Coming Home

I stood there, watching the conveyor belt as all kinds of suitcases appeared on it from behind the vinyl flaps. Occasionally, a guitar-case or an oddly-shaped boxed package would break the monotony of the mostly rectangular-shaped bags on the belt. Every few minutes, someone would hastily lurch forward and awkwardly struggle to pull a bag or two onto their waiting trolleys. All around me, people chattered away as they waited for their luggage. I looked around me, taking in the myriad of faces that surrounded me, at the mercy of the jerking, groaning device that dictated how soon they could leave the busy airport. I watched as one young woman looked over to the crowd of people waiting just outside the airport customs area and began to wave excitedly, a big smile on her face. Sure enough, three hands from the throng of people behind the large window waved furiously back at her. I looked back down at the conveyor belt as the knuckles on my fists that gripped the trolley handle went white. I was usually ecstatic to come home to my family but this time, things were different.

Finally, I caught sight of my trusty navy-blue suitcase and moved closer, ready to pull it out. Once it was securely on my trolley, I took a deep breath and pushed the wobbly cart towards the exit. I looked at the expectant faces of the people that stood behind the barrier, hoping to see a familiar one. At last, I saw Adam waving at me, beckoning me over to the side exit. I breathed a sigh of relief and wheeled my cart over to the right. As I moved toward him, I fought back the urge to tear up. I gave him a quick hug and we began walking towards the arrivals’ parking lot.

“You okay?” he asked as he unlocked the trunk of the car and lifted my suitcase off the cart. “Yeah”, I mumbled as I leaned against the car. “Have you been to see him?” I asked. Adam turned to me and squeezed my shoulder. “Yes, I was with him yesterday. Everything’s going to be ok. It could be much worse”, he said. The tears welled up in my eyes as I nodded feebly.

As we drove down the brightly lit highway away from the airport, Adam chatted away about this and that, trying to keep the mood light. His voice faded into the background as I gazed out of my window and thought back to that fateful phone call I had made home just two weeks ago. I had bought an international calling card so that I could call to wish my father a happy birthday. I always got a tad emotional on his birthday and would speak to anybody who was willing to listen, about what a pillar of strength he was for me.

My father, the typical alpha male was always a little intimidating to most people. I think he managed to discipline me effortlessly as I was always too terrified of him to do any wrong as a child. Because my mother had a softer demeanour and was rather docile, it was my father who took care of everything for us. From attending parent-teacher meetings at school when I was younger, to fixing things around the house for my mother and even building things from scratch – like the beautiful tree-house in the garden of our first home. My father was a proud man and always loved to be the centre of attention. He would be the life of every party, telling jokes and having people hang on his every word. I only ever saw him cry once – when he received the news of his mother’s passing. I vividly remember thinking to myself how strange it felt to see him display that kind of emotion. He was this rock-solid man. It perturbed me that he was capable of sorrow.

That day, I had called on my mother’s cell phone as there was no answer on my father’s line. I had been poised to sing the birthday song in my best voice.  My mother had answered. Her voice had sounded weary and hoarse. I remember the smile fading from my face as she told me my father had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital. I remember the tears streaming down my face. I remember hearing the panic in my mother’s voice as she told me she didn’t understand the doctors when they spoke to her about what had happened. I remember hearing the silent plea in her voice that said, “I can’t do this alone”.

I snapped back to reality as Adam called my name. I didn’t realize I had been crying. “I’m okay”, I said shakily as I wiped away the tears. I looked out the window once again. We were driving through the familiar neighbourhood where I grew up. As we turned the corner onto the street that led to my house, I thought about the conversation that I had had with an old Indian man who sat next to me on the flight. I had told him that I had a friend whose father had just suffered a stroke and that I wondered what his life expectancy was now. He had said to me in a strong accent, “The ironic thing about people who have had strokes not severe enough to completely debilitate them, is that they probably live longer in their degenerated state than they would have if they hadn’t suffered the stroke. So not only have would they probably have lost motor function or their emotional state severely altered, but they have to endure it for so much longer!” This notion troubled me greatly but I was not certain of the old man’s authority on the subject and dismissed his words in my mind.

We pulled up to the house and I slowly stepped out of the car. Adam gestured for me to go ahead as he popped the trunk open to get my bag. I walked up to the front door of the house and took a deep breath. Just as I raised my hand to knock on it, it swung wide open. There stood my mother, looking tired and aged. Her once perfectly-styled hair framed her face in loose, grey wisps and her skin looked more lined than I remembered. Her eyes drooped sadly and welled up with tears as she leaned forward and held me in a tight embrace. I felt the lump in my throat but fought back the tears.

I pulled back and smiled at my mother. She moved aside and I walked in through the door, directly into the living room. It looked different than I remembered. The couches had been pushed to the wall and there were large gaps between all the furniture. As I looked around slowly, half expecting to see my father walking towards me, I caught my breath as I saw him slumped in a wheelchair in between the loveseat and the recliner. He had his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his chin resting on his open palm. His eyes were closed. My heart was beating furiously and I stood rooted to the ground, still by the open front door. “Daddy?” He looked up and took a while as his eyes focused on me. He looked older than I remembered. The skin on his gaunt face was wrinkled underneath the stubble and it drooped loosely at the sides. The little hair that remained on his head was all a silvery-white. “Daddy, I’m home”, I said as I slowly walked towards him. Then, without warning, he burst into tears, arms outstretched towards me. As I bent down to hug him, feeling immeasurable pain to think that this man who once exuded strength and pride had been reduced to this. I felt the cold numbness set in as I remembered the old Indian man’s words, “...they have to endure it for so much longer...” as my father clutched on to me, sobbing uncontrollably, almost like a little child.