As it turned out, the doctor who first diagnosed my mother was, as many are, at least partially an idiot. He was wrong, not only about her estimated life expectancy of three to five months, but about several of the 'cancer' issues. As in ... 'There's no cancer here and here and here.' This from the follow-up specialists. 'We have no idea what he thought he was seeing.'
While on one hand, I wanted to choke the first doctor, on the other, his being wrong(ish) was good news. Unfortunately, not good enough news to constitute a miracle, and spare me the terror of flying, so off I went.
Quite the contrary.
They looked like me. Like they wanted to be at home, nestled with their full-size tubes of toothpaste, food of less questionable origin, properly reclined beds, stocked closets and neglected pets. And so with them, I closed my eyes, to make the ordeal as little of an ordeal as possible. To sleep away the time, until together, we were home.