In retrospect I can see the signs. There were warnings that I ignored. The first one came when I tried to get the air conditioning fixed in the car, in preparation for our move from
Albuquerque to Los Angeles. It was the last week in June and the temperature was already an embarrassing golf score.
All of the service stations responded with a variation of "You want it fixed by when?"
An even more blatant alarm was when my husband misplaced his driver's license the day before we were to pick up the U-Haul truck. Undaunted, we rented it on my license and signed various formidable documents to the effect that I would be the sole driver, knowing that we would trade places as soon as we rounded the corner.
The final blow should have been when they did not have the trailer hitch we had reserved. Unfortunately the combined ages of our four children did not qualify for a learner's permit to drive the third vehicle so we left it with a friend to sell.
Let me digress for a moment to assure you that I had done my relocation homework. For weeks I had methodically packed
147 different boxes, numbered and labeled in eleven different categories. Postcards had been sent to various periodicals and friends to inform them of our new address. Weeks ahead of time I had reserved a room in a generic hotel in anticipation of a crowded 4th of July weekend at the Grand Canyon. Each person had a neatly packed bag for the three day trip. I was even keeping a journal of the adventures for the benefit of my children.
So after a flurry of goodbyes, and an abbreviated night's sleep we launched our car-truck caravan. When we arrived in Flagstaff, six hours and thirty degrees later, our first objective was to check into our hotel room. Hot and grumpy, we anticipated a frolic in the pool before trekking over to the canyon.
John went into the lobby while I changed a diaper, nursed the baby and tried to restore order to the two vehicles. When he came back, he did not look happy. Not that one can expect lighthearted glee from a man that has driven 350 miles with two revolving children in a U-Haul.
"They won't let six people stay in one room," he
grumbled.
"What?" I gasped. Our youngest weighed less than a suitcase. Why would they care?
"Regulations," he parroted back what
the clerk had obviously expected to be a conclusive case.
I crumpled up on the curb and began to sob. "I can't take any more," I sniffed, and the children stopped fighting to comfort me. We sat there frying in the parking lot. We were between two homes. The one
door behind us was already closed, the one ahead of us not yet open.
At that moment the desk clerk felt compassion on us and came out to tell us she would overlook the rule about room capacity. Retrieved from despair, I dried my eyes, thanked her and gathered my brood. We took enough things for the night into our room and the children explored the ice machine,
bounced on the beds and opened all of the little soaps.
"Thanks for staying calm," I said to John.
"Thanks for not staying
calm," he replied.
We all had a refreshing swim and a late lunch in the restaurant. I enjoyed my hot tuna melt and wrote a few lines in the kids' journal while they shot straws and kicked each other under the table. By the time we were winding our way along the
last few miles between our hotel and the Grand Canyon I was beginning to feel sluggish. I had a personal responsibility to appreciate this landmark, however, so I didn't complain. We mingled among throngs of hikers, photographers, and vacationers at the brim of the deepest hole on earth, but all I could think about was, I wanted to sit down. John counted kids as they darted from lookout to lookout, and I lagged farther and farther
behind.
By evening I was convinced I was a victim of tuna last its prime, and steeled myself for a night of upchucking. I didn't however, but felt so increasingly awful that by 2 am John decided to peel the kids out of bed and race to the emergency room.
What life was like for my husband and children after that I am only vaguely aware of, as I was soon poked, x-rayed and mulled over by various white coated strangers who in short order wheeled me into the operating room. I had an appendectomy.
Poor John was left in limbo with not enough clothes, not enough answers, and not enough phone numbers. Somehow he muddled through, dear man, and took care of four children in less than ideal circumstances. After an incredibly dense fog of anesthesia I awoke to the jostle of my children and weary smile of my husband.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Are YOU okay?" I asked.
"I called your parents and the insurance. Everything's all right." Today was July 3rd. My pains began July second. Our insurance had begun July 1st. "The Lord took care of us."
"I'm grateful." I answered.
As for the truck which was so heavy it was actually leaving ruts in the hotel parking lot, a parishioner from our new congregation flew out to drive it the rest of the way. People we hardly knew unpacked the furniture and the 147 boxes. They returned the truck on time, somehow explaining who was driving it and why.
Meanwhile John and the kids camped out in the hotel room, watched tv and ate. The condition of the room was probably gossiped about by maid service. The fam came twice a day to visit me and John asked when I would be strong enough to travel.
By the fourth day I was able to hobble to the now ransacked car and we checked out of the hospital and hotel. I toyed with leaving a note for the desk clerk to the effect that we had decided to comply with regulations after all.
Now imagine if you can the response of four children who have been deprived
of their mother's attention for the better part of a week. Picture a toddler, accustomed to frequent nursing, who has been obliged to curb that pleasant activity and is now eager to make up for lost time. Last of all imagine a mother, acclimated to a cool, comfortable hospital bed and bearing a fragile incision on her abdomen, being thrust into triple digit heat and the eight eager arms of her children.
As we drove through Needles I remember thinking about the pioneers who had gone before me. It was so hot that when we closed up the car to dash into McDonald's for an ice cream cone, a bottle of soda left in the car burst before we got back... and evaporated.
"People did this in wagon trains without air conditioning," I shouted to John above the uproar.
"A lot of them died," he called back.
Somehow we did make it through, and when we arrived at our new home, we unlocked the front door to find the living room filled floor to ceiling with boxes. The kids ran the obstacle course to check out their new rooms and I remembered the doctor's instructions.
"Get plenty
of rest. Don't lift anything."
