How to Fly Your Mother to Her Final Home Without Losing Your Mind (or Your Carry-On)
(If you read “When Is the Right Time to Move Your Elder into Skilled Nursing,” then you already know: Mom’s rash got her the golden ticket out of Assisted Living. Now we just had to get her across the country.)
Top 5 Reasons You’ll Need a Dream Team for the Elder Airlift
Because navigating TSA with a saint, a gurney, and a gallon of meds is not a solo sport.
Because someone needs to handle the benzo math.
Because Target pajamas and Trader Joe’s meds don’t pack themselves.
Because ADA violations don’t argue themselves (that’s what The Tank is for).
Because sometimes love looks like a redeye flight, a scotch in a highball glass, and a one-way ticket to dignity.
Enter my dear friend Rosemary — Saint Rosemary. We met at Legal Aid in the ’90s; she’s a legend in disability-rights law. Her Russian clients called her “The Tank” because she never met a barrier she couldn’t bulldoze. She even checked my Bar results (third-time-passer here) when I was too scared to look.
While I was in Melbourne, she was already helping my sister Emily help Mom. Always an advocate. Never afraid. A saint. The Tank.
So when it came time to move Mom from California to Boston, I thought:
It’s a direct flight. What could possibly go wrong?
Three first-class seats were cheaper than one month in Assisted Living. A bargain — and a terrible idea.
Building the Crew
Me → Rosemary:
Hi Ro, can you fly with me to Boston with Mom? You can stay overnight or just turn around and come back.
Ro: Sure nahm, sounds good. I can totally do it.
Me → Renee and Karen (best California friends):
Hey girls, can you pick me up and bring me to Mom’s in Santa Rosa?
Them: Sure babe.
Me: Remind me to leave the keys under the thing I leave the keys under because … benzo.
Them: No problem.
Me → Ivy (bestie slash Target stylist):
Mom’s been wearing a hospital gown for months. What do I buy her?
Ivy: Go to Target. Two pairs of pajamas, a robe, slippers. It’s like Garanimals for adults there — everything matches. You’ve got this.
Me → Emily (sister):
Please pick up Rosemary. She’ll say she can drive herself — don’t let her. Take only “yes” for an answer.
Emily: Got it. Still can’t believe Mom’s moving back East.
(Older sister privilege means bossiness with occasional grace.)
Go Time
After a 15-hour flight from Melbourne, I headed straight to Mom.
Me: Mom, you’re moving back to Boston to be with Aunt Rita.
Mom: Okay. But I don’t think I can travel.
Me: Rosemary and I are taking you.
Mom: Oh, Rosemary’s wonderful. I trust her. I’ll do it.
(Internal monologue: Chopped liver, party of one.)
That June morning, Renee and Karen drove me to Mom’s. Emily brought Saint Rosemary. Mom’s Target pajamas and Trader Joe’s tote of meds were ready. The ambulance arrived; Emily snapped a photo of us in front of it — proof that this was actually happening.
Saint Rosemary Takes the Lead
Ro collected the meds, scribbling notes on a printout the length of a tapestry. I checked on Mom.
Me: Mom, it’s time to go. Remember, today’s the day.
Mom: Wow, really?
Me: Yep, you’re going to live where Aunt Rita is.
Mom: Okay … but I’m not ready yet.
I stepped out to breathe.
Nurse: It’s okay. She’s ready. We’ll handle it.
God bless nurses — the saints on Earth.
Mom was dressed in her new Target PJs and cozy shawl. Ro had packed an extra sheet for privacy and dignity on the plane. The ambulance duo loaded Mom and off we went — Ro in back with Mom, me in front with the driver.
Somewhere on Highway 101, I heard a can pop. Ro was chugging a brown-bag beer, Mom was chatty, and I spotted the sign: San Francisco 72 miles.
The Airport Odyssey
We reached SFO around 7:30 p.m. (I’m pathologically early.) At the United desk I requested a wheelchair. Mom on a gurney, Ro with a mountain of meds and a backpack, me with two carry-ons. A cheerful young employee finally appeared, pushing a wheelchair like it was his first day on Earth.
The dynamic duo transferred Mom — I couldn’t watch — and we headed to security. Somehow Ro and I ended up in different lines (benzos doing their magic). Across the lane, I saw Ro waving her arms at TSA, who were inspecting her bag of liquids.
Why weren’t the meds on Mom’s lap? Why was Ro in a different lane? Did they push Mom through the X-ray?
I watched the scene through one half-open eye and took another tiny benzo bite. At this point who was counting?
By 9:15 p.m. we were in the lounge. I found a dark corner for Mom, Ro, and me. Our young wheelchair handler returned.
Wheelchair Pusher: We need to take the wheelchair now.
Me: Excuse me?
Wheelchair Pusher: We’ll come back for you when the flight’s pre-boarding.
I looked at Ro; Ro looked at me.
Me: What? She hasn’t been out of bed in two years — you want her on a couch?
Ro (The Tank): Can you please get your manager so I can discuss this potential ADA violation?
I went to grab a tequila (for me) and a beer (for Ro). When I returned, The Tank was educating the manager on state, federal, and county law. Sleepy travelers nodded in solidarity. One cranky passenger muttered something about not wanting to look at a wheelchair.
Lady, may you be so lucky to care for someone in one someday.
The Flight
A United team arrived to transfer Mom into a narrow aisle chair. Mom, Ro, then me boarded. Ro by the window, Mom aisle, me across from them next to a kind stranger who helped stow our Trader Joe’s bags. A motley crew for first class.
I stood and apologized to the tiny 16-seat cabin in advance. They gave me soft smiles that said “we’ve all been there,” though probably not on a red-eye with a gurney and a saint. After takeoff I ordered a scotch and fell asleep to the hum of engines and dignity.
Arrival
We landed in Boston at 6 a.m. Ro gave me a look that said, stories later. An ambulance waited at Logan to take us to Peabody — Mom’s final home.
Me: Ro, do you want to spend the day with us or should I get you an earlier flight?
Ro: Only if it’s easy.
Mom: Ro, you’re not staying? Did I punch you last night?
Me: What?
Ro: Nahm, I’ll tell you later.
Me: Okay Tank, noon flight booked.
At the facility, we rolled Mom in, up the elevator, down the hall to her room. Aunt Rita arrived. Mom asked if she was dreaming. By 9:30 a.m., nurses, social worker, doctor — the whole crew — had checked in.
Me: Ro, you need to leave soon.
Ro: I’m fine, I have tons of time.
Me: Ro, your car’s downstairs. I love you. There are no words.
Ro: Okay nahm, bye! Bye Phyl!
Mom: Rosemary, you’re not staying?
I hugged The Tank and cried just a little.
Me: See you in California, Ro. You saved my life this year. You’re a tank.
dōte.worthy:
if you are a Gen-Xer of a certain age like me and you scoffed when you got “the aarp letter”, turns out there is a ton of useful info on the aarp website including these two articles about airplane travel with aging loved ones…
and this article from next avenue explains that air travel can be good for the soul while offering helpful planning tips to ease the travel burden.
dōte.note:
share a story with dōt.age about a once in a lifetime trip you’ve taken with an aging loved one…