Torture Part Deux

Found out yesterday that Mom’s surgery has been rescheduled for September 9th. Oh Lord…

This time around, I know what to expect for the drive there and home. See, I’m the driver. I’m okay with that because I do love being behind the wheel of a car. I like the power and being in control of things. If I could fly a plane, I’d fly myself rather than take commercial flights.

See, I’ll have my mom (of course) and my sister with me. It’s about a 2 hour trip from home to Baton Rouge, though I usually make it in an hour and 15 minutes or so depending on traffic. The drive isn’t my worry. It’s my passengers. Oh yes. I’ll hear an hour and some odd minutes of this:

Mom: So which way are you taking? If you go through College Drive, we’ll avoid traffic.

Me: I can’t remember where College Drive is.

Mom: It’s where Bubba used to live, remember?

Me: I was thirteen the last time they lived there. I can’t remember that far back.

Mom: God! Just take it.

Sister: If she doesn’t want to take it, she doesn’t have to. I mean, I don’t want to get lost in Baton Rouge at 4 o’clock in the morning.

Mom: Gah! Just do what I tell you, okay? Get on the exit, get in the far right lane immediately. Immediately!

-later after I’ve followed her directions into a bad part of town, I start to wonder if she’s trying to get rid of me and my sister to collect some money we don’t know about-

Mom: Okay, now this is a bad part of town (DUH! I can see the bullet holes in the buildings!) Are your doors locked? Oh God, watch out for that taxi!

Sister laughing like a loon.

We’ll get to the hospital and do the surgery thing and then on the drive home it’ll start all over again.

Mom: Which way are you going? If you go this way we’ll avoid all the traffic.

Sister:  I want to take I-10.

Mom: What, are you crazy? We’ll be stuck in traffic! Take Hwy 1 all the way home.

Sister: I don’t want to ride down Hwy 1 for hours. It’s a long road!

Mom: Just do what I say!

And we will because I have to live with her. I’m okay with going either way. It’s like exploring which suits my personality, but my sister will start to tense in the passenger seat. Know why? Because we have to cross a bridge. Did I mention she doesn’t like bridges? They scare her. Which really sucks because the only way to get in and out of our area is via bridge. This is why she doesn’t leave her house. She even admitted it to me.

So we’ll get on this bridge and because the turn is at the foot of the other side of the bridge, I’ll have no choice but to get in the right-hand land which puts her side of the car against the guard rail.

Sister: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

Me: Who me? It isn’t my fault.

Sister: No, it’s Mom’s fault. I’m genetically unable to cross bridges.

Mom: Haha, I don’t know why she’s such a scaredy-cat. I remember when we were driving on the Huey P. Long (Hello, it has to be one of the scariest bridges in Louisiana!) and she was in the backseat. Your dad was driving and he turned to look at me to say something. She grabbed the sides of his head and forced him to look at the road. Hahaha.

You did wonder where I got my sick sense of humor from, right?

Now, the only thing that would put the return trip down in the books as the Road Trip from Hell would be for my mother to be looped up on drugs. She’ll mutter about not being treated with respect by the hospital staff: “They were kicking me out of the hospital, weren’t they? Those bastards.” She’ll whine that she’s thirsty: “I won’t make it if I don’t have something.”

I wonder if I started taking Prozac now if I’d have enough time for it to be in my system before this excursion?


Filed under Family

4 responses to “Torture Part Deux

  1. Okay, you just crack me up. I love reading your posts.

  2. KAK

    Well, let’s see, after your last exciting non-surgery surgery day, the hospital staff might be convinced to look away as you:

    a) give your mom a “to-go” shot of morphine
    b) slip some sleeping pills into your sister’s water bottle
    c) hog-tie the hot dude from radiology and toss him in your trunk

    Just something to think about as the bullets whiz by your windshield.

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