It’s time to talk about pilots and depression

The worries of pilots are many. Beyond weather and the airworthiness and the cost of repairs, there are aeromedical issues to consider. Issues that naturally worsen with age. Failing eyesight and hearing are joined by rising blood pressure and cholesterol. Knees ache, backs hurt, hair departs the scalp, and wrinkles appear.

Most of us learn how to deal with the maladies of age as we make our way through life. We saw similar issues plague our grandparents, then our parents. It is no surprise when the advancing years visit their wear and tear on us. It’s our time.

One area of concern that pilots of all ages shy away from discussing openly is mental health. Which is a shame because mental health is a critical component of overall health. Unfortunately, the FAA has historically been less than charitable toward flight crew members who utter the word “depression” in the wrong company, or admit to having issues with the real speed bumps found along the road of life. The loss of a parent, spouse, or child can be a wrenching experience. Divorce, bankruptcy, a tree falling on your house — all can bring real stress and worry to an otherwise healthy individual.

Do we dare mention our concerns to our Aviation Medical Examiner? I think not. Not really. Not if we want to protect our certificates and our jobs.

I consider myself lucky on this point. Lucky because of a mistake that befell me as a young kid. A mistake that put me in therapy at an age when most kids are out playing baseball or soccer or some such thing. In my case, the issue was a deep concern on the part of my parents and teachers that there was something wrong with me. Wrong with my brain. That I was damaged in some way. There was factual evidence of me being a factory-second, slightly damaged human, so off to the therapist I would go.

The routine was this: I took a bus that stopped near my house. That bus would drop me off in a neighboring city, where I would ask for a transfer from the driver, switch to another bus, and ride it to my destination. Well, nearly to my destination. I had to walk a few blocks across unfamiliar territory to an office building where my assigned therapist kept office hours.

I was 11 years old.

Truthfully, I hated these weekly trips to the psychologist. He was a good man, although I can’t remember his name more than half a century later. He treated me with respect. I did not always reciprocate. I wanted to play with friends, ride my bike, go to the local pond and catch frogs. All the stupid, fun, childish things my friends and I would do if I wasn’t locked into a schedule of analysis and psychological prodding mandated by the adults who ruled my world.

In the end it was determined there was nothing wrong with me. I was as normal a kid as a kid could be, if normal really means anything. I could have told them all this right up front if anyone had asked. But nobody ever did.

Here’s what led to my first encounter with mental health care providers. It all comes down to the standardized Iowa tests, which my fellow classmates and I were required to take. I remember it as a lot of dull multiple-choice questions, the answers to which we were to pencil into bubbles on an associated sheet of paper. These horrendously boring tests took hours, often given over a period of days.

My trouble started when the grades came out. I scored in the 99th percentile in English. That’s considered an excellent score. It apparently indicates a person of high intellect. In math however, I scored in the 24th percentile. That’s not good. And so, the concern among the adults in my life swirled out of control. How could this boy be so smart, but so dumb?

Forgive me for using the language of my childhood days.

Had they asked I would have gladly told them how I scored so high in English and so low in math. English was one of the first tests. It was fun for me. I like language. I took the test seriously and did well. Math on the other hand was the last and the longest test. I did not care for math. But there was a bright lining to that dark cloud. When each of us finished the test we could go home. That was all I needed to hear.

I never read the questions to the math test. I didn’t work the problems. I filled in bubbles with my number 2 pencil, handed in my answer form, and went home. That’s the absolute truth. I wasn’t damaged. I was bored and tired. Yet assumptions were made and a great deal of unnecessary fuss was the result.

Here is why that matters today.

If you search the Internet you will find an article, “Depression: A recoverable stall” by Glenn R. Stoutt, Jr., MD, whose title is, Senior Aviation Medical Examiner, in the FAA series Just For The Health of Pilots.

Dr. Stoutt writes eloquently about the topic of depression. He does his best to diffuse the stigma, especially for men who are reluctant to admit our weaknesses. He provides useful insights that might help sufferers find their way back to a brighter outlook.

That’s good. Helpful. Hopeful.

I appreciate Dr. Stoutt’s article. It’s encouraging to see a Senior AME taking the position that mental health is an issue that should be openly discussed and dealt with. I do not however, appreciate the closing blurb added by his employer. In italics the following words appear.

Note: The views and recommendations made in this article are those of the author and not necessarily those of the Federal Aviation Administration.

Nice job guys. That’s quite a carrot and stick switcheroo you pulled there. In the future, do better. Would that be so hard?