Critical Hour, Alaska

One blizzard evening while living in Pitka's Point along the Yukon River, an event occurred that reminded me of the critical hour.

There use to be a TV show on one of the health channels that followed medical emergencies through what the show called the "critical hour." The premise of the show was that when an emergency occurred, like a heart attack or severe accident, statistically you had one critical hour to begin treatment or the possibility of dying greatly increased.

We had a small clinic in Pitka's Point, but like clinics everywhere, it had its limits. Besides, at the time there was not a trained health aide assigned to our village. That meant that all medical concerns, questions, and procedures had to go to St. Mary's about 15 miles away. St. Mary's had a regional clinic and could provide medical treatment but anyone having a very severe problem would have to be evacuated to a larger regional clinic or even Anchorage, weather permitting.

There were four teachers assigned to Pitka's Point. I was the only male and it seemed that I was relied on more than one might suspect in this age of enlightenment and equality between the sexes. One teacher called me and said that the other two teachers were at her house and that one of them, the youngest one, had a swollen throat and was starting to have trouble breathing. They asked me if I could take her to the clinic, a health aide was going to meet them there.

Well what was I supposed to do say no? I told them I would go start the truck and for them to be ready to go in about 10 minutes. Fifty minutes left in the critical hour.

I no sooner had the truck started when all three came out and said they were very concerned now because since they had called the throat seemed to be swelling faster and the young teacher was having more trouble breathing.

I backed the truck out through the snow, onto the icy road and started winding up the hill toward the main road a mile away. The window wipers worked and my vision through the blizzard was unimpaired but the snow drifts kept causing me to swerve all over the road. Forty minutes left.

As I approached the last hill before the main road I zigged when I should have zagged and plowed into a snow drift. I was stuck.

I immediately put the truck in reverse and tried to back out, did not get very far, and then started the rocking motion I had learned during defensive driving classes. Drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Luckily I managed to get out of the drift, backed back down the hill, got another run, got stuck again but this time the engine died.

I tried to get the truck started but it just sat there and the ignition made the clicking noise we all have heard when the battery dies. Thirty minutes had gone by.

I was wondering what to do, wondering if anyone in the truck knew how to do a tracheotomy, and wondering if we would freeze to death before morning.

I tried the ignition one more time and between prayers and perhaps language that would make a sailor blush the engine started.

I slammed the gear into reverse, backed down the hill, shifted into second and gunned the engine. We slipped and fished tailed back up the road but this time shot onto the main road leading to St. Mary's. Twenty minutes left.

The road was relative clean but for some reason the window wipers became inoperative. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out and drove the rest of the way into St. Mary's without further difficulties.

When we arrived at the clinic with five minutes to spare. The critical hour had been kept intact. The Health Aide on call met us at the door. He examined my friend, and called the on call doctor in Anchorage.

A diagnosis was made and prescription given. The trip back was uneventful, going down hill through the snow was a lot easier.

The medicine the doctor prescribed over the phone apparently worked, the teacher recovered. But the whole episode made me realize that this is not a place for the sick, lame, or lazy.