Elephant in the car

My siblings and I had a discussion, many years ago, about our Dad’s driving. At the time, Dad was in his late seventies and, as far as driving went, we didn’t really have any concerns. If anything, our Dad was a much better and more conscientious driver than any one of us. Nope, we were concerned about which one of the seven of us would have to tell Dad his driving skills were less than exemplary, if and when the time came.

We needn’t have worried. On his eightieth birthday Dad announced, over cake, presents and tea, he wasn’t renewing his driving licence and was going to give his beloved Toyota away. And true to his word, he did. He tore up the renewal application, cut up his precious “ticket” to the back roads of Canada and gave his wheels to our youngest sister.

During the final years of his life, Dad was proud of what he had decided to do and often brought it up as an example of how we could all do the right thing whenever push came to shove. He said he didn’t want to be “one of those silly, old farts who forgets to stop at a red light and can’t remember which side of the road to drive on.” He lamented that his best friend, our Mom’s brother, became one of those “silly, old farts.” Uncle Joe more and more often found himself at the side of a road confused about where he was and how he’d managed to find his way to nowhere in particular. Uncle Joe often hopped into his car and drove to his friends’ homes to visit, only to take a cab back to his flat, having forgotten his car was in the driveway or parking lot. He even called the police, once, to report his car had been stolen, only to find out he’d just forgotten to drive it home.

Eventually, the siblings and I decided it was time to have the talk with our uncle and since my brothers and I had been charged with the task of talking to Dad, we decided talking to our uncle was a job for our sisters. The sisters, not as fortunate as the brothers and I, never had the nerve to take Uncle Joe on, however. And after dozens of minor fender benders, a heart attack at a stop light and numerous tickets for minor infractions, Uncle Joe’s doctor finally suggested he take a page from my Dad’s book and hand his keys over. As a family, we were fortunate. No one was hurt or killed and no one had to have the talk, with either of them.

Having an incompetent driver in the family is a lot like the “elephant in the room” scenario in the public service ads about drunk driving. Either way we’re talking about impaired driving, and one day most of us will have to suck it up and acknowledge the elephant. Before I go any further, let me just point out, this isn’t about elderly drivers! It’s about incompetent drivers. You know who I mean. Everyone knows a person who offers to do the driving and we’d rather have a root canal than get in the passenger seat with that person at the wheel. We’ve all driven with a lane-drifter and a behind-the-wheel-multitasker. You know the one who texts, phones, applies makeup, eats lunch, dresses, roots through their briefcase for the granola bars and plays with the GPS, making you wonder just how much time is actually given to the road ahead. They miss the traffic signals, drive too slowly or too quickly, follow too closely and for whom the line down the centre of the road is meaningless.

Yup, we’ve all been in the vehicle with a driver who is distracted and incompetent, the person who makes you wonder, “How the H E double clutching did you get your licence?” If you know someone—elderly or not so much—who fails big time at traffic signals or who drives at inappropriate speeds or seems confused, hits curbs when parking isn’t at hand or drifts around the lanes and, my favourite, confuses the gas and brake pedals, then the “elephant” is in your room. You need to have the talk, hide the keys or disable the vehicle. You need to have several small conversations about your concerns about their ability, and before the “big talk,” decide who is going to deliver the news. Be supportive. Have a transportation plan in place. The elephant doesn’t leave the building by itself—you have to show it the door.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca