Hard Driving Dad

March 11, 2024

Karen Telleen-Lawton

by Karen Telleen-Lawton, Noozhawk Columnist (read original in Noozhawk by clicking here)

I didn’t think I’d still be giving versions of “The Talk.” This was not about safe sex but safe driving, and the reluctant audience was my dad.

In preparation, I researched a list of the many ways Mom and Dad could get around. Drivers at their senior living complex could chauffeur them by van within a 10-mile radius.

Alternatively, they’ll coordinate with Uber, Lyft or taxi. Plus, one daughter and two granddaughters live relatively close and are happy to help.

That first talk went reasonably well. He agreed to stop driving freeways and wouldn’t attempt to renew his driver’s license on his next birthday.

My sister Cindy and I alternated driving them to the family beach house in Carpinteria.

Dad’s birthday came; his license lapsed. We felt ourselves fortunate indeed. Years before, our folks voluntarily moved to a retirement community to save us worry.

We thought we dodged the gnarly driving issue as well, until Mom unintentionally ratted him out.

“We just got back from the pharmacy,” she announced on the phone. “You got a ride?” “Oh no, Dad drove us.”

Cindy and I chalked up the first couple reveals to her dementia, but finally we confronted him.

“Dad, are you still driving?” my sister demanded. He responded in passive tense. “There’s a van to take us within 10 miles.”

It’s difficult to challenge a parent. We tried safety concerns: his, Mom’s, and anyone else in his path.

“I’m a safe driver. I’m very careful, I only go a few blocks, I don’t get on freeways,” he asserted.

We felt for him. It was his loving caregiving that was keeping Mom home instead of in memory care.

He relished the freedom to drive, one he’s enjoyed for nearly 80 years. But we worried about potential accidents, injuries, and lawsuits.

Finally, I called the health director at their retirement community.

“Oh, your dad isn’t one of the ones we worry about yet,” she said. “He’s so nice and relatively fit and alert.”

All true: he and Mom swim most days. He was sweet-talking the management and out-debating his daughters.

“Well, I’m glad you’re confident,” I responded. “I guess we’ll go ahead and encourage him to reapply for his driver’s license.”

“Wait, he doesn’t have his license? How long has that been?” I couldn’t remember; had it been half a year or a year-and-a-half? It seemed like forever. She promised to investigate.

We talked to him again after Thanksgiving, our husbands bolstering our little dinner-table group. I’ve never seen him more incensed since we were back-talking teens.

Ultimately, we agreed on twin strategies. He would study for his driver’s license, and we would check out the rules for driving a golf cart.

We each worked on our parts. My sister verified that his eye doctor could check his vision and sign a DMV form certifying that it was sufficient for their requirements.

My brother-in-law discovered a golf cart loophole: anywhere within a mile of a golf course, an unlicensed driver can drive an unlicensed golf cart. Check!

My dad studied the sample questions rigorously, plus articles we sent with tricky questions about arcane rules. I called him the day before his DMV appointment. He seemed grim.

“It will be what it will be,” he said.

My sister drove him. The vision form was accepted after checking with the manager. The written test was waived. (Really?!) He just needed to schedule a driving test.

In the meantime, they gave him a temporary license. (Really?!) Dad was gleeful – and careful – as he ferried them home. “He drove very well,” she reported.

Rain was forecast for the day of his driving test, but Dad would not be deterred. He drove himself.

I called that afternoon, chatting with Mom just as Dad arrived home.

“I failed,” he said indignantly. “He said I didn’t turn my head enough when I changed lanes, and something about not changing lanes soon enough. He was too picky.”

I commiserated. My son got an instant fail his first time because we hadn’t yet installed the renewal sticker on the license plate. I passed my first driver’s test, but scraped the family station wagon on the auto insurance building on the same day.

Dad passed on the second try. “This will probably be the last time I renew it,” he decided. He’ll be turning 99 then.

I texted my daughter. “Good news! Now Moki can help chauffeur the great-grandkids around!”

“Haha,” she responded.

Karen Telleen-Lawton, Noozhawk Columnist

Karen Telleen-Lawton is an eco-writer, sharing information and insights about economics and ecology, finances and the environment. Having recently retired from financial planning and advising, she spends more time exploring the outdoors — and reading and writing about it. The opinions expressed are her own.

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