March 26, 2025March 26, 2025 Amy

Kill the Sirens!

The Caribbean

“The ambulance is waiting downstairs. Are you able to walk down to the stretcher, by yourself, or do you need assistance? » 

– I’m a bit wobbly… But no, thank you. I’ll be fine.

– Ok. Don’t forget to bring your own pillow, it will be a nice thing to have in the hospital. »

I look at her strangely, how long does she think I will spend in the hospital? (I’ve only ever been in a hospital at my own birth and for the births of my two children; less than a week tops.) I picture the bright blue swimsuit that I packed in my overnight bag. I sigh, the nurse does not know what she is talking about. I smile to myself as I imagine the refreshing pool waiting for me at the hotel in Miami.

-Kill the sirens! The male paramedic shouts to the ambulance driver.

I am lying face up on a stretcher in an extremely hot ambulance headed towards Bridgetown airport. There is no AC in this rickety vehicle and the slightest pothole jolts me around. The added noise of the sirens -when there is barely any traffic on the road – seems jarringly unnecessary. I start to sob quietly, then full out cry.

-Kill the sirens! The male paramedic yells more urgently to the ambulance driver. The wailing stops abruptly as it began.

The nurse and paramedic look at each other and both say at the same time: Ativan.

Soon enough, the Bajan ambulance comes to a halt at the Grantley Adams International airport security gates. A placid faced border guard looks inside the vehicle. I give a weak smile and a polite wave. He signals to my husband to step outside. 

-You cannot pass further sir. Yes please.”

After a brief negotiation, and upon showing his Canadian diplomatic passport, it is agreed that my husband will pass through a metal detector screening and then walk the rest of the way to the small plane waiting on the tarmac for the MEDIVAC operation. 

Why am I here again? (I don’t want to make a fuss.) Where am I going? What’s going on?  I mumble. Can someone please hold my hand? I cry out in fear. MEDIVAC : is the acronym for an emergency medical evacuation. 

Everyone is quiet during the remaining few meters of this leg of the journey. From my viewpoint in the back of the ambulance, I notice the huge commercial airplanes lined side by side waiting for their bellyful of passengers to disembark. From this angle, the logos on the plane appear humongous: British Airways, American Airlines, Air Canada. All full of passengers eagerly awaiting their dose of sunny beach and vacation time. 

I’ve been living in Barbados for the past two years with my husband and two young children. The luckiest of long term tourists. Never in a million years had I imagined I’d be leaving the island on my own private Lear Jet 500.

The ambulance comes to an abrupt halt. The Bajan paramedic walks to the back of the van and opens the doors to the ambulance. I’m already sweating profusely – from the heat in the air and my low grade fever. I get up slowly from the stretcher and am assisted across the tarmac and up the three short steps into the tiny six seater plane. Inside, half of the seats have been removed to make way for a narrow bed. There are two pilots (both called Jaime) sitting up front. They press several buttons and murmur through their checklists as they prepare the tiny plane for its imminent departure. 

My suitcase is piled high in the rear of the plane and I am instructed to lie down on the gurney. What is going on? Why and I here? Then my husband’s face appears and I melt into tears. We both apologize profusely, profess our deep love for each other, and vow to see each other very soon. “

– It’s going to be okay, he promises.

– I know, I won’t be gone long, I reply.

We had decided it was best he stay back with the children and stick to their regular school routine. After all, I should not be away for very long…

Through a small round window, I glimpse my last view of the crystal blue Barbados ocean.

At first, my symptoms were pretty mild: fatigue, nausea, enlarged lymph nodes. The initial diagnosis was mononucleosis or kissing fever which was confirmed by a blood test. Unusual at my age but the symptoms fit. In a follow-up blood test, the local Bajan doctor observed that my neutrophils, otherwise known as white blood cells (WBC fight off infections such as viruses and bacteria) were low – dangerously low.

– If you have the means and the option, I recommend you go home for treatment said the blood specialist after reading my blood work and the report from the CT scan. 

– You might need a blood transfusion, he continued, and the blood supply on the island is very low and unreliable.

Upon consultation with the Health Canada staff, it was quickly determined that I was neutropenic and too weak to take a commercial flight.

All this went down in a bare bones doctors office in a nest little brick bungalow surrounded by palms trees while a warm breeze wafted through the windows. The jovial elderly doctor with a bald head and round belly told us proudly of his previous visits to the Toronto hospital for sick kids for learning purposes as he tried to reassure me. 

-They will take good care of you in Canada, he continued from behind his desk covered haphazardly in papers of all sorts and sizes.

– How quickly should she go? My husband asked the top blood speciation of Barbados.

– As soon as possible. He replied instantly.

I promptly felt a rush of heat and threw up on the floor of his office. 

-You look like a Bajan Barbie, I said to his beautiful secretary as she frantically cleaned up my sticky mess while trying not to dirty her smart suit.

How humbling for the doctor. He knew I was very sick, but also recognized that the island did not have the capacity to administer the treatments I would need. The next day, I absent-mindedly packed a small suitcase as my husband made the arrangements for the MEDIVAC.

To be continued…