My husband came to me with an embarrassed look on his face this morning. Not just embarrassed, heartsick. Or maybe that was me; heartsick that his last memory of me showing him how to use the gasoline pump at our local Chevron station was no more retrievable now than the two previous times I had shown him. This morning he wanted me to write down all the steps on his little notepad.
His driving is a big deal to him — and I certainly understand this. Driving in the United States, and especially in Southern California, is a rite of passage and some aficionados would say worthy of its inclusion in our Bill of Rights. In SoCal, we long ago gave into the wishes of the petroleum giants and corporate interests who gutted our miles of public transportation lines in favor of oil rigs, cement highways and gasoline pumps. We may be trying to catch up now with the realities of fossil fuels’ limitations but cars and freeways have become for us an ingrained way of life and may take several more generations (if we’ve that much time) to change our mindsets.
For me, buying gasoline when I got my driver’s license was as easy as putting the key into the ignition. A friendly young man dressed in a crisp clean uniform would smile at me, ask how much gas I wanted, then he’d cheerfully check my oil and water levels and clean my windshield. I’d drive merrily away without ever getting the smell of gasoline on my hands or breaking a nail trying to life the hood on my own.
That all changed when self-service gas stations came into popularity. In the beginning, Jim would fill up both of our cars, thus enabling me to continue living the life of a car-driving princess but I was also beginning to feel stupid and inadequate. And I wasn’t helping my daughter much either who was also in the same boat (rather, car) as I was. When I finally did get the nerve to drive up to a pump on my own, I had so much trouble I had to ask the attendant in the booth for help. Nice kid not only looked at me like I was stupid, he came right out and told me so. That set me back a good six months.
Long story short, I have a lot of empathy for what my husband is going through. The new pumps with their fancy computer screens, though helpful to most, can be mind-boggling to someone whose thinking processes are not only slower but also challenged by a lack of memory-history. Without being able to remember what you learned just minutes or hours before to guide you, that gasoline pump can be as frightening as a monster.
I wrote down the steps in my husband’s little notebook but I know that it likely won’t be enough and I will have to show him again. I won’t mind; he never complained about taking my car to fill it up. And quite often he’d get it washed at the same time. That was always a treat.
I know his days of driving are just about over. But I want him to be able to enjoy the freedom of getting about on his own while he still can. I just hope we can make the coming transition from driver to passenger without any incidents or accidents — and without him hating me.
Writing Through Challenges & Change 