My soon to be 82 year old father stated he no longer intended to drive. He would be passing on renewing his license on his upcoming birthday.
I immediately went into panic mode.
"You can't! I mean, you can't call a cab every time you want to go to the grocery store?"
"What will you do with car? It can't just sit in the garage if you're not going to sell it?"
"Maybe you should just renew your license even if you don't drive."
In his usual unperturbed manner, he looked away and quietly said, "No. I don't think so." He sauntered off with a half-smile leaving my mother and I to continue our Skype conversation.
I fussed for a few seconds more before returning to our dialogue. Outwardly, I pushed aside the exchange that just took place. Inwardly, I wanted to curl into fetal position and cry.
I understood that my dismay had nothing to do with how my father's decision would impact him or my mother. It had everything to do with my own dysfunctional relationship with time and the accompanying fears.
My dad not wanting to drive anymore was a marker of time passing by.
Over the years, the trips had become less frequent. Then, they became shorter. As eyesight was affected, only daytime driving. The perimeter of complete independence kept closing in.
I still remember my daddy driving my friends and me to a "Michael Jackson concert" after a surprise April storm dumped three feet of snow on our city. He didn't even blink. (Mind you, most Canadians have never heard of a "snow day." However, let's be clear. It wasn't Michael. It was a lookalike competition-and most were poor ones at that.)
My father used to have a 60-mile plus commute for over twenty years. We'd even traveled across Canada's expanse. This was not a man averse to driving any distance in any condition and to hear him say he was done with it hurt my heart. Of course, I saw it coming but I was in convenient denial about its imminence.
For some of us it will be about driving. Or perhaps, just noticing the subtly changing profile. For others, illness and incapacitation show up as the intruders.
Whatever the markers, witnessing the aging of your parents isn't easy. Every so often, these moments creep up on me and I have to catch my breath--again.
In a society that has become so obsessed with "anti-aging" where do we find the space for real acceptance?
Indeed we have many vibrant, impactful, sexy, adventurous, accomplished senior citizens. This isn't about equating age with incapability. This is about understanding the impermanence of all things; the relationships between people transform and the people themselves eventually cease to be. It's about gracefully allowing space for those changes to emerge.
Memories provide little refuge, as they become the barometer for how drastically things have changed. And thoughts of the future are often wrought with worry. The gravity is almost unbearable until I can shift back into the present moment.
Now is where I remember that the thing I respect most about my father is his wisdom. And to question his decision for the sake of my own mental comfort is to counter what I know to be true of him.
He is astute enough to know that, for him, the time has come to let that particular activity go. And with that, I must be willing to let go of the invincible -and childish- image I have held. My dad isn't Superman.
And that's ok.
My love for him has always been about his humanity. With that awareness, I can watch the many facets of that humanity materialize as I witness my own. We unfold in concert.
Though he may be giving up driving, he still sits firmly in the driver's seat of his life's direction. And I will continually remind myself to be a supportive-mostly silent-passenger on his journey.