There was stress, a lot of stress. As I thought about my elderly father and the life-saving kidney surgery he was about to undergo, familiar memories resurfaced, memories from a time long ago when my country had experienced much conflict. Memories that would be intense until this stressful event was over.

I rarely fly, and without Patty, my supportive wife, I would be going alone on this flight. The worry for my ailing father brought out forgotten experiences from my past. Coming from a nation that had endured years of war, the busy airport felt like a reminder of those chaotic times.

At the airport, everyone moved with ease and calmness, unlike the turmoil I once knew. Approaching a staff member, I pointed to D25 on my ticket. "Where is it?" I asked while trying to mask my accent as best I could. She smiled and gestured vaguely, telling me to follow the signs. Navigating through the crowd, I noticed everyone seemed confident in their path, except for me.

After some time, I reached Gate D25 where there was a line of people with issues. Older Serbs know all about lines, so I was not sure if I belonged there or not. I asked an attendant who confirmed that I did not need to be in that line and could proceed. Joining the line for the shuttle ride across the tarmac to the jet, I marveled at the quiet efficiency of everyone around me.

The shuttle bus was an unexpected surprise. Seated in a cramped space, surrounded by strangers, yet there was calmness with everyone around me. No one smiled or chatted as they were lost in their own thoughts. I could not help but be reminded of another time, decades ago, when my country had been engulfed in war. Back then, we would gather in places while the armies did their thing close by. We had grown accustomed to it, almost routine. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by occasional cries of a baby.

In our gathering places, there was no fear, just resignation. Everyone knew what they were doing and where they needed to be. The shuttle bus ride felt eerily similar. No one spoke as there was no need for words. We were all bound for the same destination, and that seemed to be enough. But unlike those times when we waited in silence—no mortars, no gunfire, no tank track noises—the calmness now had a different undertone. The people around me did not seem to know what it truly meant to wait in silence.

When I boarded the plane, a sense of relief washed over me. Mid-flight, a flight attendant offered coffee, which I accepted gratefully. Looking out the window, I felt peaceful for a moment drinking my coffee. But then came the discomfort of leaving half the cup unfinished. Embarrassed, I handed the half-drunk cup back to the flight attendant.

"Thank you," I said softly, "it was wonderful."

A woman nearby glanced over and said, "For airline coffee." Her words stung me deeply. What she did not know about hardship, no amount of kindness could teach her. Abruptly, I told her without caring how my English came out, “I sincerely hope you always believe that.” My tone was sharp, but my heart was heavy again with the weight of my past when I was having a relaxing moment of peace.

She looked at me, perhaps realizing the depth of what she had said without understanding it fully. To everyone else around me, this seemed like an uncomfortable moment waiting to unfold. I decided maybe I was too harsh on her and added more gently and clearly, "I mean, I hope you never go through any hardships for your entire life."

That seemed to satisfy her, or at least she understood the gravity of her words. Everyone went back to reading their books and playing on their cell phones, ignoring me as if my outburst had been a small storm that quickly passed.

As the plane touched down, it was now directly to the hospital where my father awaited me. His surgery would be the following day.

I took a taxi to the hospital. That night I stayed with him in the hospital. We spoke on many things and we had an understanding of sorts where regardless of the outcome, we would be at peace. Though there was concern, I knew this serious surgery would have only one outcome with him being 82 years old, either a full recovery or he would die. Oddly, that certainty comforted both of us.

When the doctors took him away for the surgery, I went to the hospital cafeteria. I was not hungry but bought a small amount of food anyway. The cafeteria seating area was huge, maybe enough space for 200 people. Most of the cafeteria was open space with large windows in the front where people could sit and see the scenery outside.

I noticed a pattern emerge which I doubt many Americans would even notice, I could honestly guess which countries people came from just by observing where and how they sat in that large hospital cafeteria. It was not paranoia, many foreigners were the same.

The foreigners, like me, sat away from the grenade kill zones inside and away from possible automatic weapon fire spraying bullets from passersby on the street. A division most would never notice. Maybe all Americans were simply oblivious to the danger everyone faced, just by where they sat in the peaceful hospital. As I pondered that division, I observed many hospital staff holding lunch bags they brought from home which might contain their lunch but might not, never trust bags in crowds. There was danger everywhere.

America was obviously not immune to terrorist acts, yet none of them apparently thought it would happen at their hospital. The smart ones know all too well what a rich target this hospital is.

Hours later, I received a text from the hospital staff. My father was out of surgery and the surgery had been successful. I rushed to finish yet another cup of coffee and went to where the text directed me. I got lost a few times but eventually made it to his side. Fortunately, he was still asleep when I found him.

When my father eventually woke up and opened his eyes, I was there. The operation was a complete success and when he was fully awake, we spoke deeply for the first time in many years. I told him about Patty and her idea to adopt a child one day, not a newborn baby but an older child. If the state allowed it, my father would be a grandfather. He and I were both cautiously optimistic but knew it would either happen or it wouldn't. It was for the state to decide, just like back home.

Days later, I was at the chaotic airport once more. As I boarded the flight back to Savannah, the weight of my father’s surgery finally lifted. The war inside me had quieted, but it wouldn’t disappear entirely. It was part of who I was—a man shaped by both the horrors and triumphs of his past, triggered by stress and turmoil.

The journey home was much less stressful and felt different than when I departed. No longer alone, I carried with me the strength that comes from facing life’s darkest moments alongside those you love. I promised myself I would be closer to my father from now on and hoped he would one day be a grandfather.

Back in Savannah, Patty was waiting for me. Her warmth enveloped me as we embraced, a reminder of the stability I found after years of uncertainty. With her by my side, I thought not of the past but of the present, of the life we were building together, filled with strength and hope. Maybe even a life with an addition of a son or daughter. If that was not to be, we would be fine knowing that no matter what came our way, the two of us would endure it together.

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