You don’t get homesick, the second time around. You can’t really get homesick when you’re already home.
You get sick for other reasons. The cold and the jetlag make you nauseous and weak. The nerves when you have to argue or find or, some days, just leave the house, make you shaky. The cigarette smoke and the squelching affection of the couple at the next table over make you cough.
You miss things. You miss people and you miss your car and you miss not having to mentally prepare for a conversation about washing. You miss feeling intelligent when you speak.
But you don’t get homesick, because you’re home. The air smells familiar and when you walk out into the street you get a rush of relief: you’re here. You made it. It’s real.