Back In The Driver's Seat

“Change lanes, Tim. We’re exiting right,” my driving teacher instructed. We were in the center of five eastbound expressway lanes. “WATCH YOUR BLIND SPOTS.” Her stronger tone irritated me, though I wasn’t sure if it stemmed from her own anxiety or my inadequacy.

“Yeah. Gotcha.” I wet my lips while checking all three mirrors. After signaling my turn, I gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“You didn’t check your blind spots.” Her comment didn’t panic me, but I shuddered nonetheless. The Atlanta I-285 expressway seemed far too crowded for me to turn my head and look over my shoulders. My neck wasn’t as flexible as it had been before seizures made me stop driving in 1991.

I’m 61, not a kid! Cars on my right raced ahead to avoid exiting, while those on my left darted forward to catch the exit. My focus on the road ahead felt far more critical.

Closure after a car accident

I nodded, but it was uncomfortable to heave myself upward and glance over my shoulder as Ms. Frazier ordered. A semi accelerating too close on my left unnerved me. My driving had ended 33 years earlier when I collided with a semi during a seizure. Semis hadn’t scared me since—except now, because I was the driver.

“That’s good, Tim. We can stay in this lane now to take the next turn,” Frazier assured me.

Whew! This felt like closure for me, because it was reminiscent of the Chicago expressway where I had crashed. Two other cars, besides the truck, were wrecked because of that seizure. Miraculously, only I was injured: a cracked rib and a chipped tooth. The infamous cold Chicago wind accelerated my recovery, so I clearly remember the cop chuckling as he sauntered around the crash scene. Finally, he smirked at me, “You should be DEAD!”

A journey of setbacks and milestones

It was inconceivable that I would ever drive again. Over the next three decades, my seizures continued every 8 days to 3 weeks.

Driving seemed as improbable as piloting an F-35 when I started a new medication, Xcopri, in 2020. Once, I went six months seizure-free, which met the legal requirement in my state of Georgia.

However, my epileptologist dashed my hopes. “I know the law,” he said, “but since you’ve been uncontrolled for so long and seizure damage to your brain has spread, I wouldn’t support it until you went TWO years without a seizure.”

My wife continued chauffeuring me, as she’d done since we got married 17 years earlier.

Soon after, those six months ended with several seizures. The setback was psychologically draining because the clock had to start all over again. An 8-month stint ended on my birthday, April 25, 2022.

When I went a full year without a seizure—a first since I was two—driving began to seem plausible. Still, I remained silent to avoid jinxing it.

From my teens through my 30s, neurologists probably thought I needed a psychologist. It seemed that every time I answered how long it had been since my last seizure, I jinxed myself and seized within days. I started replying, “I plead the 5th Amendment,” then handed them my answer written on a piece of paper.

People on Facebook excited me when they’d grin and hold signs showing how long they had been seizure-free. They inspired me to muster the courage to share my own milestone when I turned 60. Last Christmas, wearing my ugly Christmas sweater, I proudly displayed a sign that read, “20 months SEIZURE-FREE!”

Regaining independence

Driving felt increasingly achievable. Last November, my wife bought a Tesla. She expressed her fascination with its automation by commenting, “You’d probably even be able to drive it nearby for errands if you reach your doctor’s limit.” Two months later, she clarified that I’d misunderstood her. She wasn’t going to let me drive her car.

I never lost my driver’s license in 1991. Late at night, without any alcohol involved, the cop and other drivers assumed I’d fallen asleep at the wheel. My wits recovered enough that I let them believe it. Without a job or the money to repair my car, I grounded myself. When I moved to Atlanta, I transferred my license and always renewed it, which meant I didn’t need to pass a test when I reached my two-year milestone.

A friend suggested that driving lessons might persuade my wife. Considering my age and increasing cognitive impairments, it seemed like a reasonable idea. Besides six hours of practice in the car, I also completed a daylong virtual defensive driving class.

It worked. My wife, who doesn’t share my faith, had never failed to drive me to worship and pick me up two hours later, sacrificing an hour of her rest time purely for my satisfaction. The night I passed the class, she asked, “Think you can drive yourself to church Sunday?”

I wasn’t going to refuse—like a kid in a candy store! It’s a 4-mile suburban trek, mostly on a 4-lane street. First, I wanted to get a feel for the car. On Saturday evening, when traffic was light, I took it out. I started around our quiet neighborhood before venturing onto the nearby highway. I was ready.

When I entered the church, I told the pastor what I had just accomplished. She asked if she could announce it to the congregation, “because we’ve always been praying for your epilepsy.” I agreed and was smothered with hugs and handshakes afterward.

Atlanta is infamous for its terrible driving conditions, so it’ll be a long time before I take longer trips across the city. However, running errands nearby feels liberating. It’s a loving gift from my wife, first for chauffeuring me all those years, and now for her patience and confidence in letting me drive. Autonomous cars truly are a godsend for those of us with invisible disabilities.