of Canada and the Pacific to Tokyo-Haneda airport. I traced the
route in the inflight magazine, wondering what would be served for
dinner. After the perfunctory inflight instructions were completed,
the blinking lights of Motown disappeared as the big jet lumbered
flawlessly into a sky that was growing darker by the minute. Finally
it was safe to “move about the cabin.” The cabin crew appeared fresh,
friendly and eager to serve dinner. The aforementioned man now
seemed very uneasy. I noticed him and the young lady sitting a few
rows behind me. They navigated around the serving carts towards a
sign marked lavatory. About 15 minutes later, he came out with his
friend in tow, his arms folded across his chest, his sweaty face now
looking ashen and pale. I was snacking on peanuts tumbling out
of a crinkly plastic bag as I identified myself to the flight attendant
and asked if there was anything I could do to help the man. He
obviously seemed very ill. The flight attendant asked the couple and
came back to inform me that he had declined my offer. The meal
and wine soon followed. I proceeded to polish off the last pieces
of fromage and fruit and made the best of the airline meal. They
dimmed the cabin lights. I planned to go to bed.
The young lady promptly punched the overhead reading light as
the gentleman again walked to the lavatory with the young lady in
tow. It could not been more than 15 minutes before the man came
out and lay down in the aisle doubled over. The flight attendant
now came over and asked me if I could help. I had my own doubts;
I doubted if he would let me take care of him, or whether I was
even qualified to do so. What if he were having