(from July 15, 2013)

Three weeks ago tomorrow morning, at 3 a.m. CST, Randy and I arrived in his hometown of Buffalo, Oklahoma. Twenty-one hours earlier, we had eased onto I-40 from University Drive and continued on that route for most of the 1,300-mile journey. The pungent odor of oil being pumped out by the refineries in Oklahoma City alerted us that it was time to embark on the less-traveled roads that would take us to the panhandle. Lights from small towns twenty miles away twinkled on the horizon in every direction across the grasslands. The six-lane roads dwindled down to two and the speed-limit dropped from 70 to 35 mph through the dilapidated towns, consisting of little more than a closed for-the-night service station/quick stop, a used farm implement lot, and a handful of neglected homes. Even at two in the morning, folks were sitting on their ramshackle porches, seeking relief from the oppressive (100 +) heat. The robust winds rushing across the plains served to stir the sweltering heat. When we exited the car at our destination (holding tightly to the doors lest they blow away) it was like stepping into a convection oven.

Randy’s dad had waited up for us. “I couldn’t sleep since I knew you were coming.”  With tears streaming down his face, he introduced us to his caregiver: “This is my oldest son and his wife.”

My father-in-law, Roy, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease twelve years ago. As the disease progressed, my sweet mother-in-law, Bernita, tenderly cared for the love of her life. Eighteen months ago she went to Buffalo’s only grocery store to buy ingredients for all of Roy’s favorite dishes (she was an awesome cook). The next day she died suddenly. At first, Randy’s brother and sister, who live nearby, and his youngest sister who lives near Oklahoma City, took turns helping out and making sure Roy received the care he needed. Randy and I offered long-distance advice and encouragement and Randy flew out for a weeklong visit. The last time he was with his dad, Roy was still able to get around and even prepared fried eggs for breakfast. As his condition declined, the family hired three “sitters” who lived in on a revolving schedule and took care of Roy. Randy was in almost daily phone contact with his dad or one of his siblings. Recently, their talks had revolved around the need for a “family meeting.” Round-the-clock home care had eaten up the savings. The long-term care insurance his parents had carried for many years was only good for institutional services. Decisions had to be made; and so, we traveled to Oklahoma.

Since Randy and I met forty years ago in Brooklyn, New York, I have had one disappointment that I could do absolutely nothing about. Why did our hometowns have to be so distant from each other? We would always be far away from one of our families. We had chosen North Carolina as the place to start our married life; however, Randy took me to Oklahoma on our honeymoon and convinced me to stay. (It didn’t take much – I was so in love I would have gone to the ends of the earth – which I sometimes felt I had!) We lived in several locations in the ensuing years before returning to Burlington to take care of my dad.

Randy was so supportive during that time. Now he and his dad needed my support. What could I do?  (to be continued – see Part 2 of Across the plains)