During my hospital visit Mark had regaled me and his other friends with stories of his parents. Mark’s medications had finally failed him and he was very sick, but he came to life when relating tales of his family.

His parents lived in Texas but came to visit him whenever he was sick or in hospital. They always traveled the same way: they drove from Texas in a van which took as many days to pack as it did to make the trip. They brought a great assortment of canned goods, even though Mark routinely told them that the store across the street sold exactly what they had schlepped from Texas.

His mother could never decide what she was going to wear so, to be on the safe side, she packed many options, sometimes as many as five outfits for a day. The result was a van crammed with clothes, food and other essentials, with everything individually wrapped in plastic bags or cling-wrap (including pens, “in case they leaked”). The whole campaign was obviously a complicated and meticulous process.

They apparently stopped overnight at various relatives en-route which is not the simple procedure it may sound. Fearful of break-ins and robbery, the van had to be unpacked at each stop, a lengthy process entirely carried out by the husband. The wife would trip sedately into the relatives’ house carrying only her purse and a small vanity case; he would be left to empty the van single-handedly. “She’s going to kill my dad”, predicted Mark.

Somehow they always made it to California and checked into a motel close to Mark’s house. This was partly for their sake (Mark’s house was much too small to accommodate them) and partly for Mark’s (they were born-again Baptists). Mark did not share their religious beliefs, or any beliefs in particular, and they did not share his enthusiasm for his lifestyle. After many failed attempts, his mother knew better than to beat him over the head with her evangelism so there was an uneasy truce. But, although their differences were fundamental, underneath it all there existed a mutual love and the visits were appreciated on all sides.

Once, during a particularly disturbing and painful illness, Mark asked his mother, before they left to return to Texas, if she would look around the apartment and choose whatever pieces she wanted him to leave to her. She was appalled at the idea and was unwilling even to consider any questions of bequests, wills or his approaching demise.

They restuffed the van with everything they had brought (minus the canned goods) and were ready to go. The hugs and tears were profuse, Mark feeling that this may be the last time he saw them. His mother finally turned her damp face away, unable to say more, got quickly into the packed van, and they drove off, with Mark in his robe in the middle of the road waving goodbye.

After a few hundred feet the van suddenly screeched to a halt. Mark’s mother leaned out of the window and called back to her son, at full volume, “Don’t kill yourself Mark. You won’t go to heaven.” The face disappeared, they drove off again and Mark stood in the middle of the road, staring blankly after the van as it sped into the distance.