Pearley: Never-Ending Drive

I began writing this on my mother Lorayne's 93th birthday. ^rd Birthday. She was never really into "cars," but she always favored manual transmissions, which I found truly impressive. Her birthday makes me think back on how challenging it was to convince her to stop driving. In turn, this reflection leads me to consider how often we overlook the privilege of being able to drive.

Mom was thriving at age 90. In 2022, her 2016 Honda Accord Sport had under 18,000 miles and remained undamaged. Although she wasn’t going on extended journeys, she managed to navigate Santa Barbara easily and handle her daily tasks independently. The sole issue coming up was that the elevator in her condominium complex was broken, and the homeowners' association showed no desire to repair it. While it was just one floor up to her apartment on the second level, climbing even a single flight of stairs became quite challenging for someone her age.

She reached 91 years old, yet she ended up involved in an accident with the Accord. She insisted that someone had fled the scene after hitting her in the parking lot at Macy’s upstairs, but there was stronger evidence suggesting she had collided with a truck in the public library's parking area down town. It was the very first time I'd ever witnessed her confused.

In reality, there was sufficient proof of what actually occurred, which led the police to get involved. Indeed, she struck a vehicle owned by the city. A law enforcement officer visited her. He was a friendly person. He conducted a brief inquiry, and as a result, her driver's permit was revoked. She was extremely upset.

I need my car," she begged me. "It's the only means I have to move around. I'm not myself without my car.

Luckily, the Accord was at the repair shop and that inability to drive was the only thing preventing her from using it. As a result, I became her primary means of getting around, along with my wife and daughter helping out as well. Her trips weren’t complicated—just quick errands like going to Smart & Final or Trader Joe’s for shopping. She was very anxious to get back behind the wheel again.

Getting her driver’s license restored required visiting the DMV and completing both the written and road tests. My intelligent mother, who had worked in television during the 1950s, managed to navigate our broken family through the 1960s and 1970s, and established a successful real estate business in the 1980s that continued until just a few years ago, failed the written exam. A basic multiple-choice test proved too difficult for her. She felt confused and lost. That was when I understood my mother was beginning to leave us.

Every person lives with the awareness that eventually their body may fail them. However, luck might keep our minds intact. This isn't within our power nor related to who we are as people, our intelligence, or what we've accomplished. Certain individuals could still be composing novels when they reach 100 years old, whereas others might struggle to function properly by the time they're 70. Such outcomes are unfair.

I kept her key to the Accord at my home once it returned from the auto repair shop. She frequently requested it, yet soon shifted her attention to something else. Regardless of her state, she remained an adult, and I was withholding the keys from her.

Taking her for a trip to the store in an Acura Integra A-Spec test vehicle, she started pleading with me. "How can you be so cruel?" she asked tearfully. "I've been behind the wheel for such a long time. No citations. No crashes. Absolutely nothing. I'm still capable of driving. That's what defines me." I felt terrible about myself. Still, the history wasn't relevant anymore.

Several weeks later, she was speaking nonsense during a call with my sister who resides in Connecticut. I went to my mother's condominium, practically convinced her to get into my Tundra, and took her to the hospital. She has not returned home since. Two years have passed. She has been in various types of residential memory care ever since. I visit her often, but she is barely recognizable anymore.

My mother never questioned about her cherished cat (we placed her with a new family), nor did she ever wonder what happened to her apartment, and she doesn't inquire about finances. However, sometimes she still shows a longing for driving. I had no idea—I hadn't even considered—just how significant driving was to her.

I'm just a couple of decades behind her. I'm now reaching the stage in life where most people who know me recognize me as the older man they spot walking his dogs. However, my career has revolved around driving.

Driving is where I find peace. Whenever I feel tense, I hop into my truck or any available loaner vehicle and take off. Whether I'm joyful or feeling down, I still drive. Occasionally, I enjoy listening to music or podcasts during these drives, but often I just focus on the natural noises—the wind blowing, the sound of tires against the road, the engine inhaling, and the distinctive rumble from the exhaust. Although my mom cherished driving, for me it holds even greater significance. However, this passion won’t be with me forever.

I received my driver's license in 1978, so I've had 47 years of experience behind the wheel. Much of my time driving has already passed. I am aware that one day I may not be able to drive anymore. I wish I could continue driving as long as my mother did, but nothing is certain.

My experience with my mom isn't uncommon. When I speak with friends who are roughly my age, it appears that nearly everyone has comparable experiences with their parents. The conclusion of the driving allowance often plays a central role in these situations.

It’s fortunate that we reside in an era dominated by automobiles. Operating a vehicle brings immense joy, although occasionally we face challenges like congestion or high costs. Never consider this privilege as guaranteed, since such times won't endure indefinitely.

I hope my children can grasp why I might act irrationally and argue with them over my keys. I don't think I'll be able to stop driving without losing some sense of dignity or logic. I'd prefer to, but likely won't. After all, I'm quite similar to my mom.

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