Called Out

One of my dear friends sent me an email this morning asking me please not to drive until I'd been given permission by my doctor. I know, I know that my post about driving is going to be controversial—it's a controversial subject within me—it's certainly going to be controversial outside me, and for good reason. I know.

I did a quick google search then, just to see what I could find, and I found that in England, for example, one has to wait two years to drive after having secondary brain tumors (my kind), and one year after having a seizure. But I couldn't find anything in the US.

Then Katy, Dr Jason's nurse, called me back, and said that it's illegal to drive in the US for 6 months after having a seizure. But I haven't had any, so where does that put me? She was going to ask Dr Jason to call me if he has the time. Otherwise, I see him in two weeks.

It just never occurred to me that I may have this thing I love taken away from me for so long. And if driving is taken away, so is horseback riding. So are visits to Idaho. So is Taya, my fantastic bodyworker in Lake Stevens. So is Gyrotonic, really, because even though it's only three miles away, it's three buses and at least a 45-minute ride each way. So are trips by myself out to Maple Valley to see my Mom. So are trips up to Orcas on my own to prune trees or pull up Scotch broom while Ian's at work. So is taking my grandmother to lunch, just the two of us.

I cannot, nor do I want to, always ask friends to drive me around. I can't take a taxi to Lake Stevens or Woodinville. Frankly, this whole situation scares me more than anything else that's happened this summer.

I believe that everything that happens to us teaches us something valuable . . . but having to give up so much of what I love, so much of what makes me feel healthy and alive, that's a lesson I don't want to learn.