“Everyone must teach someone to drive.” I reach from the driver’s seat and pat Ivan’s knee, which is often bouncing like he’s just downed several shots of espresso. “Just remember, you have not yet taught a teenager.” This exchange happens almost nightly now that my road test is less than two weeks away.
God certainly has a sense of humor. Before my accident, it was generally agreed upon that of the two of us, I was the more law-abiding driver. I also spent one summer during college helping my younger sister learn to drive. Ivan, on the other hand, went to college a year early and so missed both the joy and terror of coaching an adolescent brain on road awareness. While I’m not an adolescent, parts of my brain don’t always function like they’re thirty-one. And so Ivan is finally “doing his time” reminding me how to drive, even if we’re not starting from square one.
Since my last post, we’ve made a lot of progress. Most of the questions about potential deficits that I wrote about earlier were answered with a thorough physical by my neurologist, who cleared me to drive temporarily but also ordered a DMV road test in order for my license to be fully reinstated. On the road, we’ve confirmed I can maneuver the car safely in spite of not feeling my left hand. I can also spot and respond to hazards in appropriate amounts of time.
On the other hand, we’ve discovered I have no sense of direction. The Safeway a few blocks from our condo is a great example. We’ve been living in the same complex for three years, and we go to that store at least once a week. This seemed like an easy goal for some of my early drives – until we realized I had no idea how to get there.
“That’s okay,” I reassured Ivan, embarrassed by such a childlike deficit and unwilling to admit defeat. “Maybe I just need the GPS to help me get there a few times. After that I’m sure it will imprint.”
On our fourth trip, and my first attempt without the GPS, I confidently turned the wrong way – and didn’t even notice things looked different until Ivan pointed it out a few minutes later.
The strange contradiction is that my brain remembers traffic laws, which are long term memories stored from when I learned to drive as a teenager. However, getting to the grocery story falls under shorter-term memory and spatial recognition, two areas damaged by the brain injury. But once we realized we should always use the GPS when I drive, both our moods and my success has greatly improved. Praise the Lord!
I’ll close with an anecdote that I can only summarize using the title of the old Carrie Underwood song, “Jesus, Take the Wheel.”
I was driving down Monterey Highway around 6 pm (for those of you who don’t know San Jose, that is a rather hazardous road due to both speed and traffic), Suddenly, sounds of shock and horror began issuing from the passenger’s seat. Ivan and I have had many conversations about how I need specific feedback when I’m driving. Vague interjections like “Oh man!” “Woah!” or the catastrophic “Noo!” only prompt me to slam on brakes.
“Ivan – what?”
“There’s a bee on the window!”
At that moment, we reached a red light, so I was able to look. It was not a bee. It was a wasp. I’m deeply afraid of wasps because of traumatic childhood encounters. Also because, unlike bees, wasps don’t just sting once.
“Open the window and let it out!”
“But it looks comfortable.”
“Well, I’m not comfortable!”
Then the light was green again. Multiple thoughts flashed through my mind simultaneously. The first was that, whatever Ivan did or did not do with the wasp, I must keep up with the other tired, hungry rush-hour drivers. The second was that I was going to have to ignore the sounds of consternation continuing to proceed from the passenger’s seat.
“Lord, please protect us,” I prayed, as my knuckles whitened on the steering wheel and the chorus of nonspecific, threatened or threatening noises crescendo-ed.
“He’s gone!” came a weak voice. Then, just as my grip relaxed – “No!”
“What?” I growled.
“You missed your turn.” Ivan was right. I’d completely forgotten the GPS.
It took us some time to find our way back to the route. I was so disoriented by the adrenaline from the episode that I ended up confounding the GPS, and Ivan had to turn it off and give me directions the old-fashioned way. We later agreed that, unless the DMV has started releasing small, slightly venomous insects into the cars of prospective licensees, my road test will probably not be this nerve-wracking. On the relational side, Ivan and I both have a greater awareness of each other’s strengths. Ivan learned that I can handle the car safely even when I’m scared, and I was reminded that Ivan can give very clear, methodical, and kind directions when he realizes I’m unsettled. Who knew that driving practice was marriage practice, too?
Walking With Grace 