Nonfiction by Dr. Nancy J Rennert
Daddy picked me up outside my cousin’s apartment building in New York City for the drive home to Long Island. Our car crawled in the rush-hour traffic.
As darkness approached, Daddy weaved back and forth over the line separating the driving lanes, his neck craned toward the windshield, eyes darting back and forth. His left foot came off the recently installed left gas pedal as he depressed the brake, then returned to the gas pedal. His right artificial leg, no longer attached to his body, was splayed on the front seat between us.
“I can’t see the lines…”, he said, his shoulders sagging. His advancing diabetes was slowly eroding his eyesight.
“I’m pulling over. You drive.”
At seventeen, I’d passed the written test to get my learner’s permit. I could stop at a stop sign, make a right turn and drive slowly on local streets with my instructor in the car. I wasn’t legally allowed to drive in New York City with my learner’s permit.
“But, Daddy, I can’t drive legally without…” I began.
Daddy interrupted by wrenching the steering wheel to the right. The car careened off the highway and then skidded to a stop, on the shoulder.
I tried to breathe, my heart’s lub dubs pounding against my chest. Usually, I accepted a challenge, but this was so risky. I knew we could get hurt, even die. I wanted to run away fast and disappear. But there was nowhere to go.
“You have to drive. I’ll talk you through it.” Daddy said. I heaved myself out of the front seat and watched as Daddy slid his right stump into the artificial leg. I didn’t want to drive but he was already out of the driver’s seat. He leaned on the car door with all his weight, stood and then hobbled around the front hood, holding on until he reached the passenger side door. I held him under his arm so he could ease down into the passenger seat.
Daddy had diabetes for as long as I can remember. About five years before the drive, he started to gradually lose his eyesight. Six months before the drive, when an infection took his right leg below the knee, my mother, my three brothers, and I visited him in the rehabilitation hospital and it was the first time I saw him cry.
After a few months of physical therapy, he walked with the artificial leg, and then he wanted to drive. A gas pedal was installed to the left of the brake in his car, which he operated with his remaining foot. The right pedal still worked in case someone else needed to drive his car.
The two gas pedals scared me. I’d never driven on a highway, let alone in a car with two gas pedals. Still, I moved the seat forward, adjusted the side and rearview mirrors and checked the dashboard, just like in driver’s ed class. Engine off, I moved my right foot from the right accelerator to the brake for practice. I kept my left foot as far away from the extra gas pedal as I could.
“Start the engine, and put on the left turn signal,” Daddy said.
Can he hear my heart pounding against my chest?
“Look for an opening, then give it some gas and get into the right lane. Keep your eye on the white line and follow it.” Hands trembling, I put the left turn signal on, but there was no opening to merge.
“I’ll tell you when… I’ll say NOW and then you turn the steering wheel to the left slightly and push on the gas pedal. You can do it – you have to – ease your way in.”
I gripped the steering wheel; my body hunched, and my jaws clenched.
“NOW” he said. I pressed on the accelerator and edged the car into traffic.
“Damn yes!” Daddy said.
On the drive, Daddy repeated “You can do it” so many times, I began to believe it. A shot of adrenaline surged through my body, recharging me. I focused intensely on the road, concentrating on following the lane lines, as honking cars whooshed past us.
“Just drive slow if you want. Who cares if they honk at you. Screw ’em,” Daddy advised. The next passerby gave me the finger. Same to you buddy! Get out of my way, I thought.
I’m driving!
When we neared home, the traffic let up, and Daddy began to tell jokes, which I had heard before, but they still made me smile. The one about his friend who was pleased with his new hearing aid. Dad asked, “What kind is it?” and the friend replied, “about 11:30.” Daddy also had some great one liners! If someone repeated a story, he would say “This is where I came in.” – and that was that. Conversation over. Humor was his way of coping, his shield against adversity.
About twenty minutes later, I parked the car in our driveway and stumbled out of the driver’s seat. Exhausted and triumphant. We had made it home. “I knew you could do it”, Daddy said softly, with tears in his eyes.
We shared a hug in the car. We weren’t very close, but this drive had brought us together. As we entered the house, Mom was upstairs, and my brothers were watching TV and finishing homework. I went straight to my room, plopped on my bed and thought about my fear, my accomplishment and my newfound power.
I’d been terrified of driving, but Daddy pushed me to do it. He believed in me and helped me believe in myself. Somehow, I found my strength.
A few weeks later, Daddy went to the eye doctor hoping he could have more laser treatments to improve his vision, but the doctor told him he was legally blind.
He hired a driver that day.
I passed my driving test the next month. From then on, I only drove my mother’s car.
Dr. Nancy J Rennert is a deaf physician, Chief Endocrinologist at Norwalk Hospital, CT. She is exploring creative nonfiction writing focusing on medicine, disability, family and the intersection of all three domains. Prior publications in Cool Beans Lit and Pulse–Voices from the Heart of Medicine.
