As you may know, my father died suddenly in early February. My fragile, 85-year-old mother Ruth ("Ruthie" to friends) was left without her husband after 62 years of marriage. Since then, many of you have written to me, wondering if I'm okay. And so for you, and others who care, I will tell you what has been happening with me.Photos: Above: A recent photo of my parents with two of their great-grandchildren. Below: Their wedding photo. My father was a pilot with the 8th Air Force in Europe during WW II.
IN EARLY FEBRUARY, I was one day away from ending a three-week RV trip in my new motorhome when I got word that my father, 87, was dying. He had driven himself to the hospital emergency room with a piece of turkey stuck in his throat. Removing it should have been a routine matter, but, alas, there were complications.
I raced from southern Oregon to his hospital bed in the small gold rush-era town of Grass Valley, Calif. He was barely conscious. He tried to speak, but could only whisper "Chuuucck." He wanted to say more, but was too drugged. The nurse said I should let him sleep: there was a glimmer of hope then that he would recover. Eight hours later, at 3 a.m., he died. What he was trying to say to me will haunt me forever.
After the funeral and attending to a myriad of financial and legal chores, I drove my motorhome with my mother aboard to my home in Washington state, where she has stayed with me ever since. I am the oldest of three children, and the only one with the time or appropriate living space to care for her.
THE SADNESS OF MY FATHER'S DEATH has been somewhat tempered by the joy of being with my mother. My father, as hard as he tried, could not care for her properly. He could barely boil water, much less cook a meal. My mother was too tired and weak to cook, so he fed her prepared "meals" from the local discount grocery store. And even though he could not recognize it, she was weakening. I was terribly worried about her health, but was powerless to do anything: my father always insisted on the final word.
In the last decade, my parent's children and grandchildren moved away from them, most to the Seattle area. And so with no nearby family, and few close friends, they were isolated. My mother was unhappy.
Today, even though she misses her husband, she is surrounded again by her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. She has gained weight and strength from eating healthy meals. My father always insisted on being center stage when his family was around. So when I was with my parents, my mother didn't talk much. Now, she is witty, and for the first time in years appears to be looking forward to the future.
Although she is frail, she is easy to care for. She appreciates my help. "Oh, I am sorry to be a burden on you," she says often. And I tell her she is no burden, but a blessing. Helping her feel better, taking her places, watching baseball games with her (one of her favorite things), is incredibly rewarding. Seeing her smile warms my heart. I am so fortunate for this time.
Soon, she will move into an assisted living place, a two-minute walk from my office and only five minutes from my home. She wants to do it. Even though I know it is best, I will miss tucking her into bed, preparing her meals, and competing with her on Jeopardy. Oh, I will spend a lot of time with her at her new home, but having her in mine has been extra special.ON OUR MOTORHOME TRIP from northern California, I learned much about myself by observing my mother. She read each road sign, often out loud, and laughed at the unusual ones. We passed a big barn with the word "Bargain" (not "Bargains") in ten-foot letters. "I don't think I will go there," she said, "they only have one bargain!" It was exactly the same thing I would think to myself if I saw such a sign. Again and again, she made funny, often insightful remarks. I was amazed at how her thinking and mine were so similar. It was easy to see, too, how happy she was to be in a motorhome.
She loves to be on the road. In 1929, when she was seven years old, her parents took her from Southern California to Illinois on Route 66. They camped by the road and stayed in tourist cabins. She loved it as a little girl. "Roadtrips" were -- and still are -- in her blood. It's no wonder they are in mine, too. I know if I asked her to take a motorhome trip to the East Coast and back that she would be ready to go in an hour.
My mother and father traveled extensively in a series of RVs. They started with a travel trailer when my brother, sister and I were young, and after retiring owned a series of motorhomes.
They last visited me with their RV less than a year ago. But they both knew it was their final trip. My father's eyesight was failing and my mother was frail. It was sad for them, and sad for me, knowing how much they enjoyed traveling by RV.
Since my father's death, I have had little time to devote to the RV Travel newsletter, this blog or to RVbookstore.com, the bread and butter of my livelihood. But things are settling down now and I am back to work about half time. It feels good.
It was sad to lose my father, but I was lucky to have had him for 60 years. Now, I have my mother close by, and that has brought new meaning to me, and great happiness to be able to give something back to her. It's strange how our roles have reversed. I'm sure I will write more about all this later.
