Last night reminded me of a large deficiency in my life. I can’t drive. Nearly Fifty years of age and as helpless as my unborn daughter behind the wheel of a car.
We went to the hospital last night, as a precaution, because Lindsay’s feet and ankles swelled up rather suddenly, and after trying to diagnose online, could be preeclampsia, especially since one leg was swelling larger than the other, we concluded that it would be better to be safe than sorry. Problem is, I can’t drive, so my wife, uncomfortably swollen feet and all, had to drive us to the hospital. I felt like a failure.
After some tests, she was cleared of any problems. Just elevate her feet, keep drinking lots of water, and try to stay cool. Relief.
This inability to drive has never been an issue before. I have always had jobs close to home, within a couple of miles, and walked. Or have gotten rides when convenient. In the past, I’ve lived in cities where public transportation was good, so that usually took care of the longer hauls. I’m convinced that all the walking has kept me fit, in both body and mind. But I’ve never had anyone dependent on my ability to drive a car.
With three months left until the birth I have to get a driver’s license. I attempt this with some trepidation. Having gone this long without one I admit to some fear. It seems so foreign to me. A kind of phobia has developed. The fear, I have to say, is for everyone else on the road.
You poor souls.