Bruce Willis, I am not

By Soncirey Mitchell
Reader Staff

My intense fear of crashing into the ocean and being eaten by sharks has never stopped me from having a good time on an airplane. All my experiences — with the exception of a few delayed flights — have been largely positive.

That is, until recently, when a cross-country trip turned into a three-part disaster.

I arrived at the Spokane Airport to a security line that looped in on itself five times and extended past baggage claim. After three hours stuck in line (and a few tears), the airline ended up canceling the flight, and I soon boarded a redeye with three lengthy layovers that would get me to my destination by 7 a.m. the next day.

I rolled with the punches.

My second flight was delayed while the crew switched planes because the original Boeing had suffered a “catastrophic failure.” Though I’m sure that’s the technical term, I question the flight attendant’s decision to announce that over the PA system and then refuse to elaborate.

I hoped I’d get some sleep on my final flight. I did not.

Shortly after takeoff, the cabin lights flared on, waking everyone. A panicked flight attendant screeched through the loudspeaker, “We’re having a medical emergency. Is anyone a doctor? We need a doctor or a medic… or a nurse. We need someone.”

I turned around to see a pallid man, slick with sweat, projectile vomiting down the aisle. Two attendants held his shoulders to keep him upright, one held an industrial-sized garbage bag in front of him and one was on her hands and knees attempting to mop up the bloody puke that was soaking into the carpet.

Right on cue, as if I’d landed in an episode of Hallmark’s The Good Witch, a photo-ready, salt-and-pepper doctor stood up, slapped on a pair of gloves and jumped into the fray. He was wearing neatly pressed slacks, a button up and — for some reason — a stethoscope.

He cared for the man for the remainder of the flight and helped load him onto the gurney when the paramedics arrived to cart away his unconscious body. They assured us that our fellow passenger would be fine.

As this medical drama played out, my adrenaline-fueled, sleep-deprived mind could form one coherent thought: It must be nice to be needed.

I was shocked by the selfishness of that idea and the overwhelming longing to help someone — anyone — not for the acclaim, but to know immediately that I’d made a difference in someone’s life.

I know I’m not cut out to be a doctor or a firefighter or a politician. I know I help people as best I can by working at the Reader. I know all that — but that doesn’t make it easier.

American culture idolizes heroes — Superman, Buffy, Bruce Willis characters — above all else. Though we know we’ll never be literal superheroes, some of us come close: boaters picking up stranded hurricane survivors, teachers shielding their students from school shooters. Those heroes deserve accolades, celebrations and massive outpourings of love.

Most of us will never be that kind of hero. That’s OK.

The problem is, when we’re blinded by the brilliance of the few, we lose sight of the importance of the many, everyday people who shape the world.

It’s hard to remember that help comes in all forms, and whether we’re hugging a friend or voting in an election we have no hope of winning, we’re working toward a better future. Each time we push to make our world a kinder, more inclusive place, we add a brick to a growing foundation. The future will be built on all the little choices we make.

I still have hope we’ll create a world that we can be proud of, brick by brick.