My mom has always been afraid to fly. Some combination of claustrophobia and being out of control kept her out of airplanes and elevators. There were almost always staircases, and in the rare cases that there weren't, the tense, nerve-wracking ride was at least mercifully short.
But there were places she wanted to get to that couldn't be reached by road. After years of avoiding the issue, 1984 or 1985, she took a series of classes to help with her fear of flying. Graduation was a short trip: Seattle to Portland and back. Even though she'd learned the principles behind lift -- how something much heavier than air could remain suspended thousands of feet above ground -- and she knew the different sounds one could expect during a flight, she still drove to SeaTac with a pale, sunken face. Her entire body so tense, my sister and sat quietly in the backseat, thinking that maybe even one word -- one breath -- and she'd immediately turn the car around and drive back home.
A few of her friends met us at the terminal. They were able to joke with her, offer words of encouragement. When it came time to board, she looked back at us, her face so hollow. One of the few times that I'd ever seen my mom truly, visibly afraid. When she came back the next day, she was still visibly stressed, but also clearly relieved. We still didn't take too many family vacations that required air travel, but at least she'd managed to conquer her fears.
And now: in a matter of days, she's learned that her only son has leukemia; has managed to get a new passport, somehow, in less than 24 hours; will be flying to England for the first time in her life; will take a several hour train trip from London to Lancaster; later that same night, she'll accompany her son in an ambulance back to London, where she will likely spend a couple of hours sorting out travel arrangements, again, for the return flight to Seattle.
It's safe to say that I'm expecting she'll be a complete wreck when she arrives.
Like I'm one to talk.
