faith unfaded

I spent nearly eight months planning my summer trip. It was America’s semiquincentennial, and I’d researched every America250 event from the Gulf Coast to the Great Lakes.

I had multi-day itineraries in nearly two dozen cities, tickets for theatre productions and sunset cruises, and a finale that included a steam engine train ride through the Georgia mountains, followed by endless ice cream served poolside at the Chanticleer Inn in Lookout Mountain.

I was off on an adventure of a lifetime.

On Night One, I served as an Honorary Duckmaster at the famed Peabody Hotel in Memphis. I headed to Nashville the next day for a weeklong stay. I visited Cheekwood Gardens, creating content featuring beautiful flowers and dazzling America250 exhibitions. I hit my favorite Nashville spots—Broadway, Goo Goo Cluster Company, Johnny Cash Museum, Old Town Trolley Tours, Ugly Bagel, Country Music Hall of Fame, and Gray Line Tennessee Tours. I saw a brand-new electrifying show, Country Roads USA, at Ray Stevens’ CabaRay Showroom.

A former Beta Club sponsor—and now a judge at state competitions—I was thrilled to discover Nationals for Junior Beta would be at the Opryland Hotel the same week I was visiting. I blocked off one day to serve as judge.

That evening I stayed at my friend Susanna’s house. She lived less than an hour north, close to the Kentucky line. My next destination.

Then the call came.

“You need to come home right away.” My sister was calm, belying the urgency of the situation. “Mom had a stroke.”

My mother had a small stroke once before. She was home the next day with barely a trace of the incident.

“Is it like before?” My sister knew the unspoken question, Do I really need to come home?

She was still calm but firm. “No, it’s not. You need to come home now.”

In retrospect, I could see that she didn’t want me driving 12 hours in a frenzied state. But I could hear what she wasn’t saying, Mom is not going to make it.

Immediately my mind flashed to a week earlier as I told her goodbye. She hugged me and told me to have fun. I told her I’d stocked up enough Diet Cokes and ice cream so she’d be set for seven weeks. We laughed and then she followed me to my car.

Four dozen trips and she’d never once followed me to the door.

She hugged me again, tighter than ever, and told me how much she loved me. I had the fleeting thought that something was going to happen to her while I was gone, but I dismissed it as paranoia.

I got in my car and drove off, excited about the journey of the millennium. I quickly forgot about the strange feeling.

But it was all I could think about on that drive home. Why hadn’t I listened to that little nudge? Why hadn’t I stayed home instead? Why didn’t I call every single day? Had I even called her at all?

My head was swimming and I couldn’t even remember our last conversation. You never know when your last conversation with someone will become your final one.

While my heart had already started grieving, my mind was working overtime to stay regulated. The guilt was crashing into my soul like waves.

She was excited about you going. You couldn’t have changed anything. You’ve had three years at home, sharing caregiving duties with your dad. Her worsening dementia wouldn’t have remembered if you called every day or not.

You just need to focus on driving.

I called tourism agencies and hotels in a daze, explaining the situation and canceling reservations. I was trying to maintain professionalism, but also trying to pass the time.

Everyone was gracious and kind. Experience Columbus even sent a box of curated items, along with a consoling note.

Mom had been airlifted to a nearby town and I drove straight there, stopping only for gas. When I saw her I fell apart. Any remaining hope I had that she’d survive was gone.

The next nine days were a journey of epic proportions. She had an explicitly stated living will. It would take a miracle. I prayed for one, but also realized we might’ve already gotten our miracle. In the last year, she’d come out of the depression and fear that plagued her as her mind started slipping away, and she was truly happy. She was singing again. She was laughing. She wanted to travel.

For two years, she’d hardly left her room. But this last year she would be up and dressed before I even came downstairs.

“Where are we going today?” she’d ask. Every day was a new adventure. She’d joined me on a travel assignment to see a production of Shrek in Biloxi, just two weeks earlier.

Now here she was, unable to eat or breathe on her own. But she was full of surprises.

We pulled the vent on Day 4. We prepared for the end. But she began breathing on her own.

Then she woke up. She still couldn’t talk—her right side lay motionless. But the left side became animated. We knew when she was happy, sad, or giving us that “Mom” look.

She communicated in ways we understood, and we knew we’d been given the gift of time.

We moved her first to a nearby hospice center, then we brought her home.

The joy on her face as she realized she was home was worth it. We knew we’d made the right decision.

In nine days, she taught me some of the most valuable life lessons ever. The first was not to grieve the living. We had been given extra time with her and I realized I’d be wasting it to mourn her instead of living with her.

We shared one last secret as I dipped her mouth swab into my Coke Icee, our favorite morning treat. Her raised eyebrow of delight was a balm to my soul.

She gave us the time to prepare to let go. The entire family had their opportunities to say goodbye.

She gave us the gift of being together. My dad, sister, and I spent entire days and nights together by her bedside, the first time it had been just the four of us again since we started our own families decades ago.

Everyone held on to each other just a little bit tighter.

I shared these lessons at her funeral. I wasn’t sure I would be able to speak, but I knew I’d forever regret it if I didn’t.

It wasn’t the trip I’d planned. It wasn’t even an adventure I wanted to go on. But it was a journey I wouldn’t have missed for the world.