I really wasn’t looking forward to this drive. 

Two thousand miles at the wheel of a 24-foot RV hauling a dying Suegra (mother-in-law) was not my idea of a good time. 

But, we didn’t have any alternative. 

Mrs. P did lots of research into RVs. (She’s thorough.) She learned about the different size classes, and the kinds of facilities that come with each, and sleeping capabilities, and what you need to do to maintain them, like putting gas in the tank every 20 miles and cleaning the sewage (what fun!).  

“You know, it would be fun to rent an RV one summer and tour the country. We could camp in parks. It would be beautiful.”  

“Yeah. Fun.” 

We went to an RV rental place near our house to check out the vehicles. The same establishment also cleaned and repaired fire trucks. The RVs looked bigger. 

Meanwhile, I worried. 

What if we had a flat tire? What if the Old Lady had a heart attack on the interstate? What if something went wrong with the RV and it needed to be fixed? (I’m mechanically inept.) What if I got the thing stuck in a tollbooth? What if we maxed out our credit cards buying gas? What if I did the toilet cleaning thing wrong, and the RV exploded? What if my body became cramped from sitting in the same position hour after hour and I became a hunchback? 

I decided to take care of the latter concern by convincing my brother-in-law (Brother Doc) to help with the driving. We were lucky. Late in August, his daughter had her first child—his and his wife’s first grandchild. The daughter and her husband lived near Cleveland, and the new grandparents were going to fly there, once liberated from Mami care.

I pointed out that Cleveland was more or less between New Mexico and Pennsylvania, that being chauffeured there in a 24-foot RV was far classier than flying, and that he would feel a lot better if he didn’t have the deaths of his mother and sister on his conscience were I to fall asleep on the road (which I promised to do).  

To my relief, he agreed. He and his wife changed plans: Sister-in-Law would fly out first and Brother Doc would follow a few days later, with us.  

Mrs. P and I made our final preparations. We upped the life insurance. We made a will. We dropped one son off at college and then, a couple of weeks later, took the other to his. We came back home to revel in a week of Empty Nesthood—a celebration obliterated by the need to prepare the house for the Return of the Suegra, get work details in order, and pack for the trip. 

On Friday, we flew to New Mexico. The Old Lady looked white and frail. The Old Man, in the nursing home, looked old and tired. We went shopping to buy food that we then cooked for the trip. We bought multiple rolls of RV-ready toilet paper. (Prep R Us)  

On Sunday, Sister-in-Law left to see her new grandson, looking annoyingly happy.  

Tuesday, I went to pick up the RV. Lacking popcorn, I fell asleep watching the “Care and Feeding of Your RV” video just before the “How to Empty the Sewage Water” part.  

I sucked up my paltry supply of courage, got into the Beast, and drove it to Brother Doc’s house. It felt like driving an LST in a World War II movie.

Wednesday—Wednesday was hard. We took Mami to the nursing home to see Papi.  

Here she was, about to go clear across the country from the man she had married sixty years before. She would never see him again. Adding to the suckiness, of course, was the fact that he didn’t realize it. That goodbye was much worse than the drive could ever be. 

Thursday, Brother Doc finished work, came home, got a quick RV orientation, and added his suitcase to the things we’d already stowed. We deposited Mami in the Beast (she found it quite appealing), got Mrs. P inside, and stuck the wheelchair in the well of the door to the passenger section, closing the door behind. Brother Doc and I climbed into the cab, and at about six o’clock that evening, off we went.  

The worries, it turned out, were exaggerated. (Don’t you hate that? I mean, isn’t it frustrating when you worry and worry about disasters happening, and epidemics striking, and the sky falling, and then nothing happens? It’s such a letdown.)  

Brother Doc and I had a plan. We’d drive and drive and never stop except for gas unless both of us were so exhausted that we couldn’t drive safely anymore. Forget RV beds. Forget stopping for warm meals. Just get this over with as quickly as possible. 

New Mexico morphed into Texas. We stopped somewhere for gas and caffeine, the two liquids equally important.  

The RV was noisy. The engine roared, the tires rumbled on the road, and the air conditioner in the passenger section throbbed. Adding yet more noise was the oxygen concentrator keeping Mami breathing (she had tanks, but not really enough to cover the trip). The concentrator ran on electricity, and there was an outlet in the front of the passenger compartment—which is to say, right behind Brother Doc and me in the cab. The constant droning of the machine in our ears was very loud. 

Not as loud, though, as the alarm that sounded when the machine went off, which happened when stopped for gas and turned the RV off, killing the electricity.  

Not as loud as the scream from Mrs. P’s lips the first time we did that, and she didn’t yet have an oxygen tank ready to give to Mami. 

We developed a routine: Warning of imminent engine shut off. Open the oxygen tank. Switch breathing tubes. Shut off the concentrator. Shut off the engine. We became a smooth machine, a highly coordinated team. 

Brother Doc and I  managed to sleep while the other drove. The Panhandle became Oklahoma. Somewhere in eastern Oklahoma, dawn broke beautifully. The sky was clear, mist rose from ponds in farms long the interstate, cattle munched on still-green grass.  We drove.

We crossed the Mississippi River just south of St. Louis (“Look—there’s the Gateway Arch!” “Not now, honey. I’m driving.”)

We lumbered across the flatness of Illinois and Indiana and entered Ohio, turning north to head to Cleveland as night was falling. We had been on the road for about a day now. 

As we neared Cleveland, we hit a terrible thunderstorm, with lots of lightning and awful visibility. Meanwhile, Mrs. P called Brother Doc’s daughter, our niece, to say that we would be arriving late that night. Mami insisted on getting a motel room (the RV might be OK for traveling, but there was no way she was going to sleep in it). Since it was her dime, we agreed. Our niece made the arrangements.

About midnight, we pulled up to the motel. I checked us in, we wheeled Mami to the room, Brother Doc got his wife to pick him up, and after getting Mami settled in one bed, Mrs. P and I collapsed into ours. 

It was nice not to be moving. 

The next day, our niece and her husband came by with their new baby (and Brother Doc and Sister-in-Law), to present the First Great-Grandchild to Mami. After the tearful departure from Papi, it was a healing moment. She held him, she cooed, she cuddled, and, whenever he cried, she launched into a lengthy, amusing nag about what “abusadores” the baby’s parents were.  

About four o’clock that afternoon, we tore her away and loaded her back in the RV. Waving goodbye, we began the final leg. 

It went quickly. Traffic was light, we only needed to stop twice for gas, and, other than the construction on the western half of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which made the highway absurdly narrow, the drive was easy. 

About midnight, two days and six hours after setting out, we pulled up in front of our house and did the shutdown routine one last time. We plunked Mami into her wheelchair and rolled her into the house.

We’d completed our mission. Mami was home.  

Now all we had to do was care for her.  

Words © 2009 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.