My talk with my grown son, David, that Sunday was as tense as any we’d ever had. David had always been one to speak his mind, but never quite like this.
“Mom,” he insisted, “you have to stop driving. You have to stop before you hurt yourself, or, God forbid, someone else.”
“I’ll know when it’s time,” I snapped, “and it’s not time yet!”
We’d talked about my advancing age before, but never like this. Sure, I was 80 years old. And yes, I’d just run a red light and crashed into a car, ripping my driver’s-side panels clear off, from the door to the bumper. Fortunately, no one had been hurt.
And it was true that three months earlier, I’d run a red light and careened into another car, causing minor damage. No one had been injured then, either.
There was a simple explanation. Each time, I told David, I’d been preoccupied. This time I’d been thinking about the lesson I was on my way to teach at Sunday school. “From now on, I’ll just concentrate on my driving,” I insisted.
David wasn’t bending, though. “I mean it, Mom,” he said. “Two accidents. It’s time to stop.”
We were both too frustrated to talk any more. David left.
I tried to put the argument behind me. I didn’t want to fight with David, who has looked after me so well since his father passed away. Two years earlier, when the family house had gotten to be too much for me to handle, he helped me move into the independent-living community for seniors that I now happily call home.
I thought back to my first days here. It had taken some getting used to. All my life, I’d been independent. Coming and going as I pleased. Being active in my church. Caring for my younger sister, who has Alzheimer’s and lives in a nursing home.
Even then, David had been dropping hints. “If there are any errands you need to do, I can drive you,” he’d volunteered. That was the last thing I wanted—to be dependent on my son, as if he were my parent. I wasn’t ready to give in to old age.
Still, for a moment, I wavered. Maybe David has a point. One accident is understandable. But two? Perhaps I should call him.
Then I caught myself. Most of my friends were retired. One by one, they had given up the things they’d loved. Taking trips. Even cooking. What fun was it, they asked, to cook for just one?
That wasn’t going to be me. Not yet, anyway. I picked up the phone. But I didn’t dial David. Instead, I called a rental-car company and got a replacement for my car.
Then I called David.
He hit the ceiling. He came right back over, and we had another argument, this one worse than the first.
“You can’t do this, Mom,” he said imploringly. “It’s just not safe anymore.”
“It’s my decision to make, not yours,” I retorted.
David stormed out. I felt awful. It took me a while to calm down. Who is he to tell me what to do? I thought, pacing the living room.
I felt myself waver again, as if I was being nudged. One accident was just that, an accident. But after that second one… Was I fooling myself about a dangerous situation, too proud to be honest or even reasonable?
I didn’t like to admit it, but I was a little unsure of getting behind the wheel again. Who was to say I wouldn’t lose my focus and go through a third red light? So far, no one had been hurt. But sooner or later…
I couldn’t bring myself to finish the thought.
Lord, I prayed, David is only trying to be a good son. Help me know the right thing to do. Lead me where I am meant to go.
All my life I had had to make adjustments. Going from single to married. To being a parent. And when my husband died, to being a widow left to raise my son. Life is all about transitions.
I was making life adjustments even now. I had learned to shop on the internet. I had taken up writing. I’d always had a yen to write and now I had the time.
For years I had insisted on doing everything my way, by myself. Were the accidents God’s way of telling me I needed to learn to accept help from others?
Maybe it won’t be so bad, I decided. Maybe it will be a relief.
I called David. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ve decided I’m going to give up driving.”
I won’t sugarcoat it. The first month was difficult. I felt totally dependent. My senior living community was on a busy road, and most shopping was across the street. The first time I wanted to get groceries, I thought, I’ll need someone to drive me. I grimaced and picked up the phone.
“David, can you drive me to the store?” I asked. He was there in a jiffy.
Now David and I have regular shopping dates. Men aren’t supposed to like shopping, but David seems to enjoy it. I see him now more than I ever did, and that was a hidden blessing. We grew even closer.
These days, friends drive me to church on Sundays. I even found a new use for my garage. I’ve added bookshelves along the walls. Where the car once stood I now store a lifetime of memories—my college yearbooks, my journals, my paintings and more.
Independence is a funny thing. It can give us freedom, but it can also isolate us. And aren’t we all gratefully dependent on that one great source of true freedom?
“I’m interdependent and wiser for it,” I tell people these days. And at 80, I’m freer than ever.
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