The literal slow-walk that Joe Biden took to finally ending his candidacy was difficult to watch in real time. At some point, most of us have experienced a friend, family member, co-worker, etc., who ended up exhibiting some kind of diminished capacity. Watching the president trying to speak during that July debate brought back all kinds of unpleasant memories for me, as I suspect it may have for you too. His later display of defensiveness in an attempt to move on from the disaster, made him look like someone who wasn’t willing to acknowledge the obvious. It looked as if this man was in deep denial over what everyone else was readily seeing with their own eyes. Political and national security concerns notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but think at the time about what his family members were saying to one another. Or not saying.
In the days after, as we all collectively processed what we witnessed on our TV screens, my thoughts went immediately back to my father during his own twilight years. Dad’s intellectual acuity fortunately never really waned in any dramatic fashion. He still religiously read the newspaper, watched the news and his favorite PBS mystery shows, and never failed to buy his regular weekly lotto tickets. Physically, though, what we’re presently seeing with Biden’s slowed gait and raspy voice, reminded me an awful lot of Dad. His own walk slowed into more of a shuffle, and a much later diagnosis of early-onset Parkinson’s manifested into speech pattern changes. As his mobility became more labored, his determination to be independent took on the same defensive posture that we saw with the president during those days and weeks after the debate.
Family members, particularly my mother and eldest sibling, began to worry about Dad’s continued insistence that he was still fine to drive a car. Any talk with him about it was forcefully shut down. Out of desperation, my sister called me one day to plead with me to try and reason with him to hand over his keys. I knew that using the same arguments he was already hearing wasn’t going to get him to budge. So I decided to try a different tact.
It just so happened that I was in the market for a new car at that time, and I called to ask his opinions on the different models I was considering. After a really long conversation which turned into a kind of oral history about the many cars he had owned in his life, we ended the conversation with him suggesting I look at a few specific models that he thought would be good for me. I hung up with him trying to figure out my next move, knowing whatever I did it would still be rather transparent to him.
About an hour later he called back, suggesting that I instead simply buy his car because it wasn’t even a year old. I happily accepted. Problem solved. He knew exactly what I was doing, of course, but I think he appreciated not being forced into something. He created his own guardrail.
One of the reasons for Dad’s initial resistance was that my mother had stopped driving years before. After she retired, a decision was jointly made that she wouldn’t need to get behind the wheel anymore, and indeed in her early sixties Mom simply stopped. My dad was utterly happy chauffeuring her to and fro. Trips to stores, doctor appointments, the hair salon, etc., were joyfully navigated as a duo. Even Mom’s twice-a-month lunches out with my aunt were accomplished with Dad dropping her off and picking her up later at a pre-arranged time. He was an Uber driver before there was Uber. This arrangement later made things more complicated as physiological changes began to manifest in Dad when he reached his late seventies. As with Mr. Biden, it took some persuading to get him to see the reality of his situation; but he also wanted to be in the driver’s seat of the decision, so to speak.
I think about all of this lately and not just because of the current political headlines. I believe some human frailties are with us from birth. My inability to repair, well, anything? Biological! My need for a calculator to add or subtract anything more than five numbers? Chemical! I long ago stopped trying to cover-up all of these deficiencies, though I do absolutely stand my ground when it comes to flexing my own mental acuity on important matters such as pop music trivia. 1
In our own home, however, I have been facing a bit of history repeating itself. Over the last couple of years, Gorgeous herself has begun to avoid getting behind the wheel. It evolved quite slowly, probably starting during lockdown. She will drive to the shopping center closest to our neighborhood, and also to a secondary one that we get to by accessing side streets as a short cut from the more trafficked main artery. Safe routes.
Slowly, I started to notice that I was being asked to “come with me” to other places around town to which she previously drove herself. It admittedly took a while for me to connect the dots. When I finally did late last year, and I asked her point-blank if she was avoiding having to drive, she at first demurred. “I just like it when we go places together,” she said.
I can’t say I blame her. I am wonderful company.
Since that conversation, though, I couldn’t help but notice and process what was happening. I brought it up again earlier this year, and Gorgeous admitted that she disliked driving on busy streets. Specifically, she said she doesn’t like left-hand turns at major intersections, plus the scourge of aggressive drivers who come up within seemingly inches behind to “push” you to go faster. Not that any of that is a necessarily new phenomenon, of course. I myself have always driven as if those around me are armed and ready to shoot. But recent research does in fact appear to show that aggressive and risky driving behaviors are on the upswing since the end of the pandemic.
So, we’ve had some honest conversations in our home over the last few months. I told Gorgeous that I think we can find a middle ground. I don’t at all want to replicate the transportation dynamic my parent’s post-retirement life, but at the same time I also don’t want her being frightened behind the wheel. We’ve agreed that she’ll keeping drive to the places and routes where she feels mostly comfortable, but also be open and transparent about those where she’s not. Further, she agrees to use Uber when circumstances make it easier to do so. She’s creating her own guardrails.
I suppose I’m creating a guardrail of my own too: for now at least, I am not sitting and waiting at her hair salon. Dad was braver than I am.
Until next time…
