Last Saturday morning, I left New Haven at 3:30 a.m. to catch a flight in Hartford. The lines were longer than anyone had ever seen at that airport, snaking around the entire building like there had been some misstep in planning enough security for the spring break rush. After an hour of standstill, strangers raising their eyebrows and shrugging at each other in confusion, lines jolted forward. Planes were held back long enough for large groups of people, one of which included me, to race through the airport and jump aboard. I executed this run with a heavy duffel in my arms, which made my lungs burn. I did not know if if I would make it but swore I would never again fly without a bag on wheels. After that chaotic start, many of us were surprised and relieved to find ourselves taking off for Atlanta after all. It was barely 6 a.m. and we thought the day’s excitement was over. But as it turned out, the real drama had not begun.
About 45 minutes into our flight, an attendant asked over the loudspeaker if there were any medical professionals on board. This, everyone understood, was not a good sign. The team found two nurses and briefed them in the aisle by the bathrooms. Those of us who are hyper-vigilant and anxiety-prone, conditioned to seek safety at all costs, kept one eye peeled towards the action.
The scene unfolded a few rows behind me, in the middle of the plane, so it was visible to most passengers. Soon flight attendants were running back and forth. They whispered charged messages over the phone. They got the medical backpack. They found gloves. They secured an oxygen tank.
After an initial rush of medical attention, passengers were enlisted to lift and lower the man who was suffering to the aisle floor. Once he was there, one passenger held his feet in the air while an oxygen tank was activated. The nurses gave directions, a doctor weighed in, flight attendants provided materials, and volunteers did the heavy lifting. The feeling in the air was tense.
When I saw flight attendants checking on the man’s wife, I wondered if I could be of use. Part of my chaplaincy training relates to providing care in crisis, but I do not yet have actual credentials. Plus, the aisle was too crowded for another person, so I stayed put.
Eventually, the crowd in the aisle reduced and things calmed down a little bit. A few people surrounding the man took their seats and a smaller group remained, holding his feet in the air while the nurses kept watch. It seemed the man had stabilized and everyone was breathing a little deeper.
Although the mood had settled, the man’s plight remained visible to everyone on board. There were no drink carts on this flight. No snacks, no movies. Just a group of people responding to a health crisis and passengers witnessing in concerned silence. For nearly two hours, confined together to the cabin of a plane, everyone remained present to this person’s suffering. In a sense, we could not look away.
Once the team determined the man was stable enough, they decided to transport him to lie on a row of seats rather than the aisle floor. A few of us were asked to move so he and his nurses could have our row. I got up, shuffled out of the way, and stood by the bathrooms.
As they prepared to transport the man, turbulent air overtook the plane, which introduced a new layer of anxiety to the scene. When they lifted and began moving the person out of the aisle, he started vomiting, which increased the tenor of distress. It remained impossible for anyone on the plane to ignore the crisis.
The group carrying the man inched forward, and I could see the back of the huddle for the first time. I was surprised and touched to see one of my professors from divinity school carrying the oxygen tank. He scooted forward slowly in the bumpy air, helping a makeshift emergency team ensure a stranger had enough oxygen. I felt a swirl of affection to find our professor, quite literally, practicing what we like to preach.
Sitting in the jump seats by the bathroom, facing the action, there was nothing I could do but watch the drama unfold. I was struck by how many strangers had been asked to witness this man’s suffering simply due to shared proximity and happenstance. The crisis lasted the entire flight, so no one had a chance to forget or ignore his situation.
As I observed, I was struck by the power of collective witnessing, by how much higher the stakes felt because we were all together, trapped in a small space, buzzing through the sky. There was no escaping, and inside that forced witnessing, I appreciated how many people wanted to help this stranger. I was touched by those who might have offered up a prayer or wished for his wellbeing. I was moved by the commitment of the nurses and our flight attendants.
Because we had randomly ended up on a flight together on the first Saturday of spring break, a group of strangers was forced to stay present, to one degree or another, to this person’s suffering. When people saw his needs, they responded in whatever ways they could, whether that meant holding his legs in the air or staying quietly out of the way.
Our collective witness that day in the sky reminded me how easily—and eagerly—we often look away from suffering and move on with our lives. When we see a person asking for help on the street, it is usually most convenient to apologize for not having cash, keep walking, and get on with our days. But that person is inadvertently inviting us to witness an even deeper problem: systemic wounds that run straight to the heart of this country.
When a person asks for help, we have an opportunity to notice. To witness rampant poverty; a widespread housing crisis; wages so low that full-time workers cannot afford to rent two-bedroom apartments. We are asked to notice us-not-them barriers constructed by false ideologies of whiteness; the earth crying out for human care; needless death, needless genocides; most recently, the gratuitous slaughter of over 30,000 Palestinians in a matter of months, our tax dollars aiding that slaughter. Every day, we are invited to see.
When we see, we have the choice to stay present to the suffering and offer the kind of witness that is tied to material change. It is almost always more convenient to apologize, keep walking, and get on with our lives. It is harder to be the person who stands up in the aisle and says I see your suffering, and I want to hold your feet up while the nurses help you breathe. All of us are trapped together in this country, on this planet, our cabin hurtling through turbulence in the sky. It begs the question: How would our response change if we could not look away?
Hi there, how are you doing? I am currently on spring break, trying to catch my breath. John is too. We are pausing in the middle of a very intense stretch, since busy periods for orchestras and academia are the same. Multiple cities are involved, and it’s hard! Still, we are grateful for every opportunity. I’m also grateful for a dose of the sun this week, for friends who show up, and for Herbie, whose priorities are unshakable and always right. I’ll see you back here next month. Till then, take care out there! <3LM
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. Can you help us grow? Send this to a friend and ask them to subscribe. Share it on Instagram and tag @lauren_only. If you enjoy this work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to support more essays like this one. Thank you so much for being here!