The Gift of the Revoked Driver’s License: Quality Time

When the family doctor rescinded my 80-year old Dad’s driver’s license, my siblings and I were relieved. It may sound cruel, but his GP did our family a great service. Dad’s growing dementia had become an issue and his eyesight was failing. We were ever so grateful to have him off the road.

“I know that doctor has me mixed up with someone else,” Dad would say over and over again. “Why did he take away my license? I’m fine to drive! I’m going to find another doctor who’ll give it back to me!”

Mercifully, he never followed through.

Being unable to drive changed Dad’s life dramatically. No longer could he pick up and go wherever he wanted. No longer could he drive into the “office”, even though he hadn’t actually worked there for years. No longer could he drive to watch his beloved Calgary Flames play or attend his typical pregame meal. It was a difficult transition for him.

Each Other’s Advocate

Growing up, Dad was my advocate. . . his love and tender care had always seen me through difficult times as a child. He had a generous soul and was there for me whenever I needed him. But, like many other children growing up in the 1960s, our relationship lay on the surface of things; we didn’t delve into sensitive topics or discuss emotions or feelings. Even deep into my adulthood, we stuck to fluffy conversations about children, grandchildren or sports. He and I could dissect a game for hours!

A 2014 diagnosis of prostate cancer brought with it a host of medical appointments. With the assistance of my brother, Bub, I began keeping track of and driving Dad to his medical appointments, and in the initial stages of his diagnosis, there were many. He required hormone injections to keep the cancer at bay, regular trips to the lab for blood work, and monthly CT and bone scans. I called or texted him the day before a medical appointment. When I arrived at his doorstep, he was always ready to go, dressed in his “Sunday best.”

Dad Had Stories to Tell

One morning, he had an appointment for a CT scan in a neighbouring town. It was a two-hour round trip, so we set out early. Driving along a major highway, a noisy freight train rumbled by on tracks running parallel to the road. Its presence tweaked something in my dad’s mind, and he began to regale me with stories from his youth; stories I had never heard before.

He told me how he and his brothers used to hang out at the CN rail yard. . . how they would take turns hiding from security in empty rail cars. He told me how they would play football in the off-limits, fenced yard adjacent to the train station and how they would scoop buckets full of wrapped candy that lay on the tracks, left behind by a shipment burst open in transit. As the sun peeked over the horizon, I saw my dad in a different light. His humanity had bubbled to the surface. He was beaming.

Mondays Were for Lunch Dates

We began meeting for a weekly lunch date. On Mondays, we headed for the neighbourhood mall, the familiarity of which made him feel safe. The benefits were twofold; Dad got some much needed exercise walking the corridors past all the retail stores, and I was present for more of his emotional outpouring.

As we ate, he naturally carried on telling me more and more about his mom and his dad and his brothers and sisters. He told me he had to quit school in grade 11 to help support his huge family – there were 12 of them! Spending hours in that mall at that tiny table in the food court was a gift to me. When he was all talked out, I’d take his arm and we’d walk back the way we had come. I cherish those moments of closeness.

Dad passed away in March of this year at the age of 93 years. His resiliency and zest for life were a beautiful thing to witness. I’ve been blessed. I’ve been given both the time and the opportunity to glean a deeper, richer understanding of who my dad really was. If not for his GP refusing to renew his driver’s license and the onset of his illness, it’s likely Dad would have passed on without telling his tales. . . tales that are rich and surprising and wonderful. I will cherish them.

Questions for Reflection:

Have you had to take away your elderly parents’ driver’s license? Or ask your GP to do it? How are you going to manage when it’s time for you to stop driving? Do we all need a plan?