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The first sign of trouble arrived by text. On Dec. 17 at 2:33 p.m., my younger sister, Melissa, pinged me from Houston to say that our 78-year-old father had veered off course while driving himself to a medical appointment.
“He has missed his exit,” she wrote. “I don’t want to call him and tell him because he will be pissed that I am tracking him. What do we do?”
“Honestly just let him run,” I wrote back from my home in Washington.
This was not the first time Dad had gone rogue while driving. Just the day before, he had cruised in aimless circles around unfamiliar neighborhoods for over an hour, dismissing worried calls from our mother. But this time he was missing lab appointments related to his bladder cancer.
The family knew that Dad was chafing under the restrictions that went with his chemotherapy. No crowds! No gardening! No letting the dog lick his face! But we also knew the drugs could cause cognitive issues. Dad’s oncologist had warned us to be on alert for odd behavior. Like an overprotective mom, my sister had started tracking his phone, mostly without his knowledge. My father got crabby when he thought anyone was treating him “like an invalid.”
“Maybe he is just trying to explore every major Houston freeway this week?” joked Melissa, whom we all call Mel.
“Everyone needs a hobby,” I suggested.
Judge if you must. Dark humor is my family’s coping mechanism of choice.
