My IFR Condition | A Journey Into The Storm
In the aviation world, specifically Medical EVAC, we meticulously assess the meteorological landscape before accepting any mission. That said, every so often, despite all your calculations, you find yourself completely blindsided, thrust into a precarious situation.
Critical Weather Imminent.
As I type this after-action report of the chain of events that brought me here, I can almost hear your skepticism. This is my first public admission: my crew, my family, was caught off guard. Deep breath… I have cancer. There it is. My ultimate, holy-shit moment.
You see, when IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) conditions arise, experienced aviators rarely struggle. But if your airframe isn’t equipped or your pilot isn’t trained, the consequences can be fatal.
Terrain! Terrain! Pull Up!
This is where things get hairy. There’s a phenomenon in aviation called spatial disorientation. Put simply, your brain loses all sense of its orientation relative to the horizon, and you can quickly find yourself in a deadly position. It happens when you try to navigate by looking outside the cockpit, but there are no visual markers to guide you, you’re flying blind.
Being struck by cancer is the same feeling for me. An unexpected storm roars in, and suddenly my internal compass is gone. I am supposed to be the captain of my vessel, my family, but I am paralyzed, disoriented, feeling movement without direction.
The Mayday
As I lay out this fucked-up metaphor, the peril becomes real. In aviation, when you’re up shit creek without a paddle, the infamous Mayday is called over the airwaves.
I should call one. I want to call one. But instead, I feel a flood of negative emotions:
I should have seen this coming.
I’ll be an embarrassment to my peers.
The family I am supposed to protect may be exposed, or worse, disappointed.
I’ve always embraced a stoic attitude toward my role as a man, as a captain of my aircraft. My job is to perform, execute, and deliver my passengers, my family, safely to their destinations. And yet, irrationally, I feel like I’ve failed.
I don’t want to admit how much peril I’m in. My pride, my need not to be seen as lesser, clashes violently with the reality that I need help. I know all too well the potential fallout.
Trust Your Instruments
Ever found yourself struggling, or outright refusing help, because of how it might make you look? You’re not alone. Most of us in the first-responder community wrestle with this.
The only way out is to trust your instruments. In aviation, when you can’t rely on your eyes, you rely on the tools provided to you, and only the tools. Your senses will lie; your instruments won’t.
Life, like flight, sometimes throws us into clouds we can’t see through. The only way to navigate is by the instruments you’ve been given: your doctors, your loved ones, your support systems. Ignore the horizon. Trust the we tools.
The Alternate Destination
As we continue to build on this motif, once the aircraft has been stabilized and we’ve avoided catastrophic consequences, there comes a point when we have to request vectors (directions), out of the mess we’ve flown into.
This isn’t easy. It requires deviations and changes to the original flight plan. Sometimes, the path you plotted is now out of reach. Sometimes, you’re no longer in control.
How does this tie into the literal circumstances at hand?
I’m not trying to be pessimistic, but the reality is stark: life as I knew it is forever changed. If—if—I ever make it back to the ground, will I ever fly again? Will I ever take part in that chaotic, adrenaline-fueled symphony in the sky? Or will I be forced to hang up my wings forever?
No one but the Lord Almighty knows the answer to that. But for the first time in my life, I’m starting to believe my place may no longer be in the skies. Those words would have never dared to leave my mouth before now.
Yet here I am, the captain of this lost vessel, staring down that reality. The officer in command must always put the passengers above all else. That’s my family. That’s my crew. My main priority now is to ensure the airfield is in sight, the skids kiss the tarmac, and all those aboard can breathe a sigh of relief..
Long Approach
As we are attempt to battle an insurmountable force that is Mother Nature, we also remember that we can’t trust our senses and are far from anywhere familiar.
The journey through the Frey from over and all we can do is continue to persevere no matter the outlook.
