It’s Taken Care Of

“Now boarding Flight 533 for Seattle,” announced the deep-voiced ticketing official. My wife, Donna, submitted to the wheelchair as it jostled out the jetway. Once on the plane, I settled in next to her and buckled up. We were returning home from vacation because Donna had just been diagnosed with sudden-onset leukemia.

Gnawing questions lingered. Could the doctors be wrong? When we arrived, would she have a wheelchair to exit the aircraft? The flight attendant announced that a wheel-out stair would be used to depart the plane because of concourse construction. More questions. Could she traverse on foot the steep steps? Would a wheelchair be waiting on the tarmac? In my mind’s eye I glimpsed the months-long caregiving road ahead, a path I would travel alone, I assumed.

“Even though it’s dark outside, hon, we’re going to get down this rain-soaked, slippery stair,” I told her, while the concourse beckoned 600 feet away. On the ground beside a waiting wheelchair, luminous letters shone through the night spelling out DONNA SMITH.

The lady in the yellow rain slicker told Donna, “I’m here to whisk you in out of this rain.” I knew then I would not travel this healing road alone.