MUM’S ROAD TRIP TO REMEMBER
Aged 90 and incuarbly ill, Normaefrused teratment and decided on an adventure instead
Our plan was to travel with Mum for a year. After that we would reassess the situation. In truth, we did not believe she would live through the year, but we hoped that by setting a goal her desire to continue living would increase.
Every day that Mum wasn’t in a nursing home meant that we could afford some comforts for her, so we bought a second-hand motorhome. We also needed a new car to tow behind and only a Jeep would work. But Mum’s legs were not long or strong enough to climb into it. Lenny, the showroom dealer, searched around for a stool and soon Mum was sitting in the back seat next to her pal, our standard poodle Ringo.
‘What do you think?’ Lenny asked. Mum, normally quiet and reserved, surprised us all when she quipped back, ‘Lenny, I tell you what. This is a very nice car. There are only two problems with it: I can’t get in it and I can’t get out of it. If you throw in the stool, you’ve got a deal.’
The packing for the trip highlighted Mum’s loss: Dad had died just two days before her cancer diagnosis. No longer would she inhabit a home full of possessions that meant so much to her. But instead of nostalgic items, she chose to take practical things such as jigsaw puzzles. The first item she packed was her binoculars, followed by field guides to study the natural world along the way.
We set off in August 2015 for her first- choice destination: the presidential heads carved in stone at Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. Mum sat buckled into the dining area of the motorhome, the spot that gave her the best view. Within days she was showing us a side to her we had never seen – not just happy but silly, too. Her joy was infectious.
We had no idea if her interest in those huge presidential sculptures was because of history, geology or art, and that did not matter. She couldn’t take her eyes off them and she read every sign. At the visitor centre, she joyfully pressed down the plunger of a mock blasting detonator in an interactive display, laughing when a film clip of a real explosion on the mountain appeared on the screen. A nine-year- old boy cracked up as he watched, taken by her youthful antics. Soon his family followed suit and everyone around us encouraged Mum to blow up some more stuff.
We drove into Yellowstone National Park, 3,500 square miles of wilderness that rest on top of a volcanic hotspot, with dramatic canyons, rivers and geysers, as well as hundreds of animals. Mum said, ‘I hope we see a bear,’ as she peered out of the window at a huge bison looking straight at her.
This was our first big stop after Mount Rushmore, where all the trails had been paved, making it easy for Mum’s wheelchair. But at Yellowstone we went off the boardwalks and had to tip back the wheelchair as we made our way over rocks and tree roots. Mum clenched the armrests with her hands, as if preparing for disaster. Then something glorious happened. She let go. She spread her arms wide, as if she were hugging the world. The corners of her mouth lifted, her chest opened with pure joy.
For decades she had been the strong, selfless woman who had endured economic hardship, war, fertility problems, the death of her daughter Stacey from cancer and the loss of her husband. She was the woman who was more comfortable saying, ‘Don’t worry about me’ than asking for help. Now she needed us and needed to trust us. With our support she could let go and enjoy every bump in the road.
Later, as we followed a flat section of paved trail back to the visitor centre, Mum surprised us again. ‘ Tim, you’ve pushed me all day; let me give you a break and push you.’
The people we passed must have thought she had pushed the chair for some distance judging by their shaking heads and sidelong glances. They could not possibly have known that what we experienced as a family on that day was so much more than a ride in a wheelchair. We felt each other’s strong embrace.
When we were sorting out Mum’s home, we found several newspaper clippings about hot-air ballooning. ‘Dad and I always wanted to go,’ she said. So we secretly hatched a plan to take her in Orlando, Florida.
‘What is this?’ she asked when we gave her the leaflet for the flight we had booked. ‘Are we really going to go on a hot-air balloon ride?’ She clasped her hands under her chin in delight; ➤
➤ she could hardly believe it. On our appointed day we woke to a clear sky. Mum rose way before the sun, much earlier than her usual time. We skipped breakfast knowing that an all-you- can- eat brunch would follow our balloon ride.
‘We’re all set, Norma. Are you ready?’ said the organiser. Our fears vanished as we left the ground. In the light of her eyes we could see how beautiful it was to shape your own story and how, facing the end of life, it might be a meaningful experience, not safety, that takes priority. Mum’s eyes sparkled with delight as she looked up at the burner. Then, gazing out at the rising sun and down at the treetops, her face relaxed.
She radiated joy and peace. We did not dare ask what she thought, for this was her moment, not ours.
We drifted through the sky, over Walt Disney World, a manicured golf course and rush-hour traffic. It was Mum who broke the silence. Her gloved hands lay gently on the leather-wrapped edge of the basket and a knitted shawl covered her head and shoulders. The sun illuminated her face. She was glowing.
Then she looked at us with a huge smile and said, ‘Dad would have liked this.’
We began a blog about Mum’s adventures. Within hours people began to make comments on our first post so we read them out to her: ‘Who says you can’t have an adventure in your 90s?’ ‘Let it flow, spontaneity rules!’ A glimmer of fascination crept into Mum’s eyes. ‘Those people care about our journey? I don’t know why.’
With each new message, suggestion or offer of help, our confidence in what we were doing grew.
‘I am sharing your posts with the residents in the nursing home where I work. You inspire them to enjoy their last days.’
‘I am a doctor and will be talking to my patients differently having read your story.’
‘You have saved my life. When I see the joy on your face, I know that the best of my life isn’t over. You have helped me more than the doctors, medicine or counsellors.’
One morning towards the end of our stay on Mount Desert Island off the coast of Maine, a message from someone called Lisa dropped into the Driving Miss Norma inbox. ‘Last year my father was diagnosed with cancer. I have been following you for some time now and would love to meet you before you leave.’
Emboldened by our collective experiences with strangers, we began to follow our instincts when it came to meeting new people. Sometimes we even went out of our way to meet them. This would be one of those days, as Lisa invited us for dinner.
Lisa, her husband Bob and daughter Grace lived on a part of the island where the tourists never go. We nearly got lost as we drove deep into a thick forest before coming to a small clearing that was only slightly larger than their hand-built house. Inside we were greeted with the aroma of freshly baked bread. Standing in the kitchen, Lisa opened up about how her father’s cancer was affecting her. Soon we shared tears and hugs. She told us that she wished her father was up for a trip like ours, how she wanted to create positive end- of-life memories of her own.
A peaceful silence fell over us as we made our way back to the campsite. With Mum and Ringo snuggled up in the back, I felt full of good food and love.
As we drove my mind wandered back over the many meals we had shared with Mum. I laughed remembering her trying oysters in New Orleans. At first she had given her typical response, ‘I don’t know about that.’ So we ordered every type of oyster on the menu. When they were brought to the table, Mum agreed to try each one. She happily ate the cooked ones, but when it came to raw, she hesitated. Then with a glint in her eye, she tilted her head and slid the oyster into her mouth. ‘That’s not bad,’ she said. Our waitress walked over and in her Southern drawl said, ‘Honey, you are a lot braver than I am. I’ve worked here for 18 years and never tried one of those.’ Mum beamed and slurped down another.
I also thought about the meal we had at the North Beach Bar and Grill on Tybee Island, a suggestion from a Driving Miss Norma follower, who had told us to visit ‘Big George’. I could still see the beach-shack restaurant in my mind’s eye and remember the sound of the wind blowing through the palm trees.
As we waited for our drinks, we noticed an African-American man with a wide smile near the kitchen door. He was at least six and a half feet tall and of equally large proportions. He sauntered across and sat down next to Mum. Her whole body fitted into the curve of his arm as he placed it around her.
‘Well, you must be Miss Norma,’ he said in a soft voice that belied his size. ‘I read all about you. You sure get around.’ Mum blushed and nodded. By the end of the evening we were laughing like old friends. He insisted on picking up the bill and invited us to visit him again.
I began to remember the faces of everyone I had cried with on our adventures – people I had only just met. With food spread out before us to share, we had felt safe enough to dive into the big stuff: loss, family, the meaning of life, how to take care of loved ones who are ill or ageing, and how scary it is to talk about death and to be faced with our vulnerability as human beings.
I checked the rear-view mirror again and saw that Mum was fast asleep and Ringo had his head on her lap. I had no idea how much love would come back to me – and to my mum – from our trip. Norma spent 14 months living adventurously. She died, with Tim and Ramie caring for her, in their motorhome in August last year.
■ This is an edited extract from Driving Miss Norma: One Family’s Journey Saying ‘Yes’ to Living by Tim Bauerschmidt and Ramie Liddle, published by Bantam Press and available now, price €18.20
Mum showed us a side to her we had never seen – her joy was infectious