Scheduled Stress

For my husband, vacation and stress were synonymous. From the time we had toddlers on, he tried, with all the persuasive tactics he could muster, to weasel out of going on a vacation at all. But not wanting to be a total Scrooge and knowing I wasn't about to let the subject die a natural death, he generally gave in.

The first day, Evan usually drove, and I would attempt to amuse the kids and referee when they weren't amused. Since my spouse sought to avoid as much conflict as possible, driving was generally the lesser of the evils. Nevertheless, by the second day, it was in the best interest of all concerned that we find a place where he could hole up in a darkened motel room, sip coffee and pop pain pills, because by that time he was usually deathly ill with a migraine. The rest of the family was free to play on the beach, or whatever, as long as we tiptoed and carried on our more rambunctious activities somewhere out of his presence. Then came the time when he thought he had discovered the main reason vacations were so unpleasant for him.

"Beth," he said one year, "the whole thing is that these trips are so unorganized. If we knew exactly where we were going and where we were going to stay, I think it would be a lot less stressful."

Telling me to organize is like telling a toddler to create a filing system. My brain doesn't operate that way, but let it not be said that I'm unwilling to cooperate. Anything to keep him happy because as much as I crave adventure, I'm not up to tackling four kids alone. So, I organized and planned out an agenda that would make the most anal vacation planner proud.

I sent away for brochures and maps and made-up sightseeing charts and schedules. I worked for weeks packing and planning, and at last the big day arrived. I was prepared. This week-long trip involved a considerable distance. Each day called for about six hours of driving along an interesting route, some sightseeing, a fun activity for the kids and a nice motel with a swimming pool. For the first time in my life, I knew what city I would be in for the night, where we would be staying and what we would do when we got there. I'd thought of everything. Well, almost everything. I'd forgotten to schedule in that headache.

I also failed to calculate a couple of other things. The scenic route I planned for the first day was mountain travel. I had forgotten that a mile in the mountains is much longer than a mile on the Interstate. I had not considered the fact, we'd have to leave the scenic parkway to find suitable areas for coffee breaks, rest rooms, and lunch. Nor did I remember towns selling gasoline on Sunday might be few and scattered.

I began to get frustrated when I realized that we were going to be driving longer than my precious schedule called for. The children became irritable when their stomachs started to growl, and they needed a restroom stop. All of that was nothing compared with the anxiety my poor husband experienced as he watched the gas gauge sink lower and lower with no towns for miles on the map. Tempers flared. The migraine, that wasn't even on my itinerary, arrived twelve hours ahead of its usual timing. With the gas gauge reading empty, we finally located a dilapidated gas station that had a restroom of sorts and stale candy bars for sale. After gassing up, my husband informed me that he believed he was dying, and I would have to drive.

From the looks of him, I knew instantly there was no point in arguing. As I took the wheel, he collapsed in the seat beside me with his face about the color of watered-down pea soup.

"Turn around and go back," he pleaded. "It'll take hours to get back to the Interstate this way. I've got to find a place to sleep this off."

Suddenly, I saw my beautifully laid plans collapsing around me. "It's too far back," I protested. "Go to sleep and let me take care of it." It's always been my feeling that one place is about as good as another if you're sick enough to die anyway, and he looked like he was.

He was in too much agony to argue. All I heard from him for the next few hours were some intermittent weak groans. He didn't even appear to be aware of the battle going on in the back seat among four tired children with no referee and no one to attempt to amuse them. I sped up taking the curving roads as fast as I dared, trying desperately to get back on schedule.

After nine hours of driving, we emerged from the scenic route into a fair-sized city. My ailing husband roused. His face took on a frightening expression which I couldn't remember ever seeing before. With a voice that chilled me like a blast of arctic air, he said, "You stop this car at the first motel you come to."

I didn't argue. My last hopes of getting back on schedule crumbled. I was still sixty miles from my planned stop, but I knew the time had come to comply. 

By the next day, his pain had somewhat subsided, and we proceeded on our way. There was a frostiness in the air that lasted the entire trip and had nothing at all to do with the fact we were in Canada. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that I had tried to kill him. For years at the mention of vacation, it all came flooding back to him in living color.

It wasn't the last vacation we ever took, but it was the last time a schedule was ever mentioned. The following summer, at the first hint of a trip, Evan relived the whole thing in graphic detail. I waited a few days until he had a chance to cool down, but he still refused to discuss a destination.

Finally, I threw some clothes together for everyone, and we started out anyway. Thirty miles down the road, Evan stopped the car and broke some match sticks. He told the three older children to draw one. (I wasn't even included in the drawing.) "Whoever gets the shortest stick decides which direction we head from here," he said.

Our oldest daughter Carol won and, to my utter amazement, we ended up in Colorado. (It was during her "John Denver" phase.) There was snow on the ground in the higher elevations, so we all had to buy jackets when we got there. We never knew from one hour to the next what we would be doing or where we would be sleeping that night. I wouldn't go so far as to recommend it for everyone. I don't know if it could be repeated. It was almost magical. I'm still amazed at how well the six of us functioned as a family. Maybe the memory of the year before was still fresh enough to make all of us more considerate.

At any rate, that trip stands out as the best vacation we ever took together, and Evan's migraine never even happened.