Driving

Driving. . .Him Crazy

I pulled up to the front of Mom and Dad’s house where they were waiting for me to drive them to Dad’s next chemotherapy treatment; I got out and opened up the passenger doors so they could get in more easily.

“No hurry, we’ve got an hour before your appointment, Dad.”

We were all apprehensive and were glad that there was time to spare before he would be poisoned again. He’d felt pretty sick over the four weeks since his last treatment; how would he be able to tolerate another one? I could feel my jaw locking, a familiar symptom when my anxiety levels were growing.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said with wily eyes. “How about if you make a wrong turn and we get lost and end up somewhere else? Anywhere else; I’m not picky.”

In truth, that certainly wouldn’t have been too difficult for me. Alby and I shared a disability - we were Directionally Challenged and could get lost trying to make our way out of a paper bag! This posed quite a challenge when he had been teaching me how to drive: the blind leading the blind.

I got my Driver’s Permit and Alby was to be my instructor. He’d taught Mom, Harvey and Marcy to drive and I was glad I would receive his tutelage as well. I’d had a few hours of “Behind the Wheel” training at school, but essentially was a driving neophyte when Alby and I embarked on our first car ride.

It was 1973 and there were no laws about seat belts, so Alby and I got into Mom’s blue Chevrolet Malibu without any restraints or air bags. Brave. Stupid. Dad looked relaxed in the passenger seat while I, in the driver’s seat, wondered whether or not I’d wet my pants.

“We’re going right into the belly of the beast; head for the highway!” Alby hooted.

The highway? Had he lost his mind? Fast speed, narrow lanes and poor drivers gave Route 22 its nickname, “The Bloodiest Highway in the East”. Alby hadn’t thought this through and it was my obligation to point that out.

“Are you kidding? Dad, I’m not even remotely ready to go on the highway. Especially THAT highway!”

“Sure you are,” he replied confidently. “You’ve got the gas pedal, the brake pedal, your brain and me. You don’t need anything else.”

Except maybe a diaper. . .

I drove tentatively and as we approached the entry ramp to Route 22, I feared that my body would paralyze or that I’d somehow fall into a catatonic state. Horns honked behind me as I crawled onto the ramp at a wild and reckless five miles-per-hour.

“Don’t let them hurry you. Remember how I’d teach Harvey to wait for his pitch in baseball? Same thing here. Wait for your opportunity. Be patient. If people want to honk, let ‘em.”

My pitch came and I took it, merging with the traffic while my shaky leg pressed down on the gas pedal. Within seconds I was keeping pace with the traffic surrounding me and Alby’s steady voice offered comfort.

“You did it, Susie Q! Everything else after this is gravy.”

I was changing lanes like a champion, maintaining speed, and staying focused. That was until Alby decided we’d take a side trip. “Turn off here,” he said as we approached an exit ramp. “Let’s take some local roads.”

I was so busy concentrating on the mechanics of driving that I didn’t realize we were completely and undeniably lost. Alby was telling me to turn left, turn right, go straight, follow the curve, and I followed his instructions. I guess that’s why I was surprised when he told me to pull over.

“Susie Q, we are most definitely lost.”

So there we were. Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, neither one with a clue. “Maybe Mom has a map in here somewhere,” I wondered aloud.

“Even if she does, can you read it?” Alby asked.

“No. Can you?”

He laughed. “Aren’t you the funny one.” We both had our strong suits and map-reading was not amongst them.

“Yup. We are most definitely lost,” I agreed.

We remained by the side of the road, waiting for a passerby who could hopefully give us directions; we waited close to thirty minutes before we finally flagged down a passing car. After a few lefts and a couple of rights, we were back on the highway heading home.

As I drove, Alby pondered our fiasco with his customary philosophy. “You know, Susie Q, you’re going to get lost again and again in your life and it won’t always be in the car. If you can’t find the way on your own, find someone to help. Not everyone can read a map or remember the routes.

“You just need to make sure that you don’t get so lost that it’s impossible to turn around. And for as long as I’m around, feel free to ask me for directions. In the meantime, why don’t we stop at that diner ahead?”

Life lessons followed by chasers of coffee-ice-cream sodas. I knew then that getting lost wasn’t so bad as long as you’re not lost alone.

“Sorry Dad,” I said as we pulled into the Cancer Center’s parking lot. “I tried but couldn’t get us lost today because you need to be here. You’re our family’s map reader, remember?”

“I’m not sure if I can follow the route,” he answered sadly.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got my reading glasses on and I can see the map clearly. Let me drive,” I said as I took his arm and we walked onto the empty elevator.