_{Caregiver Wisdom}

It was five years ago when Gail called and said she couldn’t find the Ford dealership. We’d been there dozens of times. I asked where she was. “I don’t really know,” she said, her voice soft, unsure. I gave her directions, and she made it just fine—but that was the first inkling something was changing.

Later she told me, “I know how to get someplace, but I can’t remember how to do it. When I do it, it just happens.” That day, it just didn’t happen right.

For a long while after that, she still drove. It was early—pre-diagnosis. I wanted to believe it was a one-off moment, not the start of a pattern. But when dementia enters your life, patterns become stories, and stories become warnings you wish you’d heard sooner.

Where we live now, there’s a two-car garage—my F-150 and a golf cart. Her car sits outside. I’ve always been the main driver. Still, the car was a symbol, not just a machine. It meant freedom. Control. Normalcy.

One afternoon about a year and a half ago, we argued—about what, I can’t remember. I went to feed the chickens. She got in her car and drove off. Her phone was still on the kitchen counter. I tracked her purse tag, spotty in the mountains, and watched that little dot veer onto the wrong ridge. My heart nearly stopped. She made it home fine, but I didn’t. That kind of fear lingers.

Since then, I’ve made it inconvenient for her to drive. The keys live in a lockbox. The car’s parked down the hill. We use my truck instead. It’s not about control; it’s about keeping peace between safety and pride.

Then, about six months ago, the message arrived again—this time in the vineyard. We were riding the golf cart between rows of vines. I hopped out to tie a few tendrils, and Gail, sitting in the passenger seat, accidentally pressed the accelerator. The cart lurched forward. She panicked, pushed harder, and we met a small fruit tree head-on. No harm done—except to the tree and my nerves.

I didn’t scold her. I just said softly, “Honey, that’s why I worry about your reaction time.” She nodded. Logic doesn’t always land, but sometimes truth does.

Here’s what I tell other caregivers now: if you’re unsure, don’t guess. Get a third-party driving test. Let a doctor or insurer order it so the decision doesn’t rest entirely on you. If they say it’s unsafe, the liability—and the guilt—don’t sit squarely on your shoulders.

Every situation is different. Some spouses take the keys. Others, like me, make it gently inconvenient. What matters isn’t the car—it’s the dignity left in the process of letting go.

Takeaway:
When independence starts to slip away, love isn’t taking the keys—it’s staying in the passenger seat, guiding them home safely one more time.

—Gregg

If this resonates, share it with another caregiver. And if you would like a companion that listens and remembers, visit Atenda.Care.

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