Can I Go Home Again?

I didn’t realize how long I’d be gone when I said my goodbyes. I stepped into the limo on a frigid November day that breezed along Illinois’ back roads where I gazed at dried up cornstalks while leaning back in the maroon leather seat. I breathed a sigh of relief at leaving the brittle cold behind.

At the airport, I trudged through the long, noisy halls, weaving through crowds and carrying my trusted fifteen-pound companion. The strap from his case dug into one shoulder, while my overstuffed bag hung off the other, which somewhat balanced the weight. I only needed to hike a mile or so more to reach my terminal. From there, the steel bird would deliver my dog, Mikey, and me to our new home on the West Coast.

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as I made it sound. For one thing, it took two flights to reach our destination. At the first stop, we made a long trek through Atlanta’s airport, and a risky dash across a busy street to find a smidgeon of grass for my dog’s much needed potty break. Afterward, I literally had to shove him back in his case. I also stood in a long line again, removed my shoes and placed them back on the conveyor belt along with Mikey’s case and my purse. Finally, we headed down the forever corridors and found our gate—just in the nick of time.

But it’s been nearly three years, and I still can’t imagine when I’ll be able to visit family and friends back in my hometown. When I left, my youngest grandchild only stood as tall as my waist; other grandkids were up to my shoulders. Now, all have sprouted a foot or more. One grandson has even passed the six-foot mark. I was amazed to hear of his numerous accomplishments on the phone recently, so I asked, “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

The twelve-year-old replied: “I guess I’m not good at being short, Grandma.” (Poor kid, I was once the tallest in class, but not anywhere near that tall.)

On another phone conversation, this time with my youngest granddaughter, she asked, “Are you ever coming back to see us, Grandma?” Dumbfounded, the only thing I could say was I wanted to. I felt bad that I couldn’t even guess when that would be. She couldn’t possibly understand the many hurdles I needed to overcome.

First, there would be the matter of my Shih Tzu. He was so traumatized by the uprooting and plane ride that I wouldn’t have the heart to repeat it. Now he even dislikes traveling to the pet store. Any disruption in his routine sets him off. He barks incessantly when someone knocks at the door. He’ll even follow a person to the bathroom barking outside the door until the visitor returns to the living room and “sits and stays.”

He cowers in a corner if I take him to a friend’s house and won’t eat or drink if I leave him for a few days. Not to mention, whenever he’s not in his own environment, his nose runs non-stop. I have to follow him around with a tissue to catch the drips before they end up on an unsuspecting person’s recently installed carpet.

Perhaps, I could overcome this stumbling block, but I also have to take into con-sideration that there’s little money left after doling out my meager Social Security check, especially after the stock market guzzled up my retirement account. The plane fare alone could bankrupt me, but not being close to an airport would also call for limo fare, probably at both ends and, of course, both ways. However, Visa would surely love me.

I haven’t had a firm offer from my family back in Illinois to stay with them, so I might need a rental car and hotel accommodations, not to mention the all-important necessity—food. That adds up to way over a thousand smackeroos. What? That can’t be; so I go over the figures again. Yet, if I leave caution out of the equation, I could lose my home—that is, sooner rather than later.

Then there’s the hassle of trying to coordinate my two children’s schedules. That’s two families living two hours apart, both leading crazy lives—vacations, hobbies, dogs, relatives, work schedules, even a special needs child. The grandkids might be off to school, summer camp, or baseball practice. It’s likely I wouldn’t see much of them anyway. Besides, as quickly as I appear, I’ll disappear again. Would it be worth it? Would the grandkids hate me for showing up, and then just as quickly vanishing into the stratosphere? Sometimes, I think it might be better to just stay away.

When I think of the grandkids, I recall walking them to the park and pushing them on a swing, or sitting at the kitchen table making cookies and pies out of Play Dough. Most are teenagers now. What would we do together, and why in the world would they want to hang out with Grandma?

I miss my friends, too. We had such fun shopping, dining out, and carrying on like we were giddy school girls. But they’re not likely to be sitting around waiting for me to suddenly show up. In fact, I barely hear from them anymore.

So, the question remains: can I go home again? Or, did I say goodbye forever? I hope it’s the former. To be fair, I do have friends and a son and his family living within an hour’s drive of me, and I’m grateful for that. Still, I miss everyone back home, especially the grand-children.

If these Illinois grandkids were standing in a crowd at the airport waiting for me to disembark, could I even spot them—or they me? Oh, I’m sure I’ll recognize them even if I have to strain my neck to find those familiar faces bobbing above their parents’ heads. And, they’ll know me, too, even with my added layer of wrinkles, gray hairs, and flabby middle. Perhaps, I’ll need to drag along a footstool, so I can get a proper hug from these “little” ones. Hmm, maybe it would be worth all the hurdles and hassles. What do you say?