Road Trip

Fifty miles into a two thousand mile trip I have responded to Mom’s question, “What are those crops?” with this answer, “I think (I’m pretty sure, they might be) soybeans” roughly a half dozen times. My mother’s voice remains even, light, inquisitive while my voice rises slightly, getting tighter, more harried with each response. I’m already beginning to question the wisdom of this spontaneous journey through three states, Arkansas to North Carolina. But since a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, that’s how I approach this weeklong vacation--one step at a time.

“Mom, I’m thinking it might be fun to jump in the car and drive to the coast to visit Alison and Ben.”
“Okay.”
“Does that sound like fun?”
“Sure! Sounds great! Do I get to go?”
“Well, would you like to? Do you think you’re up to it?”
“Sure! Why not?”

Why not, indeed. A week earlier I had awakened to find her lying on her bedroom floor, having fallen after getting up and getting herself dressed. She was in pain for several days and while x-rays showed no broken bones, the arthritis in her spine, hips and tailbone is extensive. I question the wisdom of asking her to sit in a car for two and a half days each way. I worry about problems with circulation, confusion, exhaustion. At eighty-nine, she suffers from the usual age-related maladies tempered with an extraordinarily cheerful spirit. She has spent the last three half years since she moved in with me sitting in her chair day after day reading and watching television while I’m at work. I decide it’s worth the potential risks to give us both the gift of a week with my daughter--no expectations, no TV, no routine.

I make hasty plans for leaving, enlisting a friend to check on the cat, water the plants, keep an eye on the house. Within a few days we are on our way. We leave late on a Friday afternoon. I know there’s a chance I’ll need to stop every two hours or so to give Mom a break from sitting still but as it turns out our breaks segue nicely with our fuel stops.

As the miles float past, her questions continue to be repetitive and I wonder how long my patience will hold out. I’ve brought along books on tape and CDs of music that I know we will both enjoy but I’m saving them for the next day when we’ll be in the car for a good ten hours. I soon discover that the long silences (I can drive for hours without saying a word) inspire mom to ruminate on what we are doing, where we are going and why.

“Remind me of where we’re going. Will we be spending the night at home?”
“We’re going to visit Alison and Ben in North Carolina. We should be there by day after tomorrow.”
“What day is it today?”
“Friday. It’s about 8:00. We’ll stop soon to spend the night, then we’ll drive all day tomorrow and get there sometime Sunday.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll try to remember. Now, what’s planted in all these fields? Isn’t it beautiful!”
“They’re soybeans, Mom. Same as that last field we passed, remember?”
“I wouldn’t know a soybean if you put it in my hand. What does one do with a soybean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re used lots of ways. Tofu, for example, is made from soybeans.”
“Tofu? Really? From soybeans? Farmers must be so busy this time of year, with all these crops.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are. Then, in the Fall, they’ll harvest the crops and the whole process will start again in the Spring.”
“Yes, that’s how it works, isn’t it. I’m glad we’re seeing them now, when everything is so green. Now look over here—what are these crops do you think?”
“Soybeans, Mom. Soybeans.”

We find a non-descript hotel for the night. Mom’s exhausted and hungry so I make a quick trip out for food. The only thing close to the hotel is a quick stop convenience store next door and the only things they have to eat are suspiciously soggy-looking pre-packaged tuna or chicken salad sandwiches and a few hotdogs that look as if they have spent far too long on the hot-dog rollers. I buy one anyway, along with a bottle of chocolate milk and a small bag of chips. Back at the hotel, Mom has changed into her nightgown and reaches gratefully for the chocolate milk. She’s not as thrilled with the hot dog, which we split—my half with mustard, hers without. We’re traveling on a tight budget, but I may have reached a new low with this particular meal.
I’m too wound up to sleep so I ask her if she’ll mind if I watch a little TV.

“Go ahead. It won’t bother me—but do you really want to listen to it in Spanish?”
“Spanish? What makes you think it’s in Spanish?”
“Aren’t we in Mexico? Won’t the TV be in Spanish?”
I have no idea how Mexico has become our destination. “No, Mom. We’re not in Mexico. We’re in Tennessee, on our way to visit Alison in North Carolina.”
Her face brightens. “Oh, yes! I’m certainly looking forward to seeing her.”
“Me too, Mom. Let’s go to bed and treat ourselves to a nice meal tomorrow.”

We’re sharing a double bed that’s been made, it seems, with a twin size top sheet. I give the majority of the covers to her—the room is so muggy I have no desire to sleep with anything more than a sheet—and she quickly falls asleep.
In the morning I get up and begin to pack quietly but she opens her eyes, smiles, asks where we are and by 7:30 we’re in the car and headed down the road.

Once we hit the interstate, I’m reluctant to stop other than to pick up food at a drive-thru so we settle for a breakfast sandwich for me, orange juice and scrambled eggs for her. She eats all of her meals on her lap at home, and usually uses a plastic fork, so she’s comfortable with our make-shift in-car picnic.

I pull out the book on tape that I’ve brought along as a surprise. She’s delighted to discover that it’s Bill Bryson reading one of our favorite books, A Walk in the Woods. His story of walking significant portions of the Appalachian Trail with his sidekick, Katz, seems especially appropriate as our route takes us through many of the areas he references. His dry delivery is the perfect counterpoint to his often hysterical prose. We laugh and giggle and are completely enthralled. The miles roll by.

Rest stops are relatively brief, thanks to Mom’s walker and our temporary Handicapped Parking Permit. I notice that people go out of their way to be friendly and accommodating when they encounter us. They hold doors, smile, wait patiently, and some comment softly that I’m blessed to still have my mom. I smile and agree. Some engage in brief conversations about the recent loss of their mothers or how far they live from their parents. When Mom spies a babe in arms, she always, always stops to smile and coo and reach out to touch a chubby arm or knee. Parents are patient and children offer shy smiles. We’re enjoying ourselves and I’m gratified that the trip is going well.
We listen to one of Garrison Keillor’s books on tape. We laugh at his stories and sing along when he sings “What a Wonderful World.” He and Bill Bryson keep me sane mile after mile.

The rolling hills of Tennessee and North Carolina are neatly bisected by interstate 40, the majority of which is divided by a green belt-way studded with fields of wildflowers. North Carolina in particular is strewn with spectacular displays of lilies, orange, deep red, yellow—all planted thoughtfully in lush parings with smaller flowers of contrasting hues. I am told by a shopkeeper at a craft shop that Lady Bird Johnson was the guiding force behind the beautification effort. We are effusively appreciative that her vision has been fully realized, at least along this stretch of highway. Mom and I find ourselves pointing out opposite sides of the car saying “Look at those! And those! Don’t you just love them!?” They add a special flavor to our trip and we discuss how lovely it is that the state has committed the time, energy and funds to make it all possible.

We travel for ten hours--longer than I’d intended but, I am happy to discover, not more than we can handle. We’ve made it to a small town an hour or so past Asheville where we find a decent hotel and settle in for a good night’s sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I feel a determined pulling on the sheets. Mom has engaged in a serious tug of war and I’m losing. When I reach over to her, she’s talking but doesn’t appear to be awake and looks as if she may be trying to get out of bed.

“Mom?”
“I’m trying to get this together. Can you give me a hand?”
“With what? I’m not sure what you want me to do.” She tugs harder, pulling the sheet off of me. “Just stop asking questions and help me with this. I’m trying to get myself together so I can get all these people organized.” It’s one of the few times I’ve heard her sound cross.
“Ok. Let me pull you back over here.” The upper half of her body is balanced precariously over the side of the bed. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back toward me. “There. Is that better?”
“Yes. Thanks. I’m not sure what just happened. But thanks. I’m going to go back to sleep.”

She remembers nothing of this when we wake up. I wonder what would have happened if I had been in a separate bed. She sleeps in her own room at home. When she fell prior to our trip I found her lying on the floor, a small pillow under her head. She had sent the cat to find me (“Lassie! Is there something wrong with Timmy?”). The cat had, in fact, come into my room and irritated me until I threw her out. Unfortunately, I didn’t equate the cat’s behavior with Mom’s need for help. Mom was distraught and in pain when I finally found her on the floor. I live with the fear that she will fall while I’m at work and won’t be found until her aide, Linda, comes in at 4:30. Linda is, by virtue of the loving care she has provided the past two years, my mother’s closest friend and confidant. She helps my mother with a shower three times a week, trims her hair, does her nails, laughs and cries with her and is worth many times what we are able to pay her.

Mom’s appreciation for anything anyone does for her is boundless. The smallest gestures are praised repeatedly. “Oh! Doesn’t that look good!” she’ll say, when I bring her a simple cup of soup. “Delicious! Thanks so much! I’m really enjoying this.” I’m astounded and blessed that she is so good-natured. I wonder how I would cope if she were cranky and irritable.

Cruising down the interstate, I glance over at Mom. She turns from the window, smiles at me and says, "There's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be right now." I have to agree. Whatever reservations I might have had about this trip are gone in an instant. We drive on.