By way of Dublin, Ireland I find myself at thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Currently we are en route to Cyril E. King Airport on St. Thomas – United States Virgin Islands. It is just over nine and a half hours of flight time (and one short layover) until I am there.

I am deep into the process of developing a strong mistrust for airplane food. As graceful and calming as these flight attendants make themselves out to appear, I am fairly certain they are trying to kill us with these awful prefabricated meals.  I read that low air pressure and humidity can alter taste buds, though I am sure this is a deliberate attempt at misinformation that the airlines have created.  It is certain that the limited ability  to taste sweet and salty flavors at altitude is a clever and convenient myth concocted by some evil genius chef who works for American Airlines.

The wait for use of the bathroom is lengthening. The current line dwellers appear panicked and seem to be quickly growing more restless by the minute. Considering my recent meal, I am concerned that when the inevitable occurs and I need to hit the can, I’ll need to bypass the line… It certainly could get dramatic…

Other than the terrible Dakota Fanning movie playing overhead, the only things keeping my mind off the now deep and horrible sounds resonating from my bowels are the erratic clicks of my pressured typing, and the promise of where I am headed.

My current journey began two weeks ago. After a somewhat inebriated and heated conversation with a stranger took an inevitable turn for worse,  my fate quickly began to change.   I believe it was “lady luck’s” boyfriend that hit me square in the face outside of the Beggars Bush Pub in Dublin. Apparently I insisted on paying my ‘drunk tax’ right on the chin that night. After a well deserved uppercut found my seldom complimented jaw, I saw my chance amid the stars.

In an effort to slow the bleeding from some toothy area in my numbing mouth, a good Samaritan handed me a copy of the Irish Times newspaper. Now I was certainly not a doctor yet, but at the time it seemed like an appropriate pressure bandage.

Somewhere between the rhythmic throbs of a swelling gum line, I caught glimpse of bright red blood dripping onto the “Life and Culture” section. The expanding drops led to a report on a destination hospice retreat that is located in the Caribbean Islands.

As many of my recent late night explorations have led to searching for deeper meaning in the mundane, I stumbled back to my rented studio apartment. There I sat silently and tried to make sense of the article’s commentary amidst the now darkening blood.

The article I read detailed a unique volunteer opportunity geared towards medical students and clinical providers alike. It appealed to those interested in pursuing practical education and training at a palliative medical practice in a destination setting.  The upside for the volunteer was huge. Beyond the obvious amazing accommodations, it appeared to be a poignant and unparalleled immersion experience. I suppose it also seemed that they were looking for some good (cheap) help down there .

At first glance, I read the article as a help wanted ad promoting some upscale death boutique for the classy and unloved. But shit, there I was with a numb mouth, half a pint of Guinness on my shirt, and a fear of impending doom. A remote tropical island, some sense of direction, and a new chance at perspective on life – What did I have to lose?

The following day I emailed the contacts cited in the article from the Times. Peter and Andrew Simon were two brothers from Maryland, who are the physicians and co-medical directors of Altamount Hospice Inc. – USVI.  In the article they came across as truly passionate about what they’ve created.  It read as though they are really enthusiastic about teaching others what they do.

Serendipity revealed herself as our email thread grew. They had a spot open for a learner, and the post-doctoral psychologist from Chicago (who was supposed to be joining them) suddenly couldn’t make it.   After several more emails and a phone interview,   I said the right things.  I also had the audacity and means to get on a plane in a moment’s notice. The window was opened!

 

 

 

 

Next stop warm weather…

Now with this prospect, I feel as though there is charge coming back into my batteries. What about this notion that things happen for a reason? I mean hell, the bloody Irish Times, a newspaper that two months earlier ran my father’s obituary in it… I realize it’s a stretch, but I am chalking this coincidence up to being a good omen…

This sabbatical that I am floating towards among the clouds creates the perfect environment for a new and heightened anxiety.  Will I be able to handle it??? I am not sure. I haven’t really been open to acknowledging my fears lately. I haven’t even cried since my father passed. I guess this trip could grant me some way back into my life and future career, and hopefully back into my right mind.

One of my present fears is more about the culture in the islands. Clearly I had a hard time connecting with the good people of Ireland. My own blood – from a common ancestral home. How am I, an awkwardly nervous white boy, going to fare with a bunch of irie feelin’ natives?

From what I can appreciate by the virtue of Google, and an obsessive compulsion for detail, Altamount Hospice is situated on the Island of St. John, in the United States Virgin Islands. The facility appears to have been born from a subdivided estate originally owned and operated as a sugar plantation in the distant past.

On four acres of seaside land, it supports a reconditioned six bedroom villa, and four associated cottages. There is evidence on the website of a giant infinity pool, and of magnificent terraced gardens throughout the grounds. It appears to sit on a westward facing peninsula that invites the soft Caribbean Ocean tides and a blessed view of the sunset over the neighboring island of St Thomas.

According to a Wall Street Journal article that I found online, “since its inception in 2005, Altamount Hospice has provided expert and compassionate support and accommodation to those who desire an end of life experience in paradise…” The article went on to describe that the actual main villa as being “the first of its kind,” being designed by architects, palliative care physicians, and its clients to be purpose built for those transitioning out of this world.

Sounds classy… I suspect, in this era of open access care and increasing numbers of wealthy “for-profit” hospice facilities emerging, that this place doesn’t cater to those who define the masses of society. The clientele must already have enjoyed the collection of tangible treasures that wealth brings to a person.

As the sleep aid I took thirty minutes ago is beginning to kick in, I realize I’m out of whiskey. My typing is becoming errant, and I’m longing for the rum. I reach for the antacid in my pocket and press the call light…

The rest of the flight should be a breeze…