner office of my new physician in Westwood on the designated date, and was met with a mountain of paperwork to be completed. As always, I expressed my ignorance with a sense of sarcasm, and my own paranoia created a fear which tried to build a wall around my wounds.
“A penny for your thoughts.” A voice whispered as I stared upward, fatigued from completing the necessary documentation.
“I wish I were high on the mountaintops of my island.” I replied, never turning to face the man that quickly approached and put a hand on my shoulder. Doctor Joseph Ramljak had strong, reassuring Serbian hands. He had seen others before me beaten down by flashbacks and things no one should be meant to witness. His jolly nature and big smile projected a warmth and nurturing I so desperately needed.
“I feel like a screwball Doc. So what’s the verdict, am I a nut case?” These were the first words out of my mouth once inside his private quarters.
“No,” Dr. Ramljak simply replied. “My initial thought from what little I know about you is that you most likely are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, “PTSD.” You e
xperienced an out of the ordinary tragedy and shoved the details of the experience down into your subconscious. You need to find a positive way of releasing it and I believe you can because you are a survivor.” The stout man who was in perhaps in his early sixties impressed me with his candidness. There would be no need for my silly games or the appearance of the universally admired Edmundo. Even if I tried to pick his brain it was evident that Dr. Joe had my ticket. Any jostling on my behalf would only be foolish antics that would delay the true purpose of my being there. I had to get real and let down all the walls for it was evident that I was no match for what was eating me alive. In those first few minutes I felt as though this kind, honest man had come into my life for a reason.
I was pleased to discover after the second session that a great portion of the therapy would be conducted through hypnosis. Dr. Joe saw the potential of further trauma by reliving the experience in conscious mode. This approach allowed me to suppress the anger and limit the anxiety while relating detailed specifics. I was becoming very impressed with Applejacks, who projected a magnificent mind and a large, gentle heart. Once again, a brilliant older mentor figure had been introduced to me on this wild roller coaster ride, and everything told me to latch on to him and heed his advice.
“I feel like I am always locked in a hideous void, a black box if you will, and I am afraid I will never break though it,”
“Why?” asked Dr. Joe. I gazed up at the ceiling and hesitated.
“Because for the first time in my life, I truly recognize how things are on the outside of that box. The reality of greed and pain are there clearly to see. The truth of the matter is that I not only gained a new life in the accident, but a different frame of mind.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I did once.”
“I can diagnose and suggest, but only your God can cure you.” I could only frown at his words. I had experienced what God’s hand had accomplished. Did God bring Javier safely out of the fire? I wondered how such a deity could take a radiant angel like Reina, and in an instant snuff out her life. My anger surged.
“You are in a state of comorbidity,” the doctor explained. “You are stuck in an array of circumstances creating a mental loop, never progressing positively or having the ability to exit.” This struck a chord. In my perception I was trapped. The nightly visits by Javier took their toll in depleting me of valuable sleep. The added stress I put on myself of trying to live up to the image of a heroic crew member greatly added to an acute feeling of worthlessness. Even when I did gain some small measure of confidence, which was mostly after an intense workout, the voices immediately ravaged my mind with negative sentiment.
“Is there anything you might consider that could relieve you from this corrosive cycle?” I sat on the lush chair that was the pedestal for my therapy and wondered.
“Why did such an experienced pilot land his aircraft on a supposedly closed runway?” My statement kindled Doctor Ramljak's curiosity.
“Do you think it would be beneficial for you to read the investigation reports?” I felt my anxiety rise. You don't get it, Applejacks, there is no investigation report! There was no professionally guided investigation as is expected with such aviation accidents.
“Chaos conducted the investigation.” Doctor Joe just assumed that serious aviation experts had been dispatched to assist in determining what exactly caused the crash. “Hell, Doctor, the crash site was contaminated within hours of the giant fireball.” It irked me that I was put in this position to try and explain the facts to everyone. “That is not the way things went down.”
“What do you mean?” Puzzled looks of disbelief appeared whenever I try to explain the truth.
“You're perplexed? Well how in the hell do you think I feel?” It should not have been my responsibility to explain these things. This only heightened the trauma and anger for all the principal participants of this tragedy who wanted the issue to be discussed only in whispers.
“So, you're still surviving and functioning in that mode?”
“It doesn't end. It only becomes a little more difficult to suppress each day.” The jungle man of Kauai now appeared before the gentle therapist. I informed him of my wild island antics. Ramljak would eventually have an interesting interaction with Edmundo, also. After a period of time, it became clear that it had been the right decision to trust this guy. He could see that I was holding onto stability by my fingertips.
“Where can you go to find out what really happened?”
“That was the $351,000,000 question!” I told Dr. Joe about the lawsuits. I pushed aside my disgust and tried to think of an answer to his inquiry.
“The truth can only be found on the Cockpit Voice Recorder.” I wondered where those so-called black boxes might be. The Mexican Government had released a small segment of the CVR recording soon after the incident. This caused great suspicion from some North American aviators and investigators who believed that version had been spliced. Where could I go where there would be even the smallest chance of someone letting this poor, grief-stricken flight attendant listen to those final words?
“Diego!” I shouted, startling Dr. Joe as I became filled with adrenaline. “Doc, listen, I have to go back to Mexico.” My learned physician gazed at me as his thick right eyebrow rose.
I headed south down the 405 freeway at a high speed, filled with a new sense of excitement. If the accident had occurred on U.S. soil the investigation would have been conducted by the proper authorities who would never allow a surviving flight attendant to have access to any vital information, much less the CVR Recording. In Mexico much of what occurs in daily life is due to an individual having the proper connections. I had to contact Diego but this clandestine effort had to be planned delicately. The “powers that be” at the airline would consider my actions as just another misadventure disturbing the status quo. Ackley would certainly put an end to my exploits if they discovered my intentions. I would need help if I had any chance of being able to listen to the words that were projected from the cockpit of flight 2605. That evening I made a long distance call to the Distrito Federal de Mexico, but it was directed to someone I knew I could fully trust.
The international operator informed my party that she had a call from Los Angeles and a surprised Hugo Garcia answered.
“Eduardo, que tal?” I gave this silent God the credit in providing me with the blessing that was Hugo.
“I wish I could tell you that all is well mi amigo, but the reality is that I am twisted up in a web of horrid nightmares and bureaucratic bull crap. I need to return to Mexico, I need to meet with Don Diego once more but this all has to be arranged confidentially. Can you help me?”
“Certainly El Gato, but have you been contacted by Victor Estrada yet?”
“What? Who?” I strained my brain and after a second recalled the friendly face of the Mexican controller who manned the tower the morning of October 31. Hugo continued.
“Victor and his family are currently in Los Angeles. His infant son is having treatment at a children's hospital in the city. I think it would be beneficial for you to speak with him before coming to Mexico.”
“Can you arrange for him to contact me?”
“Certainly, y vaya con Dios my dear friend.” I hung up the phone and began to contemplate a meeting with the man in the tower that Halloween morning. I was well aware that the Mexican Government had not allowed any American investigator to speak with him during the first few vital days after the accident. I then became afraid to think of what he might reveal.
Manuel’s El Tepeyac Mexican Restaurant is an East L.A. institution, located on Evergreen Ave., about a half mile from Our Lady of Talpa Church where I attended elementary school. There is always a colorful array of customers lined up early to get a seat in the small café or to order take-out of their fine cuisine. On a sunny day in the barrio, in between the café’s rush hours, I entered the well known facility to the sounds of mariachi music by Jose Afredo Jimenez y Amelia Me
ndoza, playing on the jukebox. There I was greeted by the friendly face of the man I believed could unlock some of the mysteries that plagued me so dreadfully. Abrazos where exchanged as both Mexican men looked up and down wanting to fully take in the other. Suddenly we were approached by the proprietor of the restaurant, Manuel Rojas, who demanded that we begin our reunion by having a shot of tequila with him, a common tradition for his friends at El Tepeyac.
“How is my friend, El Gato? a jovial Victor asked once the formalities were concluded.
“I think I’ve used up four or five of my nine lives since we last met, Senor.”
“Please Eduardo, call me Victor. I was quite surprised when Senor Garcia contacted me. I did not know whether you were aware that I was presently in Los Angeles.”
“I have been having a rough time trying to sort everything out in my mind, Victor.”
“Yes, Senor Garcia has told me of your difficulties. Senor Hugo is a very wise man.”
“How is your son, Victor?”
“Doing very well, gracias a Dios.” I decided to cut to the chase.
“Victor, what did you mean when you told me it was not that man's fault that day in the office of El Ministerio?” I looked deeply into his eyes trying to gauge his intent. I began to study the lines on his face. He rubbed his chin and became serious, recollecting the details of the fateful day. In those dusky brown eyes I saw the trappings of someone with a good heart, a man I could trust.
“I think it all started with my young son.” My weary looking companion began to reveal his tale. “I had been on duty in the control tower at Benito Juarez that night for nearly sixteen hours. Unlike your federal rules and regulations that govern the job here in Los Estados Unidos, such luxuries do not exist in Mexico.”
“How did you put up with that crap?” I inquired.
“Remember amigo, at any given time much of Mexico’s workforce is unemployed, so that job was a treasure. I had high aspirations when I first took the position, a career.” Victor's face filled with disappointment while reflecting. “At any rate, about twenty minutes before the scheduled arrival of 2605, I received an emergency call. My baby son had somehow fallen out of his crib. I’m still not sure how it occurred. There was a pool of blood beneath him on the floor, Madre de Dios.” Victor blessed himself.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 42