Rush Hour

I can't say for certain exactly when we got started again. A sleepy foot-dragging transfer between vehicles, two new drivers. As far as I'm aware, I'm the only one who'd been getting any sleep. Mom hates being late. She hates flying and she hates to be late, and we'd lost our comfortable cushion for getting into London. I'd still need to be examined by airline physicians; she'd need to get everything checked in, Customs, passports, and because of the way we would be flying back (six seats just for me), I'd also need to be on the plane before any of the other passengers.

My vitals needed to monitored every hour or so. There needed to be plenty of information about my condition to provide to the airline. An empty bag hanging above me would need to be replaced with a new bag, cold and dark, retrieved from a small blue cooler on the floor.

So many details to keep track of.

And another: instead of avoiding London rush hour entirely, we ran straight into it. We did not have time for this. I was starting to get a little nervous, although I figured that they couldn't just take off without us. I'd already waited long enough before going to the hospital in the first place. My limited understanding of the situation was that time, truly, was a precious commodity. We couldn't afford to wait however many days between this flight and the next non-stop flight to Seattle (assuming it had enough seats, was prepared to assume the risk of having me on board, etc.).

I don't remember if one of us mentioned something to the drivers, or if the growing sense of unease from the back was enough, but they turned on the lights, and the siren, and they drove.

"Hold on," they said.

It was remarkable.The kind of thing that -- if you're a twenty-year old guy, regardless of your condition -- you find yourself enjoying more than you probably should. The guy who'd been riding shotgun spent most of the next hour with at least half his body outside the ambulance, either yelling at people to get the hell out of the way or identifying gaps in the crowded lanes ahead.

Our driver made lanes. He used the shoulder when necessary. He sliced his way through what seemed, looking backward through the windows, to be nothing more than a four-lane parking lot. Laying on the horn, squeezing past confused morning drivers, threading the needle all the way to Heathrow.

We didn't get there with anything approaching the buffer we'd been expecting when we left Lancaster, but at least we didn't show up after our plane had already departed. Time enough for one last switch of an empty bag of blood for a full one, followed by hugs and kisses for Mom as she dashed into the airport alone, a promise to meet us onboard in half an hour or so.