One Last Road Trip

About this time 9 years ago, I was planning on driving my mom into the mountains to view the turning leaves in the foothills of the Carolinas – a truly beautiful sight.

It was less than one month before my mom died, and we both knew it would be her last autumn leaf viewing. As a family growing up in the Carolinas, one of our favorite things to do had been to go see the leaves turn in the Fall.  We would drive up through Tryon and onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, with my Dad laughing as he rounded the curvy mountain roads too fast, with my mom shrieking (and secretly laughing), “Bud – you’re scaring the kids!” Those times are some of my favorite childhood memories.

That morning in early November, 20 days before she died, my mom didn’t feel so well, and she was resisting our plan for the short daytrip.

Because of the advanced stage of her lung cancer, she felt increasingly anxious about leaving her bedroom, which we had made comfortable with all manner of pillows and other creature comforts, not to mention her meds and her new constant companion, the oxygen machine.

It was easy enough for me to make the car more comfortable for the journey with pillows and her portable oxygen tank, so I haggled with her to get a grip and come along for the ride.

I was extremely upset with the possibility of having my plan thwarted, not only because I didn’t want to miss seeing the leaves turn (I hadn’t seen them in the 30-some-odd years since I’d lived there), but also because I was exhausted from the intensity of my caregiving responsibilities. I felt resentful that I might have to give up this very simple pleasure, and I felt angry at my mom for not allowing me to give her this special gift. I knew there wasn’t much time left in her life.

We needed to leave around 10 am, in order to make it far enough up into the mountains to see some leaves before heading back home and hitting a restaurant that my mom wanted to go to for a late lunch. The time for haggling was over. “I’m going anyway, even if you decide not to go,” is what I said to her. And finally, she acquiesced.

She ended up coming and we had a great time; it was her final trip outside into the world of the living.

The day was perfect, brilliantly sunny and about 65 degrees, and the trees were in fine form: bright reds, oranges and yellows, with a dreamy, gauzy glow that didn’t disappoint. We drove in awed silence much of the way, punctuated with OOHs and AAHs just like we’d done in years past, with the entire family in tow.

We lunched at a funky, Southern mountain-style, log cabin restaurant that she knew. My mom, who now weighed only 85 pounds, walked in on her own in a somewhat frail way, but without a cane. It was a desperate but determined walk, grabbing at chair backs to support her along the way to her desired table, as I and the counter ladies watched. We sat down, and I looked around the rustic room with red-and-white checkered linoleum tablecloths, and noticed a lonely-looking white-haired woman in her late eighties.  She was with another woman who was obviously her professional caretaker, and I felt so happy to be the one lunching with my mom, rather than a non-family member.

Mom ordered chicken and dumplings and fried okra, which surprised me since I knew the volume, the carbs and the grease would be massive for her compared to what she’d been eating. She literally gobbled it with such gusto that I was worried she might get sick.  It was like she knew it was her last time, and she was determined to do it right. I felt sure her now tiny tummy might explode – and that I might have a big mess to deal with in the car on the way home!

Luckily, we drove home without incident, and succeeded in our grand plan for her last autumn leaf viewing.  It’s one of my happiest memories of our final days together, and I could see that it was for her, too.