Old Ladies With Old Cars Have the Good AAA

We have a 2010 Honda minivan (ramped) and a 2013 GMC van (with a lift). We keep an aggressive preventative maintenance schedule. We have an emotional support mechanic who does home visits for concerns about any new clunks, squeals, or stutters. (Our dear friend Lee who is also our actual mechanic.) Between him and Pam all fluid levels and tire pressures are checked before each trip.

What this used to mean was that our vehicles never conked out on the side of the road. Ever. But in the last four months both have had scary freeway breakdowns—the Honda's alternator failed and the GMC had a flat tire, both on the game of Russian Roulette that is I-75. A wheelchair-using friend had borrowed our mini-van to have a driver pick her and her young son up at an airport. When the alternator failed, her driver didn't have a AAA card on her. But the AAA guy towed the driver and the mini-van back to our mechanic anyway.

The next breakdown consisted of me maneuvering the GMC across lanes to the shoulder of the freeway in the dark after a sudden blowout of one of those massive tires. What with the weight of a full-sized van loaded down with lift hydraulics, four passengers, and a couple of wheelchairs, the GMC was too heavy for any jack. The AAA person turned his tow truck around on the narrow verge to lift the van with his big hook just enough to remove the tire.  And he assured Pam that if needed, he would tow the van with both of us wheelchair-using passengers able to stay put. Which I am sure is against all sorts of rules. A whole other essay is the overlap between some middle class, like me, disabled people and some working class people—we figure how make things happen however we can with a fuck you to pesky laws and regulations. But a tow wasn't needed.

After the repairs, I was left with guilt and anxiety. (Another whole other essay is about the increased anxiety part of aging. Friends who are in their eighties, who've been emotionally rock solid their whole lives, speak of this change.) I played a reel of images of what might have happened, all the terrible what ifs. What had I done wrong? Where had I been remiss? What signs had I ignored? How could I have prevented this? I questioned my emotional support mechanic. He said the warnings of an alternator failure are subtle at best. And the tire was not old. The tread was intact. There were no signs of dry rot. It just blew.

A few weeks before the breakdowns, I'd injured my arm. I think it was from hammering a big nail into a thick ramp post to hang a pot holder. After walking with crutches for thirty-five years, then pushing a manual wheelchair for a few more, and for the thirty years since putting the whole of my body weight on one arm and twisting many times a day, small injuries are routine. Even the dreaded rotator cuff injury has healed for the most part. Still, each time, they terrify me. Will this be the one where my arm "goes bad?" But ice packs, anti-inflammatories, rest, adapting my approach to transfers and daily chores, and sometimes physical therapy has worked. My arm always hurts but since the hammering injury it hurts more and includes spikes of pain that make me yelp.

I've done the maintenance I always do in these cases, and I upped my pain pill intake to almost every other day. I decide I need to escalate to a physical therapy referral, but also decide to wait until my scheduled routine doctor's appointment. I don't want to be an alarmist.

The doctor asks me if the pain pill is helpful. I say yes. At the least because it gives me a good night's sleep which helps me deal with pain better. She asks if I take it every night like prescribed. I say no, I just take it a few times a week. That's sort of a lie, but I don't want to admit I take it as often as I do. She asks why, since it helps. I say it seems like too much. I say that I can hear the bad logic of what I'm saying. I know I'm being so polio. But I don't want to get to the point where I have to take a larger dose to have the same effect. I say I don't want to become addicted. She points out that it's not a narcotic. I go away with a PT referral for a month later.

At home I think more about my "bad logic." Some of us old polios, including me, have a core belief that it's wrong to get help, pharmacological or otherwise, even if it's effective. But the logic of this isn't in error. We grew up with childhood hospitalizations and medical interventions that were painful, never explained, and perhaps unsafe. Family was allowed to visit for a half hour. Which meant I was in a military hospital with a large percentage of male staff and left unguarded for twenty-three and a half hours a day. And asking for help can mean the institution or the person being asked, even if it's a loved one, uses it as a way to take control of my life. Today, the form I filled out for my upcoming PT appointment asked who my primary caretaker was. Being my own damn primary caretaker was not one of choices listed.

Now that I'm an old woman, having my autonomy wrested from me becomes more likely. So it is not bad logic to be careful to the point of lying about physical or mental situations. But I'm done with blaming myself. Or I'm done with it the best I am able. Aggressive maintenance got me here, but at seventy-two it no longer prevents all break downs. That can no longer be a goal or an expectation.

Two days ago I drove the Honda home from a writing retreat. The red check engine light came on. All the gauges were normal. I couldn't smell anything burning. The brakes didn't pull to one side. I had another hour to drive. I turned off the radio, the headlights, and the air conditioning. The anxiety that blurred my thinking was dangerous, so I began to praise the car for each small Florida town it drove through—Otter Creek, Bronson, Archer—as well as for passing the brown signs that indicated communities that no long exist either from economic downturns or the massacre of black people by white mobs—Ellzey and Rosewood. Once I was almost home, I congratulated the car each time it didn't die at a red light or lose control on a turn. I backed the car into our driveway. I put it in park.

As I dropped my head down onto the steering wheel, the car turned itself off. It was done. The AAA guy said it was the alternator. Then the tow truck AAA guy arrived and took the car to Lee's shop. Lee said it was a "bad" alternator. It had failed after just four hundred miles. He said we couldn't have known. So it wasn't his fault. It wasn't my fault. I wish I could say that even if it had been my fault that would have been okay. I wish everything I said before about no longer blaming myself were true. But I am practicing retorts in case the physical therapist even hints that being careless, fat, old, or lazy is part of the problem. And I'm renewing our AAA to the two hundred mile free towing level.

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