“Is there a reason you felt we needed to accomplish everything on our first day here?” I implore Jason as we pull into the Department of Motor Vehicles. “We’ve already been to two banks in Seattle and the title company in Renton. I’m exhausted.”
“We had to sign the house papers today, and tomorrow is Saturday. Things will probably be closed, so we need to get it all out of the way now,” Jason curtly replies. He is wound so tight his words are strained as he tries to keep his voice even. “After I start work Monday, I won’t have time to drive around and open bank accounts or get our licenses.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere else after this, right? My brain has already turned to mush, and my body isn’t far behind.” Rubbing my temples, I attempt the pointless gesture to try to thwart my inevitable headache. At this point, my multiple sclerosis (MS) has slowly begun wreaking havoc and weakening me from the top down.
“I promise this is the last place,” Jason says. Turning towards me, the tension drains from his face and is replaced with concern, “I’m sorry, sweetie. Are you going to be okay? I know the move has been a whirlwind, but now you can sleep until the movers get here next week. Promise.”
Whirlwind, you don’t say?
July: job offer. August: weekend visit to find a house. September: move across the country from Kentucky to Seattle. For that stress and craziness, I need and deserve at least a month of uninterrupted sleep.
Nevertheless, I give Jason’s hand a tight squeeze, hoping to hearten him and embolden me. I ought to be able to do this one last errand before I completely cash out. There’s a reason Jason calls me ‘Super Nicky.’ Taking a deep breath, I pull up every ounce of energy from deep in my core, clear my pulp-filled head as best I can, and reach for the door handle.
Since I’m moving at sloth speed, Jason is already there waiting to clutch my hands and steady me as I swing my stronger right leg out. The weak half-noodle left leg is next. I have to do some begging, pleading, and bargaining to get my legs to agree to the task—you can be horizontal and weightless for days, if you do this one last thing.
Pl-ea-se.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take your wheelchair?” Jason asks with worry set deep in his eyes. “We don’t know how far it is, and you’ve already had a long day.”
He knows my answer as soon as I look at him, but I humor him with a reply anyway, “This is one place I definitely need to be walking into. I don’t want the added attention a wheelchair brings.”
Locking arms, we begin the slow walk across the parking lot to the office’s entry. Concentrating on every step, I try to push aside my fatigue and bring life back into my tired limbs. Forcing myself to stand a little straighter when I’m tired is akin to trying to straighten a car dealership’s dancing puppet, but I grit my teeth and do my best. I focus on the task in front of me and know I can do it. Besides, transferring my license should be quick and easy: give them my information from Kentucky, get my picture taken. No big deal.
When Jason pulls open the glass door, I enter an expansive waiting room with rows of chairs facing a group of cubicles. Glancing around, it’s painfully apparent I will have to cross the wide, open space to reach the box-offices. Sitting me down, he goes to sign us in while I strategize. I need to become Triple A for a moment and plot the shortest route from point A to point B. Large, open spaces with nothing to catch myself with or to touch for extra balance were unforgiving. Due to my decrease in steadiness increasing my chance of falling, distance directly correlates to my discomfort level when walking in front of people. The least amount of time on exhibition is preferable.
When our name is finally called, I reach for Jason’s arm and shakily get to my feet. Embarking the treacherous walk across the exposed landscape to the representative’s desk, I struggle to lift my cement-block-weighted feet. On full display for all to see, I feel like the sideshow at a circus—the entertainment provided to relieve the waiting customer’s boredom. Self-consciousness takes hold and beads of sweat start to form on the back of my neck. Directions begin running through my head: Don’t let anyone see how hard you’re gripping his forearm for support. Walk slowly. Put one foot in front of the other. Be sure to pick your feet. Keep your head up, look natural, and keep talking.
“I hope we don’t have to take a driving test.” I jokingly comment to Jason as I sit down. He laughs stiffly, knowing the seriousness and full implications of my jest. Although I haven’t driven in seven years, I find comfort in the delusion that, if absolutely necessary, I will still be able to. I keep my keys in my purse and license in my wallet, just in case.
The woman behind the desk, Rhonda, simply smiles and assures me there is no driving component, merely a straightforward vision test. My mouth runs dry as one hurdle is replaced with another—albeit shorter—one. There is no such thing as a ‘straightforward vision test’ in my world. That’s the one exam I have a history of failing, and unlike calculus, I can’t study to improve my score. Eyes, you have one job. Please don’t fail me now.
Fixing a false grin on my face, I tentatively hand over my precious Kentucky driver’s license. We commence mindless chit-chat as Rhonda starts entering our information. Jason is the first one to peer into the white, adult viewfinder. He has no problems rattling off the glowing line, “E, D, F, C, Z, P.”
That doesn’t seem so bad. I only have to read one line, six measly letters. Even I should be able to stumble through that. Taking my turn in the hot seat, I press my head against the machine, stare into the light, and see… a whole lot of bright nothing. Fatigue affects my eyes harder, but this is extreme. Sitting back, I rub my eyelids, hoping and pleading for my tired eyeballs to wake up. This takes the phrase ‘falling asleep on the job’ to a new level when it’s your eyeballs that decide to snooze. I try again and—as if I am looking at a cop’s bright headlights in my rearview—my heart stops. The light still illuminates nothing.
This can’t be happening. Not now. My psyche starts cracking and panic creeps in. Why can’t I make out even one letter? This is too important to fail. Why didn’t I just memorize Jason’s answers? I accidently do that at the eye doctor’s office all the time, why didn’t I think to do it here? Overcome with the thought of losing my license and my last connection to self-reliance, my heart starts pounding through my chest. Fright clouding my eyes, I look at Jason and distraughtly whisper, “I don’t see anything.”
“Nothing? Not even dots?”
Frantically, I shake my head, “I know I’m tired, but my eyes don’t want to work at all. This has never happened.”
My right hand is tapping the counter while my heel is punching a hole in the floor. Jason puts his hand on my shoulder to steady and still me while he explains the situation to Rhonda. When she offers to enlarge it, I perk up. Do I really get another chance? I try to calm myself by puffing out my cheeks and releasing a slow, controlled breath. Crossing my fingers under the table, I make a second attempt.
My chest tightens and my breathing becomes labored when I barely see six tiny black fly specks. She may have made the image bigger, but it merely looks like the lens got dirtier to me. Squinting, I try to make just one dot transform into a letter, but no such luck. I am once again the blindfolded kid who got an extra swing at the piñata, but misses for a second time.
“Does that help at all, hun?” Rhonda asks with a hopeful smile on her face.
Misery sinks in as I slump back from the machine. The defeat, anguish, and despair written on my face must answer her question because Rhonda suggests we test my reflexes and reaction times instead. Wiping the previous outcomes from my mine, I choose to stay on this emotional rollercoaster and feel my mood start to perk up. My reflexes are pretty good I think—at least they are when the doctor hits me with that little hammer thingy.
My elation is tinged with the realization that I must be a really sad, pathetic case if she’s willing to give me yet another chance. Was I leaning too much on Jason when we came in? Hmmm, I wonder if she saw my foot dragging a bit. Regardless, she’s still nice enough to let me have a third chance, so I definitely need to take advantage of it. Desperate to hold on to this one sliver of my past, I once again bargain with my legs to wake up. I’ve been begging my body to work all day—as if it’s an old beater car that I’m trying to start when I’m late—and thus far, I’ve been ignored.
In trepidation of the upcoming evaluation, my intestines tie in knots and my stomach gradually moves north as Rhonda, Jason, and I walk out to the rental car. It brings up memories of walking to my college finals, but this is so much more intense. Why do I feel more nervous now? I knew what to expect with those tests, so I was definitely better prepared, but I truly think I care about this more. There is not a redo in this situation—no next semester. This is a hard finale.
“Nicky, climb into the driver’s seat, start the car, and get comfortable. I’m going to evaluate some things while we sit in the lot,” Rhonda instructs when we reach the Nissan Sentra. “Now, when I say ‘GO’, I want you to press on the gas pedal as if you were driving. When I say ‘STOP’, switch to the brake as quick as you can. Okay?”
Rhonda’s test doesn’t sound hard at all, “Yeah. I can do that,” I answer optimistically. Sliding in behind the wheel, I take a moment to let the feeling of the seat sink in. It is like slipping on a favorite sweater: familiar, comfortable, and seeped in good memories. Regardless of the vehicle, a simple driver’s seat can bring to mind many an escapade of my youth. I start the engine and wave at Jason who’s on the sidewalk, giving me a thumbs-up. I got this.
“Ready… Go.”
I push on the gas.
“Stop.”
I switch to the brake.
“Alright, let’s try that a few more times. Get ready…Go.” I again punch the gas pedal towards the floor as hard as I can. “Stop.” I slam on the brake.
Rhonda pauses to scribble something on her clipboard, but I think she just wants to give me a rest.
Like I need it. I feel like I never took a break from driving.
“One more time, ready… Go.” For the last time, I rev the car’s engine. “Stop.” My foot moves to the brake pedal.
Thinking I did pretty well, I don’t give it much heed when she heads back inside without saying a word. I know my reaction times weren’t the fastest, but I’m sure they are passable. My mood starts to brighten, resulting in a beaming smile as Jason walks up to the driver’s door to help me.
“That was pretty good, wasn’t it?” I crow. “I knew…” My voice falters and my light dims as soon as I see his face. His brown eyes are filled with a muddle of sadness and regret as he looks at me and slowly shakes his head. We start to retrace our steps across the parking lot, and my brain spins with confusion, “But my foot was moving so fast. I know I did okay.”
Squeezing me tighter as we walk, Jason kisses me on the cheek, “It may have felt fast, but it actually wasn’t. That’s okay, though. You don’t use your license, so you don’t need it anyway.”
I know he is trying to be nice and supportive, but it is apparent he has no clue the significance of that little two-by-four-inch piece of plastic. A ticket to open roads and freedom since I was fourteen, my license has always been directly connected to my independence. In my small rural hometown, little splurges—restaurants, movie theaters, new faces—were at least twenty miles away, so driving was a necessity. That coveted piece of plastic affirmed my ability and bestowed on me the privilege of leaving and exploring outside the confines of the city limits. Countless miles on asphalt made the open highway my dear friend and confidante. I’ve shared more of my secrets, heartbreaks, and tears with the roads across the country than my best slumber party girlfriends.
My license is also the last corner of a security blanket I’ve been holding onto from my ‘normal’, pre-MS life. Piece by piece, each square of this quilt has been slowly ripped from my life like a tooth from a mouth with no Novocain. Now all the sections have been officially ripped away and dissolved leaving my broken body bare and exposed. Failure mixes with embarrassment and just a dash of defeat to form a nauseating cocktail in my stomach. The more it churns, the more I lean against Jason’s shoulder. By the time we reach Rhonda’s desk, I am greatly relying on Jason’s assistance.
My body is overcome with fatigue, my brain is muddy with emotions, and my vision is bleary due to unshed droplets. Avoiding all eye contact, she does not mention my mighty strike-out and proceeds to finish Jason’s license. While he is getting his picture taken, I sit and do my best not to crumble. Mortifying myself while simultaneously humbling and then crushing my confidence has pushed me precariously close to the edge. Nonetheless, holding it together in public is crucial. This is humiliating and demoralizing enough all on its own and crying will increase those feelings exponentially. Besides, no one will understand this loss and pain.
When she finally addresses my five-ton elephant, Rhonda turns to me with a disappointed look on her face and what I’m positive is an accusation in her eyes—why did you waste my time if you knew all along you were going to fail? I can feel her judgement as she appraises me. The knife in my chest digs a little deeper. It almost causes the flood to break the dam–however, my new spark of anger will not allow that to happen. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me broken.
Assuming that I haven’t figured it out yet, she informs me, “After multiple tries, you still didn’t meet the necessary requirements for a Washington license. I’m only able to give you an identification card. I guess you can come back and try again if you want, but you will have to reapply. You can’t skate by with your Kentucky one again.”
Save it, Lady. I really don’t want or need to hear your condescending memorized script right now. I’m a thirty-seven year old woman—not a pimply teenager. And you know I can reapply so why would even say that? Just take my picture so I can leave.
Jason helps me stand in front of the blue background. He has to lean out of the picture while still holding my waist because I’m unable to balance on my own at this point.
“Hold still. Try to stop shaking. One… two… three,” I hear Rhonda count. Finally, now I’m done and get away from this petty witch before I scream. I want to go mourn in peace. Fatigue is overpowering my temporary block and now tears of anger and loss are starting to pool together around my bottom eyelashes again, about to run over.
“We need to take that again. And try smiling this time.”
Is it that hard to take a picture? I just know she’s doing this on purpose for payback. She can clearly see I’m barely standing and holding it together, so she wants to extend this as long as possible. I’m not able to hide my heartache at this point. While I struggle to smile on the outside, my inside world is in turmoil. This is a grin you try to give at the funeral when everyone keeps asking, “How are you doing?”
“One… two… three,” Rhonda counts again.
She’d better be happy with this one, because I’m not doing another.
After paying our fee, I stagger to the door with Jason’s help. I don’t care who might be watching at this point—I lost my dignity twenty minutes ago. Walking into this building, I held my head high as if I was entering my boss’s office to discuss a raise. Leaving, I have my tail between my legs and my pink slip.
We barely reach the car when the waterworks start. I can’t hold my anguish in any longer. A piece of me, of my history, has been pulled out and is officially gone for good. So what if I didn’t use my driver’s license? Simply knowing it was in my wallet allowed me to keep that chapter alive, gave me the comfort of my delusion, and let me believe MS hadn’t totally upended my life. Now it and the history of my independence are gone. That chapter was unceremoniously closed, and now the chapter of dependence starts.
Author: Katie Yusuf
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