A e-buddy asked me why I don't drive. Here is my response.
I could start this whole tale where it began, in the details of the act of passion between two forty-something year olds on a hot Fourth of July holiday night at the Jersey Shore. However the graphic images of that union are frightening beyond words to even me, the beloved son and resultant outcome of said act. Additionally I could start this with a study of genetic mutation and the locations on the human genome which mandated the passing on of two rather deficient and defect laden traits to a poor unsuspecting zygote, once more we are talking about me. Or yet again I could start with the point of discovery (for me) of the failings and frailties of this vessel I call my body. Lacking any real scientific background in genetics other than what I picked up in Nat. Sci. 131, and lacking the stomach to attempt to describe Eisenhower era foreplay between my just pre-geezer parents I will opt for the third route.
There are two reasons why I do not drive. First, my vision is deficient. I have at best 20/50 vision with glasses. Without glasses (and I just tested this to make sure the claim was not exaggerated) I cannot see detail on an illuminated computer screen from ten inches away. Lines of 12 point text are blurry worms that stretch across an electronically refreshing cream colored field. Surprisingly this was not discovered by those charged with my care until I was 6 years old. And who was I to know at that age that I was blind as a bat?
In New Jersey at the time I was growing up you entered kindergarten at age 6 and no earlier. While my siblings and parents must have had some idea before my first day of school that I had an issue with sight, I mean I was real clumsy and sat real close to the television, apparently that had no idea of the actual scope of the problem.
It was only when the school nurse during that first week of class did vision exams that the issue came to be defined by my unsatisfactory attempts to decipher the black and white outline of a large fuzzy, unreadable E. I remember it well. All of us flannel dressed, bed wetting "Howdy Doody" watching cowboys stood in a line and waited to look at the eye chart. At the end of the exams notes were jotted and entered into our permanent records. Somewhere I think my note is still in a box of childhood scraps here. My name is at the top and where the 20/ is left open on the form for hopefully an annotation of 20/20, i.e., the boy is normal all-American kind of lad; mine had a series of squiggles, sort of circular in nature with a note that "He can't see. Take him to a doctor."
John and Dorothy the dutiful, and actually caring parents, complied. First there were trips to the local doctor. He didn't know what to make of it or me. He was the first and definitely not the last. Then the journey was to the leather chaired waiting room that smelled vaguely of antiseptic and roses. This place that looked like a sitting room from Town and Country belonged to a high priced ophthalmologist in the city. Ultimately after a number of visits it was distilled that I had congenital nystagmus. This troublesome disease happens relatively rarely. Its cause is not certain. We sufferers have a support group. I found that out last year web surfing. From what I have seen in the literature most people with it never qualify for driving privileges.
Throughout my childhood I was taunted, ridiculed and picked last for sports (which those damn sadistic teachers made us play whether we were physically capable or not). It was not until I was a junior in high school and the gym teacher was assigning me to the black all jock team and I knew I was going be beat black and blue before the day was out that the sports participation issue got resolved. I told my gym teacher at that time politely that I would not participate in this group event and asked to work out on the universal gym. When he insisted on me being a team player, I called him a cocksucker and left the gym turning myself into the principal before they came looking for me. Lucky for me my family doctor bitched out the principal when he called him up to see if I was faking. Yup, nothing quite brings back warm childhood memories like going to that special place where I store the dozens of incidents of getting beat up for missing a catch when I couldn't even see the goddamn ball.
When I went to take the vision test for my license at age 17, because in New Jersey you could not even get driving permits before that age, my father took me. Apparently it was part of plan that was worked out in advance between he and my mother. They both fully expected me to fail the test and it was thought that he would have the better skills to deal with the crushing disappointment I was bound to feel. He managed a large number of employees you see and I am sure he had to fire them and reassign them and the like, so he was tough enough to deal with the likes of me.
It probably floored him when I passed the eye exam. Passing floored me also. The fact that the kindly old clerk handed me a learner's permit probably scared him as well. I know for sure if it didn't scare him at the time we were standing at the NJDOT counter it did within ten minutes thereafter. You see my father allowed me to drive home and I blew a stop sign.
We did not die and as time progressed my driving did improve. Although I did eventually pass the driving test, it took two tries, I never felt comfortable on the wheel. Actually I would have passed the road test on the first try if I wasn't trying to be slick. In New Jersey you it takes two demerits on the road test before you fail. I had done alright until it came time to parallel parking. Like many and I mean many other young New Jerseyians, I hit a cone that was mean to represent a parked car's front bumper. Hit is a euphemism; I crushed that geometric Jayne Mansfield looking thing by rolling back over it. Such an act of cruelty to an orange road cone would not in and of itself have failed me. The problem comes in with my overall reaction to the situation. My response to the road tester's question "What happened with the cone there?" was the evasive, "What cone?" Demerit two, inattention.
For ten or fifteen years I did drive. Although you were involved in other things at the time, you might remember that I did drive to your wedding in 19 whatever that year was. Previously, I had even driven down to visit you when you lived in God Knows where (because my memory is gone I am guessing Elizabeth City perhaps) and you were dating the assistant prosecutor.
Surprisingly now, just as it was then, I still technically have adequate vision to possess an operator's license. However driving always caused me stress. At age 28 stress became a big issue for me.
In 1983 (that is the year you got married isn't it?) my father died. I was at that time operating a law office out of a bedroom in the house where I was renting. I had a couple of clients and had even been paid once or twice. However, whenever I would go to court I would feel like I was high. As time went on whenever I got stressed I felt like I was three tokes into a joint. Time and time again I would explain this feeling to people but they would just look at me. Went to a doctor, and then as now, the first response was to give me a happy pill. Come on, I was 28. This was not a time when I was unfamiliar with pharmacology, at least on an amateur basis. I knew pretty well that what was happening was not stress and I knew it wouldn't be cured by Valium.
Cutting through the stress of my father's death that year, my escape from a very scary relationship by sneaking out and abandoning my apartment one night while my significant other was at work, and the subsequent move back to the east coast, it was around this time I really found out what stress could do. While sitting for the Delaware bar exam, I had tenderness in my upper torso. Most likely it was from weight lifting. I was trying exercise to try and reduce stress. Thinking that maybe I could get something for the pain, I went to see my cousin's husband. Mike was a D.O. and he agreed to see me after hours. After he twisted me and prodded me he did an EKG. Then he disappeared.
After about 10 minutes I decided to check out what was going on. As I crept out of the examination room I saw he was on the phone. Not unduly nosy I just decided to wait until he got off with whatever important patient call this was to see where to go to get the script that he would be writing me filled, or maybe and this would have been better, he had samples. Now understand that this was between day two and day three of the bar exam. Now understand also that as I listened I finally figured out that he was calling for an ambulance with a cardiac support team. As I looked around the room I noticed there were no other patients. Additionally I noticed that there were no other staff members. That left only the two of us and I had specifically noted the ambulance was requested for Mike's office address. Mike was looking okay, so that left only me.
I freaked.
I mean, I really freaked.
When I asked what was going on, Mike began, "I would like to tell that you aren't having a heart attack, but ….." HOLYMUHAOF GAWD. I'M ONLY 28.
The EKG Mike had seen was scary and it remains scary, but it was not a heart attack. It is Wolff-Parkinson-White disease Type II. It is a conduction problem. When stressed my heart goes into tachycardia. By the time the EMTs got me to the hospital my heart rate was over 200 beats per minute. At that rate your brain doesn't function. The heart becomes inefficient and while twitching it doesn't move the blood. Thus the genesis of the feelings I had of being high. My brain was simply not getting enough blood in those fight or flight situations like being in court.
I could go on with my battles to sort out how to treat this disease but that is another e-mail. What happened next is that my body began combining its maladies. As time went on I grew more nervous about driving. The more nervous I became the more often I would drop into tachycardia. The less clear thinking I got behind the wheel the more frightened, do you see where this is leading? Twice over the years I had to pull my car over because I couldn't think clearly enough to continue driving. Eventually, I just decided not to drive anymore.
While many people assume I am an alcoholic due to the fact that I don't usually explain why I don't drive (and they think I have lost my license for it), I am sure my choice was the right one for me. There are surgical options to remedy the heart condition, but they have serious risk. However the vision thing will always be what it is. It cannot be corrected. I will forever live in a Monet painting. Thus unless death or incapacity of a family member is involved I will not drive.
Am I sad I cannot drive, yes. Is it for the better? Yes. When I look at my life my two health issues have been both a blessing and a curse. The heart condition stopped me from doing a wide array of drugs. Because of two trips to the ERs due to overindulgence of alcohol, (drinking makes my heart race even at relatively low amounts of consumption), I have an iron clad two to three beer limit. In other words I stopped stupid drinking. My heart probably stopped me from becoming an alcoholic like both my brothers. However it has limited contact with a number of people because I can't just get up and go see them on my own, in my own car.
On the plus side again, my vision and heart have probably kept me in this marriage; one that everyone including my own wife assumed was doomed to failure. She took two years in the pool on how long we would last! It is hard to have an affair when your paramour would have to drive to pick you up all the time. Yup, not driving has kept me moderately relatively faithful.
I do regret that I have probably been kept from certain job tracks and activities that would require a much stronger constitution. Obviously, I can't sky dive or draw pictures on a grain of rice. But I have coped. I have a couple of cabbies and a couple of friends that have been willing to help me. In my private practice career I had negotiated cab fares to all the local courthouses. The fares included round trip travel, one stop for coffee and one half hour of waiting time.
As it stands Francie drives, I clean the house, do the dishes, and keep the yard. She puts the kids to bed; I get them up and feed them breakfast. For each task we try and balance. If she can't take me, or won't, I can't go. However, I do have a great bicycle and we do have good bus routes here.
I know this is probably so much more than you wanted to know on this, but I wanted to write.
1 comment:
ah, i was always curious about this one. good explination! haha
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