Despite Mom's Best Efforts, She Finds Her Way to the Mayo Clinic

Raising four daughters recently paid off for my mother who required a trip to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. She had just enough kids to get her there seamlessly, with one left over who stayed behind but offered support via telephone.

The adjectives you might use to describe my family are: high strung, loud, impulsive, boisterous, and confused. And, so, when a member of our family falls ill, it rarely occurs to any of us that it's a solemn occasion, deserving of a certain amount of pensive hand-wringing and thoughtful discussion. Instead, it is a time of high drama and hijinx that play out in family kitchens, sick beds, doctor's offices, and on freeways.

I was the designated driver to transport my mother from Hayward, Wisconsin, where she lives with my sister, Julie, to the clinic which was about a five-hour drive. Probably not the best choice of drivers in the family, seeing as how on my way back home to southern Wisconsin from their place last summer I accidentally wound up in Minnesota. But, due to my other three sisters' job obligations, I was the only choice.

I drove up to Hayward a couple days early to care for my mom while Julie and her husband, Joe, were away for the weekend.

The day before our scheduled departure to the Mayo Clinic, I had apparently made the dire mistake of telling mom that she could take her time getting ready the next morning, as we weren't scheduled to leave for the clinic until 11:00 a.m. At three minutes to eleven I went into her room to find her lying in bed still not dressed.

"You said we weren't on any schedule today," she reasoned.

Back in the kitchen my sister shook her head - "You never should have told her that."

Twenty minutes later mom came walking into the kitchen with the use of her walker, all dressed and ready to go. She sat down on a chair against the wall while Julie, Joe, and I pored over the atlas, discussing the best routes to the clinic. Several minutes later we turned around and mom was gone. We found her back in bed.

"I just had a bad spell," said breathlessly. "I'll be fine.

Back in the kitchen, I debated with my sister the finer points of perhaps calling the whole thing off, or at least calling for medical transport. Just when we both agreed I didn't have the nervous system to drive and perform CPR at the same time if it became necessary, mom reappeared in the kitchen, ready to go. Again. We wasted no time whisking her out the door and jimmying her up into the Yukon using a wooden pallet and some plywood.

"Now, Cookie,"(that's my nickname, whose origin mom would explain in detail to the endocrinology surgeon the next day, which I'm sure he found fascinating) Julie whispered through the driver's side window, "whatever you do, don't listen to any directions mom might try to give you. She will get you lost."

She couched that caveat between, "And don't worry of she gets short of breath," and "Don't pay any attention to her if she starts moaning."

Not your typical bon voyage sentiments but thoughtful nonetheless.

After a blubbery farewell from Julie, mom and I headed down the driveway towards the unknown.

It was a beautiful late October day. The sun was shining and it was unusually warm. A perfect day for a clammy-handed drive.

A few hours into our trip I caught a glimpse of a Culver's sign and we decided to pull off the freeway for some frozen custard.

"I don't think it's this exit," mom said as I pulled onto the exit ramp. I turned left and mom spotted the Culver's restaurant ahead.

"But how are you going to get back on the freeway?" my mother ruminated aloud.

"Back the same way I came," I reassured her.

After we finished our custard, I waited to turn left out of the parking lot, and mom pointed to a road directly across the street. "There!" she said convincingly. "That looks like the way to the freeway."

I looked at her warily.

It suddenly occurred to me that the very person responsible for my genetically-based absence of a sense of direction was sitting right next to me, on a journey where there was little or no room for error, trying to give me directions! That was even scarier than the prospect of having to do CPR.

"But don't listen to me," she quickly added, noting my Julie-told-me-not-to-listen-to-you look. "I'll get you lost."

I turned left to head back to the freeway that, until my mother tried to tell me otherwise, I was almost certain was right where I left it

It was.

Just before we reached the Rochester exit, mom's announcement that she needed to use the restroom and the low gas warning light happened simultaneously.

We pulled into a gas station a few miles from the Mayo Clinic. I could see one of its high rise buildings in the distance ahead.

I quickly filled the tank, and in within five minutes we glided to a stop in front of the Raddisson Hotel, where my other sister, Candi, waited outside with a wheelchair to whisk mom up to her tricked-out handicapped room with a comfy Sleep Number bed. The hotel also sported a skywalk that lead directly to the Mayo Clinic's maze of buildings.

The next morning mom would begin her five-day odyssey of exhaustive and exhausting medical tests. As I write this, she has three days left to go.

That is if she can find her way to all of her appointments. I found out first hand that, amazingly, she can even get the person who's driving her wheelchair lost in no time.