My mom’s first flight after cancer treatment was supposed to be peaceful — until a stranger snapped at us and a flight attendant noticed something odd on her boarding pass.
I booked the window seat because my mom had always loved watching the clouds.
Even when I was a kid, she would stop washing dishes if the sky turned pink. She would stand at the kitchen window with a towel over her shoulder and say, “Come look, Daniel. You never get the same sky twice.”
Six months before our flight, she was diagnosed with lymphoma.
After that, our lives became a blur of hospital rooms, plastic chairs, pill bottles, and doctors speaking in careful voices. Mom lost weight. She lost most of her hair. Some days, she could not walk from her bedroom to the kitchen without stopping.
But she never stopped looking up.
On the way to treatment, she still pointed out clouds shaped like animals.
“That one looks like a rabbit,” she would say.
“It looks like a shoe.”
“You have no imagination.”
“I have excellent eyesight.”
She would laugh, and for a moment, cancer would not be sitting between us.
The trip was her idea.
Her latest scans had shown improvement, and my cousin Rachel had invited us to visit her in Oregon.
I told Mom, “That is a five-hour flight.”
“I know how airplanes work.”
“You get tired walking to the mailbox.”
“Then put the mailbox in Oregon.”
The next morning, she appeared at breakfast with her blue suitcase packed beside the door.
So I booked the tickets.
I paid extra for a window seat near the front. I arranged wheelchair assistance and early boarding. I wanted everything to be perfect.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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