Several weeks ago, I had to make a quick trip to Massachusetts to take my dad to several medical appointments. A year and a half ago, he and my mom moved from Chappaquiddick Island (yes, that Chappaquiddick) to Fitchburg, Massachusetts, where my sister, who lives nearby, had found them an apartment in an assisted living facility.

As any of you who are or have been caregivers well know, often this role is more demanding on one’s time and psyche than had been anticipated. My sister is doing a wonderful job caring for our parents, but her own full-time job can also be very demanding, and she asked for my help this particular week.

My trip up was unusually smooth sailing all the way, on a route that routinely includes traffic jams and/or slowdowns. Not only that, but it was one of those stellar fall days in New England, when the sky has that certain clear blue light, and the brilliant foliage absolutely glows. I thought about how my dad always loved being outdoors and especially hiking in the woods. Looking back, I think those hikes we shared when I was growing up were times when we felt like kindred spirits. He would have appreciated seeing what I was seeing.

With that thought lingering in the back of my mind, I took my father to the first of two appointments at the hospital. He was finished at about 10:30 am, and I had to take him back 4 hours later for part two of the test he was having. It was a bit of a drive back to his place, so I thought about what else we could do. It was another gorgeous fall day at the peak of the season, and I had the idea of looking for a park or someplace where he could enjoy the day. My dad, who’s 92, now uses a wheelchair, so we weren’t about to go on a hike, but I thought maybe even sitting in the car and looking at the foliage might lift his spirits.

As you know, he and my mom lost their only son, my brother, at the beginning of October, and although my dad was doing his best, his heart was broken. When I searched for “parks near me” on my cellphone, a series of serendipitous events began. It turned out there was a Trustees of Reservations property less than two miles from the hospital. This piqued my dad’s interest, because he had been a volunteer and big supporter of this same organization on Martha’s Vineyard. We pulled into the parking lot, which was surrounded by tall trees and fall foliage in reds and golds against the vivid blue sky.

When I asked if he wanted me to push him around in the parking lot, he said, “sure.” Now, the wheelchair in the back of my car was one with tiny wheels, not much good, really, for more than going from car to building and back; its only advantage is that it’s lightweight enough to get in and out of the car. But I pushed him around the parking lot until we got to the head of a gravel trail that went into the woods. I was dubious about the wheelchair’s ability to make it on anything other than pavement, and, although I tried, we soon turned around.

There were three women gathered near the head of the trail, chatting with one another, and when they saw us, one of them mentioned that the Trustees had literally just gotten a grant for several trail wheelchairs, and that if we could find a staff person, we could probably use one. My dad was game, and we headed over to the staff parking lot area to see if we could find anyone to ask about it. The lot was empty, except for a young woman emerging from her car, and I asked her if she would happen to know anything about the new trail wheelchairs. She replied, “You’re asking the right person, because I’m the one who wrote the grant!” Within minutes, my dad was sitting in an impressive racecar-red rig with knobby tires, ready to go. In the photo I took, he looks happier than I’ve seen him in months.

My dad and I did a mile and a half circuit through the woods. About halfway along, as I pointed out beautiful trees and plants and other points of interest, he said to me, “You know, I feel invigorated, and I’m not even the one who’s getting the exercise!” The exquisiteness of the beauty all around us had put me in a state of awe, and then he said that, and I got choked up. And I think he got choked up, too, because we knew we both were feeling the same thing, a moment of deep connection with the beauty of nature and with each other.

I reflected on how rare it has been for my dad to experience a sense of awe. He was heartbroken at having to leave the Vineyard, in part because he was awed every single day, with breath-taking natural landscapes and coastal views at every turn. Now, I felt the enormity of his loss, because I suspect he has had very few of those nature-inspired moments since moving to the interior world of assisted living.

How spiritually debilitating these assisted-living communities can be, where most people spend almost all their time indoors. I’ve become so aware of how much we need awe in our everyday lives to feel truly alive. It’s no wonder that residents typically decline dramatically after moving in. As sad as this makes me, I feel powerless to change the circumstances of the untold numbers of people who must live in this sort of environment. But I was able to do one small thing. I was able to give my dad a few hours with his oldest daughter, where, with him riding and me pushing, we could still share in our appreciation of nature’s splendor as kindred spirits. Whether or not my dad still thinks of that day, it’s a memory that I will treasure for a long time.