First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Christine Wei
After 52 years of driving with no at-fault accidents, I backed out of a driveway into the path of another car. No one was hurt but both cars were badly dented and mine deemed unsafe to drive (and later, a writeoff). Three tow trucks were on the scene within seconds, beating the police by several minutes. I told the police I had simply not seen the other car and apologized to the other driver before walking home a bit dazed and in disbelief, grateful no one was injured.
I replayed the accident in my head many times during the ensuing weeks as I paid the ticket, dealt with insurance and purchased another vehicle. Three months later, I received a letter from the Ministry of Transportation directing me to report for a vision test, to rewrite the driver’s test and to pass a road test. My vision was deemed satisfactory, and I had no errors on the written exam so I booked the road test a few days later. I failed!
The examiner stated I did not look around enough nor check blind spots adequately. My licence was downgraded to a G1 learner’s permit limiting me to driving only with a fully licensed adult in the car. I had to call a friend who took a cab to the test centre and sat beside me as I drove home, again, a bit dazed and in disbelief. I considered myself a good, if not exemplary driver; perhaps this belief was the most important blind spot to be addressed.
Despite the snow and sleet during the road test, I accepted 100-per-cent responsibility for the result. I had failed rarely in my life, clearing hurdles to enter university, medical school and residency training, each step requiring multiple exams and rigorous certifications. But doubts about myself after failing the road test arrived as quickly as the tow trucks three months earlier; had I transitioned from skilled professional to an unaware, incompetent old man? I felt a bewildering mixture of shame, embarrassment and humiliation.
First Person: There’s a good reason why I’m driving slower than you
I shared my test result with only a few people, all of whom expressed surprise and offered to escort me on practice drives. I took the bus. I downloaded a ride-service app. I booked a series of driving lessons. At the start of the first lesson, as I pulled onto my quiet empty street, the instructor pointed out that I had not signalled; my education about blind spots, literal and figurative, had begun.
During practice drives, my “escorts” shared fearfully that they’d likely fail if retested. A young ride-service driver with whom I shared my story suggested the road test is an acting performance, and that one must check blind spots in an exaggerated fashion. (The examiner had also told me to do so at the start of the test). The driver also recommended YouTube videos on how to pass (or fail) the road test; I found these helpful and a bit intimidating.
Halfway through my second driving lesson, the instructor had me stop the car and said the most important thing I must do was RELAX; the unfamiliar role of failing student had me frazzled, anxiously running through lists in my head as I negotiated each lane change or turn. Despite years of meditation and mindfulness training, I realized that during my five decades of driving, I had often been mentally elsewhere – driving as an automaton.
First Person: The delicate dance of a four way stop says so much about people – and our world now
I decided to do a personal reset, envisioning myself as a calm, competent adult behind the wheel rather than a nervous failing student. I had learned to make this shift early in my 30-year career as a surgeon, especially in life and death crises. Dealing with a severely ill or injured patient in the operating room working to stop major bleeding from a tumour or aneurysm, I’d envision myself a slight distance from the actual events, creating a quiet buffer zone in which I’d speak calmly and move slowly and intentionally. An unspoken self-affirmation of my skills would support my functioning with ease, clarity and confidence.
In training I had worked with surgeons who seemed to have this same power, a superpower because it is contagious and radiates a sense of calm reassurance to all present. I’d also witnessed the opposite, anxious doctors barking angry commands, which only added to the difficulty of the situation. What a superb gift to give oneself, to be fully present, here and now, like a master surveying his domain or a cat on a perch, confident, calm, ready to act.
Having retired at age 62 owing to a health issue that affected my hands, I had not faced medical crises for almost a decade, other than as a witness to such events in others’ lives; my role then was to support them. However, I summoned this reset shift, to full presence and calm awareness and applied it to the mundane (but potentially lethal) task of driving. I passed the test easily after my four-week holiday from solo driving.
The following day, I drove with a calm gratitude, intensely aware of all around me, and very grateful to have rediscovered my superpower.
Roderick Syme, MD, lives in Ottawa.
