I had thought to spend my 50th birthday in the Big Apple – taking time to lunch at the Russian Tearooms; walk around Woody Allen’s streets, and Carrie Bradshaw’s.
We went to Berlin for his 50th, managed a whole night and half a day before a phone call in the Reichstag had us rushing home. I hadn’t even unpacked my case, so all I had to do was throw in my toiletries; throw in the towel.
At the airport a large frau took me into a cubicle to swab my luggage. Had to anxiety on my face triggered a security alert? Did the swab reveal the sweat from our mad dash here, or my tears?
We buy gifts in the shop – the New York love heart appropriated throughout the world – hoodies, keyrings, teddy bears.
I wheel my case into the kids’ hospital, ready for a different kind of long weekend. I wear a t-shirt over my sexy nightie, pull down the single bed, settle for the night as the IV drip drips and beeps and drips again.
I heart Brussels, Paris and Malaga. I heart Rome, Venice and Nice. I heart New York, but it will just have to wait for me. It is just too many hours in the sky; too many miles across the ocean; too far away from my sick boy and his faulty gut, who I love with all my heart.