Absolute fucking nightmare. Christopher tested positive at Heathrow this morning. We knew it was possible. But the colossal stress of waking early, dragging heavy ass bags on uneven pavement through city streets to the London Underground, coupled with the weight of BAD ANTICIPATION was just too much.
“It’s like waiting for your execution,” I told him. “Hoping for a last minute reprieve from the King.”
Planes. Trains. Automobiles.
Stressed people with luggage mountains.
Ginormous queues at airport.
Then after our cranium scrapes we couldn’t access wifi to get the dreaded results. And when we finally did I saw the words: CHRISTOPHER. POSITIVE. DETECTED. ISOLATION.
I felt myself sink into a dark cloud. I’d been through all this myself at Christmas but this was my honey and we had a plane to catch. Then we had to tell harried staff who exhibited varying levels of compassion. Mala at British Airways, Terminal 5, January 22, 10 am, you were awesome. Thank you. Lisa, gatekeeper at baggage check, you were rude and made a hard situation worse. You are exactly the kind of person who should not be given a clipboard. We were briefly under the impression I wouldn’t be able to travel but here I am at the gate alone. Sad and Rona-free. We’re readying to board so more later. At least he gets more time with the grandbabies.
Greetings from the clouds. This may be the emptiest flight I’ve ever been on including the one after 9/11 which I can’t even believe I’m referencing midair. I’m back here in steerage with the other peasants and there’s maybe (maybe?) 25 of us? Total? Getting a row to myself is slight consolation. I’ve moved to the middle seat which I’m calling my office. Sunlight is hitting my sequined mask just right, discoing up my row. Party on aisle 32 what what.
I just watched a fantastic film: Promising Young Woman with Carey Mulligan. Absolutely brilliant. I’m about to open my second cabernet and watch another. I wonder where Christopher is and if he’s made it back to our daughter’s yet. At least they can all heal together. I could’ve easily– legally, I mean, stayed in England but before all this crap happened, my soul knew it was time to come home. When you start worrying about spending, holiday vibes are over. I’m glad Christopher gets extra time with the babies and super glad I get to see mine tonight. The thought of my own bed is X-rated. Despite the colossal pain in the ass this is, I know things are meant to be and happening as they should. I reckon he’ll test negative from his fancy European L’omicron in 3-5 days and then we can think about getting him home. I forgot to document something from London that’s stuck with me:
When Christopher and I left Harrod’s we walked through Knightsbridge past all the decadent patisseries, debating treating ourselves. Outside one such place stood a woman in a burka with just a peep of eyes showing. She stood still with lots of bags. In the cold. Staring in the window. Into warm pink and gold chandeliered opulence. She wasn’t taking a break from walking. She was waiting outside. And it made me sad.
“That’s their religion, honey,” Christopher said. “You shouldn’t feel that way. She doesn’t.”
And he’s right. Her eyes weren’t sad. Nor was her energy. I’m respectful of all faiths and to each their own but I cannot imagine a world where someone wouldn’t want to sit under a glittery chandelier shoving pillowy whipped cream in their face, washing it down with gourmet coffee. Anyway. I just wanted to get that down.
I just used the airplane loo which for some reason flushed mid pee-stream. That was a very special blast of air. Like a blowout for my bits. Jaysus.
Flight attendant just told me its the emptiest flight he’s ever seen, too.
Next stop, HOME.
I haven’t written in awhile. At least not here. But this I felt compelled to share since the whole planet is going through something BIG together. I also documented the entire nightmare that was 2021. Pen to paper. No editing. Just like the entry transcribed above.
But more on that later.