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You might say I’ve been working on my own version of “Project Runway.”

It, however, has nothing to do with fashion.

My project?  I have to get my 82-year-old mother who has cancer on a flight to Dallas.  There is no avoiding this trip. My mother’s nephew died after a long illness. She would never forgive herself if she did not attend his funeral.  I am the only one who can get her to Dallas.  

The difficulty lies not in the fact that she is 82-years-old or that she has cancer.  My mother still lives independently and we’ve practically come up with a nickname for her lymphoma, since she’s lived with it for more than four years now.  

The problem—or competition, rather—is between my mother and me. It’s the time-honored tradition between two females seeking the keys to the kingdoms of Relevance and Control. My mother is trying to stay in Relevant, despite her declining eyesight and mobility. I am trying to be helpful by being in Control, a place formerly occupied by my capable mother.  That is, until she had to hand over her car keys and give up her driver’s license.

In China, the rule is to respect your elders. But I’m sure there is something in the fine print that says all bets are off when it means you have to carry them down a mile-long concourse at a major airport.  That, and the fact that I’m also traveling with my 7-year-old daughter, Chloe. 

“I can walk to the plane, Carol. I don’t need a wheelchair,” my mother stubbornly declares at curbside check-in.  “If it’s not too far.”   

“Mom, they’re coming. Let’s just wait another five minutes,” I say, girding for battle.

“Carol. I can walk.”

My mother peers at me over her owl-like glasses and leans precariously on her wooden cane, daring me to disagree.

My answer was, “No.”  Her response was to scowl.

I am tempted to leave both she and Chloe here at the airport and head to Tahiti by myself, instead.  I am quickly discovering that traveling with your elderly mother is a lot like traveling with a 7-year old, except I still have leverage to gain cooperation from my child.

“Chloe, if you back-talk me one more time, you will not go over to Juliana’s on Friday.” However, I cannot threaten to cancel play dates for my mother if she stubbornly refuses to listen, which she often does. (Although, now that I see the words in print, I’m wondering if car rides to church bingo count as a “play date.”)

To even get to this point, I had to do battle with the airlines for the so-called bereavement airfare prices.  We are, after all, flying to attend a funeral. They wanted to charge us almost $1,000. I think “bereavement” means the loss of sanity at a time when families are struggling with grief. 

As we all know, air travel is not what it used to be. I look at quaint old photographs in historic Almanacs of passengers wearing hats and suits sipping drinks in spacious airport lounges, waiting for their flights.

When I flew constantly for ABC News, upgrades to First Class were pretty easy and the ticket agents knew me by name. Today, I am Jane Q. Public.  Security is more invasive than ever.  I’m not sure if I’m ready to find out if my mom still wears a bra.  

And then I recall a secret code that I hadn’t used since I was pregnant. The code is built on an age-old human emotion called Sympathy.  (For all you current or formerly pregnant women, remember when you pulled that card to get what you wanted…or needed at the time?  “Do you mind bringing room service just a tad faster? I would soooo appreciate it.  I’m six months pregnant.”)

Apologies in advance to anyone who finds this offensively pandering to the system, but let’s be real. There are some situations that should be exceptions to the rule. Transporting your mom should be one of them. Please note code words in italics.  I am desperate after waiting for the wheelchair for 15 minutes.  I walk up to an officious looking airport worker. 

“Excuse me sir. I’m traveling with my elderly mother who has cancer. She is going to a funeral. Can you expedite the wheelchair?”

The wheelchair was there in two minutes, I kid you not.   We were allowed to cut to the head of the security line, with two workers helping my mother through the screening machine while I piled Chloe’s airplane toys on the conveyer belt. We must have saved 20 minutes at this point.  

This is going so smoothly I start thinking about taking my mother on our vacation to Hawaii.  But instead of thanking the TSA workers who helped her out of her wheelchair, my mom is still grasping for those keys to her kingdom and shouting “Stop touching me! I can do this!” 

The workers look back at me and we exchange smiles. I mouth, “Thank you,” and am grateful that my Project Runway just might be a runaway success.

But I’ll wait for the judges’ decision until after I get my mother home again. 

Former CNN anchor, Carol Lin is the mother of one daughter and the co-founder of TulaHealth.  She is a regular ShareWIK.com contributor.  Visit her on the web at CarolLinReporting.com.

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