The Drive | 128 Miles
Over the river and through the woods to Grandma's house we go.
Between November 2025 and March 2026 I ventured down to visit my parents on the Oregon coast a number of times after my Mom was initially diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Each time I drove the two and a half hours (128 miles) it felt like I was entering a portal that was transporting me to a different reality. Some visits were as long as a week and others were as short as a couple hours. Prior to this season, the more normal cadence for visits with my parents was a couple times a year. Old stories impacted our time together. New stories are changing our relationship and the amount of time we see one another.
The drive itself, no matter which way you choose to go, is gorgeous.
One path follows along the Umpqua River through the small towns of Elkton and Drain (OR 38) before arriving in Reedsport, where you make a left turn at the light towards Coos Bay. The other option is Hwy 126, which takes you through Veneta, the coast range, and into Florence before the left turn onto Hwy 101.
It’s literally over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house we go.
The drive often gave me a much-needed transition time between my roles and realities. I used that time to process, to think, to grieve, to laugh (because it’s essential), and to prepare myself to either enter their world and be the person they need me to be, or return to my own home.
I am the daughter and the mother, the child and the parent.
Either way I choose to drive to get to their house there’s a tunnel burrowed into the landscape. I love the symbolism of the tunnel - it has an “other side” and a “dark to light” experience. I always found myself taking a deep breath as I left the tunnel: a deep breath to sustain me as I approached their home or a deep breath to simply exhale from my visit.
Those early visits, after my Dad expressed overwhelm with his caretaking role, were often full of extra long, circular conversations about the basics of how they were doing and our/their fears and concerns. We so deeply wanted them to have their independence for as long as possible. We made suggestions for repairs, suggestions for home care, suggestions for preparing for the next pieces of this story. I kept thinking for sure they would see the sense we were making during one of these visits. What we thought was stubbornness in my Dad was most likely pieces of his own dementia making itself known.
Sometimes on the drive home after visiting them I just cried. Tears for them and tears for me; for what we were experiencing and what is still to come. Sometimes I pulled over and let the tears fall, and other times I sang my songs and simply let it all out as I made my way over the river and through the woods.
Here’s what was on repeat:
Down The River by Caamp
Rubber Band Man by Mumford + Sons
Starting Over by Chris Stapleton
Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper
Walls (Circus) by Tom Petty
I’m With You by Vance Joy
Heavy by Birdtalker
Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright by Bob Dylan
Sometimes it was just me and my thoughts during the drive. Quiet yet loud. I talked to myself about accepting the limits of what I can do. I talked to myself about what was happening. I asked over and over “How do people do this?” Other times I called my brother, sister, or sister-in-law to recount, check in, and brainstorm.
On Wednesday, March 25th, 2026 I picked my sister up at the Eugene Airport and we started the drive down to my parents in Coos Bay. We stopped in Veneta at Taco Time and at a gas station for Haribo candy before heading towards the coast.
On this particular drive, we reminisced and strategized and made lists. The reason for our trip this time, and what necessitated Jessica coming from her home in North Carolina, was a troubling phone call filled with paranoia and the possibility that this chapter in their lives might be coming to a close.
We didn’t know exactly what we would encounter and what would happen next. So many unknowns, even when decisions are made and so much questioning of what the next right thing is in the moment. So much just showing up and trying and when that doesn’t work trying something else. We cried. We requested additional information. We made appointments. We asked more questions and made more phone calls.
On Saturday, March 28th, 2026 we packed up my car with their suitcases and drove my parents away from their home. We determined, along with recommendations from their doctor, that it was no longer safe for them to be in their house on their own because neither could care for the other any longer.
My sister and I cried in the front seat while my parents sat in the back as we wound our way along the river towards Eugene. My Mom worked on cross-stitch and my Dad watched as the world went by outside the window. Removing them from their home, a truly beloved place, was brutal for all the reasons you can imagine. It was also necessary.
That particular drive was not the end of anyone’s story.
Now there is a new drive. It’s a whole lot shorter and happening a whole lot more often: 8 minutes (less than 3 miles). A new home. A new community. It’s imperfect but it’s where we are at right now.
I can swing over for a quick visit. I can dash over and pick up Mom and bring her here to work in the yard with me, or sit in my office and craft, or go for a walk. At this time my Dad isn’t wanting to move around much, so we are simply letting him rest. He’s always invited. I can take them to appointments and be back in time to catch Anna’s games.
This new shorter drive is giving me the gift of time with both my parents, but especially with my Mom. Almost every day I’m picking her up and we are having some kind of adventure. A time is coming when she won’t know me and I intend to make the most of this chapter together.
I wish you Clarity and love. This happened to my aunt and uncle at almost the same time, and they were 69 and 71. Always been very healthy and full of life, traveling, entertaining, playing golf and tennis. They had no children and I was the closest of the nieces/nephews. We moved them closer to me, so like you a 5 min drive. I don’t deny it changed me. My boys were 13 and 15. It really changed us all. We had some very precious moments with them. My boys learned a different kind of patience and not to fear what comes with getting old. There were middle of the night hospital visits with falls, until the last one that was not recoverable. My uncle who was worse off, had long since been bedridden. But my aunt remembered me up until that last fall. I so wish, of course, they never had to go through this. But. It gave me a new love of the now, taught me to push through and gave me the confidence that I could manage pain and “bad” things. They lived 2 1/2 years in the memory unit down the hall from each other and died within. 18 days of each other at 71 and 73. Too young. When I make a good meal, or pick a bouquet of flowers or put on some funky jewelry or go to an exotic hole-in-the-wall restaurant I smile with the memories that we had together (she was the “fun” aunt), but I also thank them for this inner peace they gave me…..no need to chase dreams…..I know what is important…deep in my bones, I know.
The road ahead isn't always clear. What's important is that there is a road and, while it isn't always an easy route to take, it can still include joy and growth and love - so much love. 🫶 Wishing you and yours peace + safe travels as you make your way to whatever each next drive holds.