Driving Miss Crazy – Bananas don’t travel well!

After a horrible experience a few years ago, I vowed I would never drive the streets of Denver again and especially during rush hour. It’s happening again. I feel like I’m driving Miss Crazy and all these songs are going through my head, I’d rather be drunk on a plane and I’m about to ask Jesus to take the wheel.

It started the week before when My Sweet Al and I committed to a road trip with our daughter. She was having surgery in a Denver hospital. Her husband was with family in New York when the call came from the doctor. They had reserved the date at the hospital, and she needed to be there within the week. Someone must be with her and we were the only ones available.

Before she arrived to pick us up she told us to eat since she wouldn’t be eating anything before surgery. We grabbed a little lunch, but when we got settled in the car I had a sweet attack. I looked through my purse for a little candy, just something. I found a protein bar and ate it. The banana I brought was looking badly. Bananas don’t travel well.  I started to eat it anyway, and then I gave it to my Sweet Al.

My daughter said, “Are you going to chain-eat all the way?”

“Well, the banana was getting soft, so I thought I’d eat it. I just want something sweet.”

On the day of the surgery, my daughter handed me the car keys and said, “I need to teach you how to use the Garmin, how to get back and forth from the hotel to the hospital, and how to use my phone. You’ll have to text everyone after my surgery.”

“I don’t know how to text.”

“It’s easy.”

Right then, I was in another world of technology in a big city and the responsibility of taking care of our daughter. I had no idea where the hospital was located or what we would be facing in the days to come.

The doctors’ biggest concern after surgery is blood clots, and they do everything to prevent against them. They brag about not having a patient with a blood clot on their floor. The day we were to pick up Allison and take her home, the nurse said, she’s not going home, she’s got a blood clot on her lung. It went through her heart and lodged in her lung.  We’ve got her on blood thinning medicine. It’s good she’s still in the hospital. Her vital sign went from 90 to 40 in seconds. She’s on oxygen and won’t be leaving.

I said to the nurse, “We’ve checked out of the hotel, we thought she would be going home today, I guess we need to check back in.”

The next day, we went to the hospital, not knowing if they were going to release her. They were concerned she was going to Pagosa and away from them. Believe me, I was more concerned that they were going to release her into my care.

The nurse said, “She threw two more blood clots during the night. We’re not sure if the doctor will let her go home.”

Our daughter’s room became the hub of the hospital. It was the first stop for the party train. Everyone wanted to talk to her. She was getting more tired with each doctor and nurse probing at her. We were still waiting to hear if we were going home or staying another night. We were going into the Labor Day Weekend and the rooms were going fast.

At three o’clock that afternoon, they finally said, “She can go, but she must get out of the car and walk every hour.  Take two days to get home. Look for the big blue H road sign just in case. We are sending her back home but everything has to be done right.”

Al was anxious to get home. I was responsible to make sure everything was done right —cleaning her open wounds, giving her shots for blood thinning medicine, remembering pain pills, changing out oxygen tanks, having food in the car for a special diet and lots of instructions of what not to do.

We packed her into the car with an oxygen machine and three full bottles of oxygen. We started driving away from the hospital into dense traffic.

Our daughter said, “Mother you have three live bombs in the car, don’t have any accidents.”

“Don’t remind me.”

I looked down to see the dashboard light was on.  The back wasn’t shut. I said, “What if it comes open, everything will blow out.” I could see everything in the car laying along the Freeway.

“Don’t worry, Mother.”

“If it blows out, we can’t stop, the traffic is backed up for miles.”

We had to stop every hour. We devised our plan. Our first stop would be Cabellas.  It had been Al’s only request the whole week. He had gift cards he had held on to for three Christmas’ and he wanted to spend them.

Al was in the backseat reading People’s Magazine. He was counting the tattoos on Pink. “Did you know Pink has five tattoos? Are we at Cabellas yet? Get to the right so we don’t miss Cabellas. We’ve been on the road for two hours.”

“It’s too soon for Cabellas. We’ve only gone twenty miles.”

Allison is out of it. She’s in La La Land and Al’s afraid I’m going to sneak by and miss Cabellas. He’s reading to me about Pink.

My Sweet Al got lost in the inventory and wildlife mounts in Cabellas. I sat in the car waiting for Allison to walk thirty minutes and Al to shop. I finally went looking for them. I spotted the purple pajamas and oxygen hose amongst the camouflage.

She said, “Daddy has found a duck painting he wants.”

“You must be kidding, do you know how many paintings we have at the house? I’m an artist. Do you remember?”

“Daddy wanted you to paint a duck painting. That’s all he wants.”

“I couldn’t find the time.”

“He’s found a 3X4 foot duck painting he wants.”

“The car is full, now we’ll have a painting to deal with and I won’t be able to see through the back window.”

“Mother, it’s his Christmas money. Just humor him, tell him you like it. If you want to get out of Cabellas, just do it. Get my drift?”

“Yes, I get it.” I went to the painting. I turned to Al, “Honey, I love the painting, it’s beautiful. Buy it. If you want it, let’s get it.”

After spending all his gift cards, we were back on the road. Another song rattled through my head. We’re on the road again. Can’t wait to get home again. Our next stop would be Kohl’s in Pueblo, and then a hotel room. Finally we arrived at the only available hotel in Pueblo.

I looked around, I said, “Allison, just lie down on the bed, don’t touch anything. Keep your shoes on until you get in bed. We’ll get out of here early in the morning.”

I looked over at our daughter who was sleeping soundly with her oxygen cord on her chest. The night would never end. The next morning at dawn, she was already sitting in the car and Al was wiping down her oxygen hose with an alcohol pad.

Our next stop was Alamosa, another walk for our daughter and groceries for a special diet. The trip was getting more comical and more wearing with each mile.

The road became longer and longer as we got closer and closer to home and the backseat was getting fuller and fuller with stops and purchases.

Coming over Wolf Creek Pass, every time we made a curve, the weight of the purchases shifted and the back seat window went down and up.

The wind was whipping around. “We’re going to lose everything we bought. Pull the weight away from the window switch.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Oh Lord, take the wheel, I’m about to lose it.”

Final Brushstroke! Al hit the buffet line every morning and picked up bananas. By the time we got home the bananas had turned black and Allison had turned white. Bananas and sick people don’t travel well. The bananas went in the trash and Allison went to bed. I’ve got another song in my head, “Yes, we have no bananas today.”