The Highway

I can do this. I am totally prepared. I am visualizing the plane flight going smoothly, Dad is asleep in the chair next to me. He stays asleep the entire flight, Cairey and I are toasting over glasses of Chardonnay from plastic cups. Everything is normal. Everything goes according to plan.

I picture this scenario a thousand times over; it’s the filmstrip of my mind. Over the past 6 months I’ve become a self-help junkie. I download Tony Robbins audio books and listen to them as I do my hair and makeup in the morning. For the first hour of each day, I feel like they work. Until I get an email from Stephany, 9:00AM Seattle time, and it slaps me back into reality. Dad is moving to Seattle, the Power of Positive Thinking won’t save you.

Needless to say I try. For the entire month of April I prepare. I even order Tony Robbins Videos from Netflix, but they aren’t as good--mainly footage of Tony hyping up mass audiences, pumping his fist in the air and guests walking across burning coals triumphantly. I don’t really need that much power. All I need is enough strength to fly my dad from Michigan to Seattle in one piece. If you can picture success, it will happen. This is the soundtrack to the filmstrip in my mind. I’m not sure if I believe this, but I do it anyway.


I have my mothers old Valium from when she had back surgery 6 years ago in my pocket. 4 little white pills cut into halves and folded into a small tin foil square. Does Valium expire? I have already taken a half this morning, but my hands are still shaking and I feel nothing. I wonder if feeling nothing is a good thing. If that’s how you’re supposed to feel on Valium, or if I should just take the other half…

Cairey is with me, a childhood friend from Michigan who volunteered to lend a hand. Before yesterday we hadn’t seen each other in 4 years. Since then she had her first child and half a dozen surgeries to correct a series of random yet severe ailments. Cairey thrives on drama, she is her best in a crisis, and when she saw my Facebook update that I was moving my father across the country she called me immediately. I never considered bringing a helper with me before. It seemed like too much to ask of anyone. When she offered my immediate response was no, but inside my heart was being squeezed by an anvil. It was too much to ask.

“Teen, I insist, this is what I’m good at. This is what I live for.”

I rationalized a family trauma like this was Cairey’s specialty. The fact that she had been working in eldercare for 10 years made me feel better about accepting the grand gesture. It took about 24 hours for me to happily cave. Cairey was great at this kind of thing. Where my natural tendency was to flit from danger like a skittish bunny, Cairey rushes forward like a trusty Labrador, overflowing with unconditional love and fluffy golden hair.




This morning she is my guardian angel. I look at her across from me in the car, all blond curls and sparkling blue eyes; she is placid chewing on ice after a recent Mandible adjustment surgery. She picked out a bright violet top for the trip, something optimistic and bold. I love her even more for this.

We pull up my rented SUV to the entrance of Independence Village. It is warm today for Michigan at 8:30AM. The car is packed as if we are preparing for a road trip with a newborn. Diapers, check, bottle of water, check, lullabies, check, warm blanket, check, snacks check. I grab my pre-printed directions to the airport from my laptop bag and lay them between the center console and Cairey’s seat. The drive to the airport is typically a one-hour without traffic. Our flight leaves at noon; we allow ourselves 2.5 hours to get there. The Alzheimer’s association, Northwest Airlines, and all of Dad’s doctors suggested extra time to make it. I’m nervous there will be too much downtime. Dad despises waiting, a prime opportunity for meltdowns.

“Do you mind driving?”
“Not at all babe, whatever works.” She grabs my hand and looks into my eyes for emphasis. “We’re doing this, and it will be fine, everything will be fine,” she says.
“I know, I say smiling weekly, “thanks to you.”
“Take another half.”
“No, I’m good. I want to be ready, just in case anything goes wrong.”
“Teen, shit will go wrong, but we’ll handle it.”
“You’re right…”I say, as I reach for my father’s headphones and lay them inside the passenger door.
“You can’t control everything. Life is messy, you’ve got to roll with it.”
“I know, I just want to be prepared.”
“We are, but now you just need to be calm, for your Dad. But that Redbull your drinking probably isn’t helping.”
“You’re right, I say, and toss the slim silver can into the garbage. And with that we breeze through the entrance of Independence Village, superhero and sidekick.

When we arrive Kent and my father are standing in the middle of his room with their backs to us. As I get closer I can see he hasn’t showered or shaved, meaning he and Kent had not had a good morning. Kent flashes me a look of commiseration as I walk through the door and my heart sinks. If there was any day I needed him to be in unusually good spirits it was today, but I am not so lucky. I try my best to override his mood with a cheerful hello. Divert attention, force a new moment. Be positive. Picture everything going smooth.

“Good Morning Sunshine!” I say as I move around him, into his field of vision. He is looking beyond me, unable to recognize my face.
“Who is this?” He asks, agitated.
“It’s Teen and Cairey! We’re here to take you away!” I give him an enthusiastic hug, but body is rigid in my arms.
“What are you doing here? Where are we going?”
“We’re going to Seattle, to see Steph and the boys, Yay!”
“We are?”
“Yes, aren’t you excited?” Cairey interjects.
“Well, how are we getting there?”
“We’re flying on an airplane.”
“Where’s the airplane?”
“In Detroit, we have to drive to the airport first.”
He focuses his eyes on me, finally. A look if disgust spreads across his face. As if this is the first time he has heard of this plan although we have been reminding him for months and on several occasions he brings up the trip on his own and even goes as far as to mention how excited he is to get the hell out of Independence Village. But today is a new day. Blank slate. And all is a big unwelcomed surprise.
“Oh Christ. You know….” he shakes is head and focuses on the ground, “how long will it take to get to the airport?”
“About an hour.” I reply.
“And how are we getting there?”
“We’re driving.”
“What time are we supposed to be there?”
“Noon. Dad, don’t worry, we have the whole thing planned out, we have all your bags packed and have printed out direction and everything. I even have your favorite Beatles Tunes on my Ipod in the car. You have nothing to worry about. All you have to do is hang out and enjoy the ride.”
He looked at me, cocking his head slightly to the right and half smiled facetiously. “Whatever you say.”

I look over at Kent and silently mouth the words “Did you give him his meds?”
He nods.
“Double the Ativan?” I mouth.
He nods again.
“What time?”
Kent holds up two hands, eight fingers. The double dose of the anti anxiety medication should have kicked in by now.
Cairey helps my father with his sweater as he reluctantly forces his fist through an armhole. “I don’t know about this.”
“You’ll be fine. It will be fun!” Cairey says.


An accurate barometer for the day is Dad’s ability to sit inside the car. On a good day, he glides in with only a few directions: "A little to the left, a little to the right, put your hand on the back of the seat…and you're in.” That's a good day. Today sitting in the car takes a dozen of mini adjustments. Dad is turned around backwards, the seat is invisible, the car is too high, the interior too monochromatic. When I say back up he inches forward. He is angry. Expletives are shouted in frustration that we all try to ignore. Dad has no idea where the seat is. Kent steps in and picks his leg up off the ground and half carries him into the car. My father exhales angrily and shakes his head as I bend across him to fasten his seat belt.

“There we go.” The seatbelt clicks. “All snug like a bug in a rug.”
I look back to Kent who is unexpectedly tearing up. We haven’t even left the curb and my take-charge daughter façade begins to crack.
“Thank you so much Kent,” I give him an extended hug. “You were his world at this place.” We disengage and he leans over to shake Dad’s hand.
“Bye John, have a safe flight.”
Four years of laughing with him, being the shoulder to cry on, washing his hair, escorting him to the doctor, answering 3:00 AM phone calls, cutting up his hamburger, feeding it to him like a baby, mopping his urine off the floor, reporting everything back to me, being the highlight of my fathers days…
He shakes Kent’s hand and forces a smile.
“Bye” my father says dryly, as if he were passing a stranger on the street.

The ride to Detroit Metro is 90 miles. Cairey sits in the front seat with Dad, and I sit in the back between them, monitoring everything. The radio is tuned to NPR, the temperature is 72 degrees inside the car, the A/C is turned off but the fan is blowing, I adjust it just so to keep the noise down. The front seat windows are cracked two inches to allow for fresh air. I scan through my Ipod to find the Beatles playlist, of which each song has been perfectly planned out for the ride, first the upbeat tunes for the excitement of leaving, then the more mellow ones, for when the meds kick in and dad starts falling asleep. The center console holds a cracked open bottle of water, along with two additional Ativan just in case. We are prepared. Everything is going smoothly.
Cairey drives with one hand on the wheel, one hand on my printed directions. The car smells of lavender and Jasmine. Cairey’s shampoo. She told me she chose it specifically for the trip. Lavender calms.


“Where are we going?”
“The airport Dad.”
“Which airport?”
“Detroit Metro.”
“Well how far is it?”
“About an hour.”
“Oh Christ…”
I catch Cairey’s reflection in the rear view mirror. She is telling me to relax with her eyes.
I scroll through my Ipod until it lands on Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da and hit play.
“You know…this car is very loud,” he begins.
“Oh? Last time you said it was comfortable, that’s why I rented it again.”
“Well…it’s not comfortable. It’s extremely loud.”
“Maybe if I turn up the music a little…”
Happy ever after in the market place...
In his rearview mirror reflection I can see him scowling. The Beatles carry on, Cairey is chewing ice. I countdown the minutes for his meds to kick in, my insides ache with uncertainty. My veins constrict with worry.
“It’s hot in here.”
I reach over from the backseat to adjust the A/C. It begins to blow but creates more noise than the music, so I flip it to low and reach my hand behind him to lower his window down.
“There, now you can have some fresh air to cool you off. Is that better?”
“It’s fine.”
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah...
The car enters the highway, 84 miles to go. Bright orange signs scream out at us from the shoulder, Construction ahead, 5 miles.

“What road are we on?”
“We’re on the highway.”
My father laughs to himself. A highway? You call this a highway? It feels like we are driving over dead bodies!”
“There’s a little construction on the road, so there are a few more bumps, but it will be over in no time.”
“Are you kidding me? Well why the hell are we taking this road?”
“Because it’s the only way we can get to the airport, Dad.”
“Jesus Christ don’t you ever think? Didn’t I ever teach you to think?”
Happy ever after in the market place...
I reach into my pocket and grab the tiny square of tin foil with 4 halves of Valium inside and grab the bottle of water from the center console.
“How much longer?” He barks.
We have been on the road all of five minutes.
“About an hour.” I lied, it was at least 90 minutes with construction, of which I did not plan for, nor did I plan for his agitation over noise, which was apparently amplified beyond comprehension, to him.
“An HOUR? Are you kidding me? I have to sit in this tank for an hour, this is crazy!”
I popped the half Valium into my mouth and began counting the seconds down in my head for it to lull me into not taking this situation to heart. He was scowling, wriggling in his seat, exhaling loudly, with every breath I am reminded of one more thing I did not prepare for. The rumbling tires on the road pierce through the jovial Beatles chorus and I watch my father writhe under his seat belt in frustration.
“GET ME OUT OF HERE!”
I am cringing. Cairey is peaceful as Ghandi in the driver’s seat chewing her ice. She is unflappable.


“I can’t believe this! I’m going to be sick! How could you do this to me?
It sounds like there are bombs going off outside!”
I lean over to speak quietly in his ear, “Dad. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there would be construction on this road…” I lay my hand on the back of his head and stroke his hair. When all else fails I touch him. I’d like to believe it reminds him I am his daughter. Even if in the heat of the moment, when he is screaming at me.

“You didn’t think! What did I teach you? I thought I raised smart girls! You were supposed to think!” He begins to demonstrate with his hands, using Alzheimer’s logic. “You were supposed to think okay…if I have this road…and it’s a 100 miles…then you take a certain amount of time on this road…divided by the miles….and you plan for x miles, and divide by…and you get there! In a car that’s not a tank! You go from A to B! It’ s that simple! Why didn’t you think this through?”
“I’m sorry Dad.”
“Oh bullshit. You’re not sorry. You just didn’t think! This is torture. You are torturing me!”
He puts his fingers in his ears and leans forward, as if he just launched a grenade. Cairey is going 85, green signs whirl by, Detroit 75 miles. She catches my glance in the mirror and flashes a knowing grin, like Yoda. It’s OK, this is not your Dad, it’s the disease. Just ride it out.
“How much longer?”
“About 45 minutes.”
“45 minutes! Jesus Christ! I’m going crazy in here! In about 2 seconds I’m gonna jump out this window!”
“No you’re not.” The superhero chimes in, stern but calm. My father looks at her incredulously, as if she just magically beamed herself behind the wheel.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your daughter’s best friend from elementary school. Do you remember Pinecrest?”
“What the hell are you talking about…Pinecrest? Oh Jesus Christ GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!”

Our baby is having a tantrum. He stomps his feet on the ground. I am a bad mother. Why didn’t I see this coming? Why didn’t I plan for this? My last resort is the meds. I am weak for this but I don’t care, 20 minutes into the drive and we have already doubled his anti anxiety medication for the entire day. I don’t care. He hates me right now. I reach into my bag and empty the Ativan into the small of my palm. What’s left of the shakes have subsided to a tremor, the Valium must be working. Dad…you’re next.

“I’m going to take one of these pills Dad. They're meant to muffle the noise from the road. They work on headaches too. I’m taking one because the car is really loud. Do you want one too?”
“Well hell, of course I want one if it’s going to stop the sounds of these God Damn bombs going off!”

The song switches. An orange sign up ahead. Construction zone, 8 miles. I pop the Ativan inside his mouth and carefully place the water bottle on his lips. A tactile cue to grab and swallow, which he does. I can hear myself exhale quietly. Cairey pats my shoulder as in a congratulatory way, though I feel anything but victorious. The Beatles carry on:
I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
“This car makes me wanna blow my brains out.”
“I know Dad. We are almost there…”

30 minutes pass. My father continues to kick and scream inside the tank. The Beatles sing, orange signs flicker by, Cairey chews her ice, I wait in the back seat for the torture to pass. I am called stupid, I am called cruel, I am asked at least six times how much longer, and with every response an outburst from my Dad follows. The meds kick in somewhere between Hey Jude and Rocky Raccoon, and with that, the anvil slowly decompresses. My hands are steady in my lap and I watch as the vibrant Michigan spring whirs by. We are doing this.

Cairey’s violet top makes her appear regal, like a queen. God save the queen. I continue to stroke the back of my father’s head; his salt and pepper hair is soft like a child’s. The ranting and squirming subside and I watch with great relief as his eyelids begin to close, then open, then close again.