On the Road Again...

My mother was a hoarder on family vacations - meaning the car floorboard under her feet was packed full of anything we might need while on the road. She had a thermos of water and paper cups, bologna sandwiches and grapes in a little cooler, paper towels and wet wipes, a first aid kit, games for us little ones in the back seat, and somewhere in there were her purse and her feet. Oh, yes, and plenty of suntan lotion. 

Her main concern on trips was the well being of her family.  High on her list were not allow us to go hungry, stopping for regular potty breaks, having something to keep us occupied on the long treks across the country, and avoiding sunburn.  Mom was our source of security and comfort – and made the car a pleasant “home away from home.”

It is sad for me to think back on the last road trips any of us took with her as adults, so fraught with anxiety and a never-ending stream of questions.  Once the intrepid world traveler, Mom became obsessed with the location of her suitcase, where we would stop to eat, and when we would reach the “motel.”  In spite of reassurances, the same questions would be asked over and over in an unending cycle, like the speedometer turning over the miles.  I finally learned to answer that inevitable question, “Are we there yet?” with “Yes, it’s just two towns ahead,” knowing that by the time two towns had come and gone, she would have forgotten.

When long road trips became truly uncomfortable for her and she had lost all interest in the beautiful scenery sliding by, we decided to switch to flying her to visit relatives.  But, we soon realized that she could not follow the directions of the security guards to place her shoes in the bin, take off her jacket and put her purse on the conveyor belt.  Mom either stared blankly at the perturbed guard or flatly refused to follow instructions, clutching her purse in a death grip.  It annoyed me that the officer would not let me go to her aid.  How could he even suspect that an 80-year-old on a walker would be of any threat?  She was terrified of his stern treatment, and I sadly realized that it would be her last plane trip.  

Granted, Mom’s anxiety had been building for weeks as we made the mistake of telling her a month ahead of time that she would be going on a trip to see her sisters. The empty suitcases came out of the closet and were packed, unpacked and repacked countless times before the actual day of departure. The caregivers told us that most of the rearranging of items took place in the middle of the night with frantic searches for a bathing suit and a fur coat, both of which went into her luggage side-by-side. 

Road trips, plane rides, and eventually simple outings to the grocery store became too much for her to wrap her mind around.  Once a student of the world, Mom’s world became very small. 

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A Bandaid for the Caregiver is dedicated to all those families who journey with memory loss in their lives and the sharing of hope and joy and new possibilities.  In each difficult moment there lies an opportunity for love.

Journey with courage,
Elaine