KATARINA and GREG and KG

Dear All,

This is a story that has fermented in my mind for 7 years. It didn't lose any facts or quotes because they've been branded to my heart since this couple became part of my in-the-air reality. First impressions...so WRONG.....lasting impressions...memories to cherish.

Love to all,
Heather

KATARINA and GREG and KG
Heather McKeown-JFK Inflight

It was a Boston to New York flight in the mid-winter freeze. The people were streaming on board quickly. Mostly business and political types with serious, self-confident, immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed. The well-mannered patricians of Beacon Hill and The Hill inhabit this route and I adore them. They work on legal briefs, read great books or talk quietly and intensely to one-another on these fast flights. If they're watching television, they're tuned to MSNBC, CNN, FOX NEWS, History or National Geographic channels and not to soap operas, sit-coms or anything with fluff for the mind. If they discuss anything with me, it's business, politics, the economy or the books they're reading. If there are children aboard, they're perfectly behaved and sophisticated, bring fruit for snacks, never have anything but water to drink and are perfectly happy coloring or reading...they do not watch television on these flights, as a rule. The women are turned out with understated classic tailoring and good leather, quiet make up, lovely hands and skin. If they have wrinkles anywhere, they're from quiet laughter and not over-exposure to sun or hard living. They age with grace and conduct themselves as ladies do. Quiet, unassuming class is the mantle they've perfected.

        Then came Katarina. Too thin, long, dyed blonde hair, tight-tight dress jeans hugged her boney legs from their low-slung hip-hugger top to their descending invisibility within knee high, six-inch heeled shiny leather boots. A leather jacket completed this Vogue model persona. What really bugged me, though, was that she looked past me as she boarded and dismissed my greeting with a weak-wristed motion, poorly aimed at the man behind her. I thought, 'What a conceited girl!” I have nothing against beautiful women but when they dismiss we who serve with a disconnected, non-verbal signal, I admit to a prejudice of sorts.

        Greg, a handsome black man, who appeared to be the mincing sycophant of the super-model followed. He fumbled the boarding passes in front of my face then hurriedly caught up to the blonde bombshell and, for the life of me, I couldn't believe that he was actually trying it support her from behind. I figured, “Wow. He's really her gopher and such a 'pleaser'. I thought, “Hollywood hanger-on. Why would anyone be so desperately clingy to a woman like that?” I was totally under-impressed.

        During the flight, the blonde slept on the man's shoulder and he stared at the television but sure didn't seem to be taking anything in. I thought, “Maybe he's stoned or absolutely petrified.” He wasn't at all approachable, so I didn't offer myself as a listening post for the latter.

        So much for my purported intuition. I've been wrong a lot in my life, but this time, really, has to be one of my very worst mistakes. Not one to judge? Damn, I was that day and it goes to show ya' that we never should assume or judge or feel superior or pretend to know what is really going on in the lives of our customers.

        Fast forward to about two weeks later. Same departure city. Same cold weather. Same couple. This time, however, the man delivered the woman to the gate and, seeing me came over and quietly said, “I'm not flying back with my wife today. She's not well so I was allowed to accompany her to the plane. Please watch over her closely. Her brother and mother will pick her up in New York.” was his explanation and his plea. His voice was gentle, his speech pattern, Harvardesque, with all the pathos one worried man could hold.

        “It's a very short flight and I'll take good care of her. Is there anything I should know about her condition?”

        “She's being treated for leukemia at Dana Farber. It's been difficult.”
“What's your wife's name, Sir?”

        “Katarina.”
“and...yours?”
“Greg.”

        I took his hands and told him it would be my pleasure to make sure she reached JFK knowing she wasn't alone. He thanked me and returned to his tiny and very pale wife. Her long blonde hair fell across his chest as he gently wrapped his arm around her and let her lightly fall into him. She looked so miniscule when compared to his football player's physique.

        At JFK, Katarina was deplaned to a wheelchair and whisked away but not before extending a hand to me for a quick hold and a whispered, “Thank you for deese, so much.” There was an attempt at a smile, but in vain. The woman looked childlike on the wheelchair and almost invisible. I thought, “Oh, I hope the chemo's working. She's so lovely.” Strange how an opinion can change from a catty judgment, based on a first impression to one of empathy and warmth when all the facts are exposed, isn't it? I'm ashamed of myself for the former.

        Another couple of weeks passed. I walked towards the gate in Boston with a dance in my step because I adore the Bostonian humor and unabashed corruptness of this brilliant part of New England. Until this day, I'd never had anything but a smile on my face in between touchdowns and take offs. Boston, what a great town of youth, intellectual stimulation, history (both revisionist and the sort that really happened) and full representation from end to end and everything in between on the spectrum of socio-economic possibilities. On this day, an imprint that will forever be mine, was branded onto my heart.

        The departure area was full but that black Adonis sitting in the wheelchair could only have been Katarina's husband, Greg. I walked up beside him and said, “OH! I leave you alone for two weeks and this is what happens? Are you alright?” Never has an attempt at breaking the ice been so ill-conceived.

        “This is for my wife.” he responded, tapping the armrests of the chair.

        “OH, my goodness. Where is Katarina?” I looked around but didn't see her.

        Greg looked at me and said, “She's over there with her mother. It's been a very tough day.” His face was starkly emptied of emotion. His voice very flat. His body seemed deflated, somehow, like he'd lost his bones. I put my hand on his shoulder but said nothing. One quick squeeze, eye contact and a nod was all I could offer. Words would have been useless and probably unheard.

        Boarding. Greg, his mother in law and Katarina boarded first. Greg gently helped his beautiful wife into the second row then came up to me and asked if I could possibly ask anyone who sat beside her if they'd kindly move so Katarina could lie down. It wasn't supposed to be a full flight and this was before the time of extra legroom charges in the front of our planes, so I said I'd sure try. Greg and his mother in law sat in the first row, directly in front of the reposing wisp of womanhood. Katarina seemed translucent to me. I felt, in her weakened state, I could put my hand right through her without meeting any resistance at all.

        Greg and the mother didn't speak to one another but stared straight ahead. They had TV's but no earphones. Nothing seemed to be registering. Service began. Nothing for either party. I stepped back to the prone woman in row two. With her legs drawn up and her head resting against the window, she looked so delicate. Her eyes were open so I asked if she'd like a drink. She said, “Heather. Your name, yes?”

        “Yes, and you're the lovely Katarina. I'm seeing you every couple of weeks now, and that's nice because it's always good to see familiar faces get on my plane.” I knelt down and she reached her hand to me and I took it.

        “You won't be seeing me anymore. I not come again. My mother...she not speak English...we're Russian. Greg, he's my husband. Such a good man. They told me to come not back to the hospital. They tell me to go home and be comfortable. They think maybe I live two weeks more. I can't die. We just get puppy. I can't die, not now.”

        We were still holding hands and I was now right up at the window, still kneeling and now, so close, I could see the desperation in her eyes. Her skin, as white and thin as tissue paper, was barely holding her body together. The tight jeans and leather jacket were encasing a body that couldn't support itself and, all the accoutrements I'd judged as vanities only weeks before, now made perfect sense. Their practical purpose was clearly to keep this disappearing woman in tact.

        “What did you name your dog?”

        “KG.” she smiled weakly. “KG”

        “Short for KGB?” I smiled back.

        “NO! For Katarina and Greg! We want children but I got sick. What do you think it's like...the dying? Will it hurt?” those blue eyes were full of fear and a need for answers.

        “I don't think it hurts at all. I really believe there's no more pain and more adventures to follow as the body and soul separates. I really do believe this!”

        “I hope it happens that way.”

        I'm not sure if we talked more but somehow the flight came to an end and everyone deplaned before my little patient, Greg and her mom. How do you say “Good-bye.” How can someone become a part of our hearts so quickly and then as a fortnight passes, our hearts break over and over because we know the Gregs and Katarinas of the world live, love and die. We are flight attendants who meet and greet, serve and sometimes even save lives. We can't save them all, though. We CAN love them all for the short time they're in our care. The real families are left behind to mourn and raise the puppies. Raise the children. Keep the beautiful memories alive.

        I'll never forget Katarina and Greg. I loved them very much. They loved each other. I've heard that love never dies. Well, let's hope this is true. Love can't die...not yet.

Thanks Heather ..... I always enjoy your stories as do my readers.