By “how far we’ve come,” I don’t mean London via Detroit, Chicago and Amsterdam, utilizing both trains and planes over the past three days. That is the literal definition.
No, what I mean is: “Isn’t it incredible how far we’ve come since May was first diagnosed?”
Back when we were still in the hospital, my mother asked me to come visit her in California. She lives in Palm Desert, an oasis of peace, sun, mountains and home-cooked meals. Not to mention cocktails at Mexican restaurants. Yum.
My blunt response: “No way Mom. It’s not going to happen.”
“Sure, it could. In a few months…”
‘No, Mom. It’s not.”
I was unable to conceive of a time when May would be out of the hospital. I wouldn’t allow myself to imagine a future where I would have the freedom and ability to travel with May. When something so catastrophic happens, it doesn’t just effect your immediate situation and physicality, it seeps with slimy misery into all aspects of your life.
When my friend’s husband was struck down with cancer, she said one of the worst things was the inability to plan for the future. Dinner out next week? Not sure. A holiday next year? No chance.
It devastated me to think I would not travel to visit my family. But, look how far we’ve come: several visits to Wales; a weekend with friends in Salisbury; four long-haul flights to the States; a glorious train journey through the autumnal countryside between Detroit and Chicago. All with May. All wonderful.
Mom, California here I come.