Journal of a Living Lady #133

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

My trip to Toronto a few days ago was an adventure. I participated in the Circle of Friends gathering of breast cancer survivors just days after the attack in New York. I wasn’t scared to fly. I was determined to. That is my nature…don’t dare me and certainly don’t try to scare me. My rational for continuing with the trip plan was simple. First, I wanted to help circumvent the goal of terrorists to intimidate Americans. Secondly, I have been diagnosed with terminal cancer. What do I have to lose?

 

I did give Buddy an invitation to accompany me. Amtrak was taking plane tickets in lieu of train tickets. I phoned and confirmed that fact twice. On the night before we were to leave, Amtrak changed its policy. I had until midnight to physically exchange my ticket. It was already after 9:00 p.m. Even if I threw on my street clothes over my pajamas, dashed out the door and doubled the speed limit, I could not have made it in time.

 

Determined,  I talked to two Amtrak supervisors. Finally I got a verbal okay from a guy named Jeremy. With our charge card, Buddy purchased an accompanying round trip ticket train ticket over the phone for nearly $400. We were set. The next day the two of us stood in line ready to board the train leaving Atlanta in an hour. But alas! The computer had no record of my conversation with Jeremy.

 

“Jeremy who?” The agent then wanted $400  for my ticket. No way. I told them what they could do with their little train.

 

Buddy and I took our suitcases and headed for the airport. Hartsfield had an eerie, ghost-town feeling. Originally Northwest had cancelled my flight, but the agent booked another for the next day. That was the good news. The bad news was, without advance notice, the round-trip ticket to Toronto for Buddy would be nearly $1400. Not on our budget! We returned home. Back to square one. Buddy would stay. I would go.

 

Buddy took me to the airport, making the second of three trips in a week. He kissed me good-bye at security. Surprisingly, nobody ever looked into my laptop case. Maybe I didn’t fit the profile of a hijacker, but I do have a turban of sorts, the kind cancer patients wear when they lose their hair.

 

The flight was lightly loaded.  I changed planes in Detroit. Soon I was in the air flying by beautiful Lake Ontario. It would have been a pleasant flight had I not been seated next to a man who had marinated himself overnight in Old Spice.

 

A couple of volunteers from deep in the Canadian wilderness met me at the airport and took me to the host hotel in downtown Toronto. After two days of frustrating effort, I got my laptop connected to the hotel’s network. Finally I was able to email Buddy, but at this point it was anti-climatic. He had already phoned me three times. I can’t wait to see the phone bill. Probably would have been cheaper for him to have bought the plane ticket.

 

Those days I shared with my Internet breast cancer friends were special. Some were much sicker than me and a few didn’t look sick at all. Breast cancer can be deceiving.  Not everybody wastes away. The closing memorial service was an emotional one. Candles were lit for each of the group members who passed away during the current year. Another candle was lit in memory of those who lost their lives at the Trade Center.

 

The next day I was on my way home. I changed planes again in Detroit and had a two hour lay-over. Using the hook and strap attached to my laptop case, I secured it tightly to a chair arm in the gate area. After making a brief trip to the restroom across the aisle, the aroma from a pretzel-making machine lured me to that line. When I returned to my seat,  my laptop was gone. In a panic, I glanced around the waiting area and spotted a circle of airline personnel gathered around a black case…mine. Security had been called. I was informed by the agitated flight attendant that had I been five minutes later, the laptop would have been blown up. I endured a scathing lecture about leaving baggage unattended. Though I felt like a scolded child, I was deeply grateful to have my laptop returned.

 

Before I left on the trip, a local librarian recommended that I read, “To Dance with the White Dog.” I checked it out for the long trip, but decided at the last minute to give it to Buddy to read. He needed something to occupy his time while I was gone. Little did I know that the first chapter dealt poignantly with the death of an old man’s beloved spouse. Buddy put the book down after the first few pages with an intensified longing for my return.

 

And there he was, patiently awaiting my arrival at the Atlanta airport with a fresh tank of oxygen. I had only been gone three days, but for him those were three very long days.  He missed me. I missed him. We are back to normal. The rooster crowed at daylight. Buddy had my coffee waiting by the recliner with the morning paper. Our two stocks may be floundering, but I picked a real winner back there in 1965.

 

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nancyk@alltel.net         www.angelfire.com/bc/nancykelly