“Is there a doctor on the plane?”

These were the words that struck me with instantaneous and profound terror.

I was flying Delta Airlines, San Francisco to Atlanta a while ago when I heard this announcement. I have been retired from my neurology practice for almost four years now.  But when no one else answered the call, I realized I was the guy.

So, I sashayed to the back of the plane where a middle-aged Filipino woman was lying on the floor, panting for breath.

I quickly got a medical history from her daughter. (Later in the flight, the daughter began to have similar symptoms as her mom … but that’s another story.) I did my “routine” initial assessment. I accurately concluded that this situation was essentially a case of hyperventilation-anxiety. However, since all the other passengers were gazing back toward us with intense interest, and since the stewardess was hovering over me with such helpful concern, I figured I might as well entertain them all as I reveled in my doctor role. Then in my best Marcus Welby voice, I turned to the stewardess and asked for the Delta Airlines medical bag. Ever so helpful, the stewardess handed me a stethoscope. I patiently and very professionally applied it upon my new patient.  I heard nothing of concern; in fact, I heard nothing much at all, (but I never could hear much from this part of the exam anyway, hence I became a neurologist.) But this did not prevent me from proceeding with my “thorough” examination, listening carefully to the chest and the heart and even the abdomen with that invaluable instrument of inquiry.

I must confess: Even though I heard nothing much, I was feeling pretty damn important wielding that stethoscope. All eyes of the passengers were upon me, and doggone, if I was not feeling like some sort of medical hero. Not only was I giving care to this distressed lady, but I was preventing Delta from making an emergency landing that would have inconvenienced a few hundred of my fellow passengers. Again, like I said, stethoscope in hand, I was beginning to enjoy all the attention. I began to relish (what I fantasized was) my fellow passengers’ silent admiration of my doctoring skills.

Until:

The stewardess, with a concerned and puzzled expression, quietly asked me the following question:

“Excuse me doctor,” she whispered, “but shouldn’t you put the stethoscope in your ears?”

Oops.

Major oops.

Double Major Oops.

My cover was just blown!

And I was looking so darn good!