Driving

My mom started driving when she was 12 years old.  She is 86.  She is still driving… (That’s a different blog for a different day).  I started driving when I was 15.  Learning to drive with my dad was intense.  He was an uptight passenger, complete with sound effects and unnecessary body stiffness. Mom taught me to drive.

Doug started driving when he was 15, but he drove before that, probably without permission.  Doug and I grew up in a town that allowed licensed drivers to be 16 years old.  On Doug’s 16^th birthday his dad tossed him the keys to the 1974 Datsun stick-shift pickup truck and told him to drive himself (solo) to the DMV and take the driver’s test, which he did, and passed.

When I was a young driver, learning the rules of the road, with my dad as the passenger, I was keenly aware that driving required multiple steps. Each of which could be easily overlooked causing dad to dramatically act as though the break and the wheel were on his side of the car.

I had to remember to press on the gas, but not too hard. Pull out into the lane, but first put on the blinker and look over my shoulder (something about a blind spot) to check for other cars.  Turn the wheel gently, but don’t over correct.  Use my right foot on both the gas and the break but be gentle to avoid giving my passenger father whiplash. I had to watch for construction, pedestrians, school zones, street cleaners, on ramps, crosswalks, speed limits…

Driving has many rules and lots of layered complication.  It is a wonder any of us learn to drive at all…  Especially at 16 years old!

I am sure we all have driving stories.  Scary ones, funny ones, ones that include law enforcement and ones that don’t. My first car was a 1979 yellow and black Volkswagen Beatle.  It was the car I inherited when Doug and I married. Doug was fluent in car ownership.  Before that wedding day perk, I had my driver’s license, but I never owned my own car.  I sometimes borrowed my parent’s car.  I occasionally borrowed a friend’s car, but mostly I just rode my bike.

Doug has always identified himself as a good driver.  Even though he has received multiple traffic tickets, been in his share of fender benders and seized an engine or two.  He explains he performs best with on-the-job-training.  He insists each experience taught him a new lesson that expanded and improved his driving ability. Over the years, I must admit, the on-the-job-training thing worked pretty well and he did become a better driver.

Our married life has mostly included a garage with two cars – his and hers – symbols of independence, busyness and freedom.  We still have two cars – his and hers – now however, just one driver.  Less independence.  Less freedom. Still busy.

Fronto-temporal dementia (FTD), in Doug’s case, parades around as a thief stealing his ability to problem-solve and function in layered complication. Driving a car, with all of its complexity, rapid decision requirements, real-life danger and essential involvedness has become a multi-level challenge for Doug.  Removing his driving privileges became an obvious non-negotiable to everyone… except Doug. 

Nothing went crazy wrong leading up to the decision that Doug’s driving days were over.  There was no accident.  No road rage that we know of.  No speeding ticket.  No red light mistaken for green.  No excessive weaving in the lane.  His issues were subtler.  Doug stopped using his blinker before switching lanes, cutting the guy off in his blind spot, causing a sudden halt in the left lane traffic and a song of multiple horns pitching a loud angry opinion.  He rolled through a stop sign and got pulled over.  The ticket included an extra fee for harassing an officer.  He got lost and the sheriff assisted in his safe return.  For Doug it was in the little things, the habits of driving, the layering, the decision-making, and the need for spontaneous response that clarified the choice. 

Then, there was the doctor.

The specific words spoken from the doctor were, “If it was my husband or my dad, he would not be driving.  Doug’s executive functioning is severely impaired… His processing speed is slow… He is having difficulty problem solving in real-time…”

Enough said.

We (family) have been the passengers with him.  We knew the truth.  The doctor pointed out, through a series of tests, what we already knew.  Time was up.

When our children were young teen drivers, I frequently warned them over and over that the car they were driving was a weapon if misused.  It could forever damage, hurt and even kill someone.  “Drive carefully,” I would tell them.  “Drive defensively,” I would nag.

They mostly listened.  Dementia doesn’t listen.  Dementia doesn’t remember.  Dementia doesn’t respond when the rules of the road say so.  It was time.  No amount of on-the-job-training was going to change this inevitable non-negotiable reality.  Doug’s driving days are past and his passenger days have begun.

It has been a struggle to get used to him not being in the driver’s seat.  That one inconvenience has changed the flow of our lives. Doug is mostly not happy about it.  I am mostly stoic about it.   He feels stifled because he can’t just get-up-and-go like before.  I understand that.  Friends and family give him rides in a jailbreak fashion.  His quads show off the miles he bikes. I run the errands he used to. 

“You’re driving Miss Daisy,” Doug says. “It’s not a bad gig.”

He’s right you know. It’s not a bad gig.

Doug and Karen