Haruki Murakami began his best-known novel by describing an introspective episode, triggered by the song of the title, Norwegian Wood. After his flight lands, the protagonist is overwhelmed when the nostalgic Beatles' tune comes over the public address system, reviving core memories from decades before. He has to remain in his seat until he regains his composure.
We all carry strong associations which sneak up on us from time to time. It might be music, movies, an old school yard or family home, or particular sounds and smells that suddenly open a door inside our heads, transporting us somewhere else.
Learning to sail with my father
I learnt to sail as a teenager on an old wooden yacht, skippered by an old wooden general surgeon. My father had invited me to crew with him on this creaky adventure, which bemused me at the time. Now I understand completely that he was, in the painfully repressed manner of his generation, trying to spend time with his son without expressing his intention.
Recently I went to the old yacht club for the first time in decades, and his ready smile and short fuse come flooding back as I drove in. I sat there reminiscing for a while, before I was ready to get out.
The lasting impact of small gestures
The efforts that he made to adjust the imperfect imbalance between father and son will always pay dividends. Even little things he did then have ongoing effects. No energy devoted to a child is wasted, even if it sometimes feels like we are hitting tennis balls into a hedge. It may not be until after we are gone, but one day the penny will drop — our intent was caring.
From sailing to medical politics
Instead of pursuing proper hobbies — like sailing, golfing or donning the Lycra pants — I got involved in medical politics to try to remedy some issues in healthcare. Just like real politicians, attending endless meetings to support causes means redirecting a lot of time you might otherwise have with your family. I spent far too many hours travelling to meetings on planes, because you need to be in an east-coast room to be persuasive — video calls make for insipid arguments.
In-flight medical emergencies
"If there is a doctor on board, could you please make yourself known to a flight attendant as we have a passenger in need of medical assistance." I have heard this unwelcome announcement quite a few times, but on one occasion I succumbed to an inappropriate chuckle. We were on our way back from a national AMA conference, with at least twenty doctors on board. Everyone from the GP obstetrician to a pathologist was in attendance so we had them covered from cradle to grave.
Fortunately, there was sensible emergency medicine expertise present, and because the quality of management declines with every additional consultant opinion, I offered to remain seated unless called upon to help with airway management, an IV or CPR.
On another solo occasion I had a very lonely rifle through the meagre kit that is carried on long-haul planes, becoming further unsettled to find that there were more body bags than emergency drugs available mid-Pacific on that A380. "Your first-aid kit is a trifle pessimistic," I said to the airline's ground doctor over the pilot's satellite phone as we discussed whether to divert the plane.
My inflight patients have all survived so far, though not entirely without the stress of unscheduled landings that seemed to take forever. I signed paperwork acknowledging my legal responsibility as a good Samaritan and got thanked for my trouble, but it would have been nicer to get home while the kids were still awake for a hug. These are the choices we make.
Final thoughts
If you see a doctor assessing you critically in the departure lounge don't take it personally, they're just checking out who the high-altitude troublemakers might be. And if you notice me taking a moment in my seat after we land, don't worry — it's probably just the past, filling up the present.
