High Anxiety
Copyright 2006 by Suzy Wurtz
Earlier this summer, my
driver-in-training daughter asked, “Mom, why do you always hold on to the
armrest when I drive?”
"To slow myself down if I go through the windshield,” I
replied truthfully.
It wasn’t the answer she was looking for.
After six months of waiting, I can finally write about it.
My daughter passed the on-road test last week and is the proud recipient of a
Minnesota driver’s license. She is a good driver and a good sport as well. She
had to be a good sport. My serious rollover car accident seven years ago made me
an overly cautious driver.
And a hysterical passenger.
As she began driving, other parents laughingly recalled
pressing their foot to an imaginary brake on the passenger side. They predicted
that I’d be doing it, too. Actually, I rode with both feet pressed to
the floor, but I wasn’t reaching for an imaginary brake. I was bracing for a
crash.
Unlike kids who had been behind the wheel of farm equipment
or lawn tractors, our daughter’s initial driving experience with me was truly
her first time in the driver’s seat. Having only steered a bicycle before, she
turned onto our lawn instead of the end of the driveway. Within her first
half-block on the street, she aimed first for the neighbor’s lawn, then a parked
truck. “STOP! BRAKE!” I shouted wildly as I grabbed the steering wheel each
time. This was not a serene mother-daughter bonding event.
Her driving skill improved quickly but my neurosis didn’t.
My own mother recalled that she prayed the rosary when my older brother was
learning to drive. Hearing that story, my husband tossed a plastic bead necklace
at me and suggested I do likewise.
On our daughter’s fifth trip behind the wheel (yes, I was
counting), my husband sat in the passenger seat while I huddled in the back with
my eyes closed. I heard him say loudly, “Turn! Turn! Turn!” He was neither
quoting from the Bible nor singing the 1960’s Byrds’ song.
That same afternoon, my husband was admitted to the hospital
for an allergic reaction to seafood. It was later discovered that he also had
four seriously blocked arteries, which resulted in heart bypass surgery a few
days later. As the three of us sat in the emergency room, the doctor asked the
routine question, “Did anything stressful happen today?”
My husband and I glanced at each other as “Turn, Turn, Turn”
went through our minds.
In July we took a trip to Nebraska. My husband decided that
the return trip on Iowa’s I-29 was a good time for our teen to tackle interstate
driving. She did a fine job, and I was remarkably calm in the back seat until
we encountered 15 miles of one-lane road construction, with grated roads and
large trucks. I assumed my husband would take over at that point, but he
thought it was “good experience” for her. My anxiety level rose. I lost interest
in my book on tape. I grabbed the armrest and began rocking back
and forth, chanting “nam-myoho-renge-kyo.” (I’m not a Buddhist, but I didn’t
have the plastic bead necklace with me.) After another hour, I demanded that I
drive. Even my husband’s good driving was not good enough at that high anxiety
moment.
During her on-road test, our teen was given an
unsatisfactory mark because she was driving too slowly.
“I’m just being cautious,” she explained to the state
employee.
“You’re 15 miles an hour below the speed limit,” snapped the
tester.
“My mom makes me drive like that,” our daughter said.
“Does your mom drive 15 miles below the speed limit?” the
tester asked with sarcasm.
After a thoughtful moment, my child said, “Actually...yes.”
Actually, I don’t drive too slowly; I just made HER drive
that slowly to ease my anxiety.
A funny thing happened after my daughter received her
driver’s license, though. I only grabbed the armrest once on the ride back to
her school. I didn’t shout “WATCH THAT CAR!!” at any intersection. I didn’t
gasp when she made a left turn. My heart wasn’t racing when we arrived at our
destination, and I actually daydreamed on the ride there. Huzzah! I made it
through this phase!
But if she thinks she’s going to get a pilot’s license, I’ve
got news for her.
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