We waited until the rest of the passengers disembarked before we even thought about getting off the plane. Customs officials knew about our arrival and were going to meet us on board. What little luggage any of us had was stowed either immediately above or below our seats, so after we made sure that my doctor wasn't going to make any lousy jokes about explosives, we made our way off the plane.
Either the hospital or the airport had provided a wheelchair that was waiting just outside. I wanted to walk. I was more than capable of walking on my own. I didn't need a freaking wheelchair. Seriously. Two arms, two legs, a decent night of sleep. What did they think, I was sick or something, that I couldn't manage a walk through this airport that I'd been in and out of more times than I could count?
It was probably a look from Mom that did it. Or maybe I took a look at her when she said please. Where landing had been a kind of homecoming for me, a missing piece rolling softly into place --comfort, safety, stability -- it was clearly something much different for her. She looked even more exhausted than she did in London, which I wasn't sure was possible.
Did she push me slowly up the ramp? I think it would have been important for her, to have made the trip to England and back to get her only son, that she should at least be the one to bring me to the rest of the family. I would have preferred to push her. But I think I understood: there are times when mothers need to take care of their children.
I'm in the wheelchair and Mom is behind me and somebody else is carrying our luggage and the doctor and nurse are maybe a respectful few feet behind us, discussing what sites they want to see before they need to return to England.
But the rest of it is like walking through a fog bank, or into a bright light.
My sister was there, but I don't remember what she was wearing, or what she said to me, if she was happy or sad. Dad, Jane, Paul were all there, too, I'm sure. Of course they were. I'm stretching to remember if Aunt Darlene was waiting for me, too, because I don't know if she'd moved up from Portland or Pasa Robles or wherever by this time. She might have been, closing the tight loop on immediate family in the Seattle area.
What did we say? Were their hugs? Kisses? Did I put on a surgical mask before I left the plane, like the one I'd worn when saying goodbye to my friends in Lancaster? Was there small talk, or were we all very serious? Did people take turns pushing me? Did anybody comfort Mom? How could they not notice how much the trip had taken out of her? Was there anybody else in the airport? Old family friends or buddies of mine from high school? Did I try to crack a joke first thing, to lighten the mood? What actually happened in those first few minutes after I'd finally made it home?
You're supposed to remember these moments, these watershed convergences of life stories. So many separate threads coming together, winding around my experience. This is one of those handful of moments that are supposed to indelibly burned.
But it's not.
Not for me, anyway.
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