[Part 2 of a 3-Part Series called “My Dad, Me, and Honda Brakes”]
Yesterday I talked about baseball as a tie that binds people in a positive way. This blog is about the opposite: a tie that strangles—the parent-grown child relationship.
In Part 1 I started a story about staying at my elderly Dad’s house and borrowing his car with worn-out brakes. Here’s the continuation…
I don’t sleep well at my Dad’s house—due to the usual: different mattress, pillows, no hubby (can’t pay him to go with me!), a motion-detection light that shines into the guest bedroom whenever a critter walks across the lawn (and they do throughout the night).
But mainly I know I don’t really want to be there and the stress (and resulting teeth-clenching) gives me a low-grade headache that fades in and out. Also this time, my hot flashes—which had subsided dramatically since taking porcine hypothalamus tissue capsules (they work – seriously!) returned with a vengeance. I was flashing on the hour like one of those warning lights at a railroad crossing.
Throw in the lack of eatable food and this is a recipe for crankiness.
(Kinda funny side story: I had to go to the store to buy groceries [if I wanted to eat] and spent so much money at Gelson’s—a fancy expensive market—that the DiscoverCard people called my hubby to question the validity of the purchase. Who spends that much money at a grocery store? They wanted to know. My hubby told them, “They sell $1200 crystal wine glasses next to the bananas.”)
Back to the brakes…
The first day I drove my Dad’s car the brakes squealed, jingled, and lurched. I smelled burning rubber when I braked. I told my Dad his brakes were shot. He said he knew that and had gotten a quote from a mechanic for $160 per brake. He thought that was too much, so he didn’t get the brakes fixed.
He said my brother could fix his brakes for a lot less money. My brother can do a lot of things, but car mechanic is not one of them. He can’t hang a towel rack correctly. He can’t replace a light switch. He can’t adjust a drawer onto its rollers (just off the top of me head…).
And this is the guy you want replacing your BRAKES? ARE YOU NUTS? (No, just old…)
I reminded my Dad about my brother’s lack of handyman skills. He said the brakes were easy to replace. Easier than a towel rack?
My Dad doesn’t want to spend ANY money. During my weekly Sunday phone calls me complains non-stop: “I’m broke.” “I’ve lived too long.” “I’m running out of money.”
Nice try. Not true. I do his taxes. (I guess he forgot.)
The next day I was gone all day at a women’s conference. When I got home that night I again told my Dad that the car was a deathtrap and the brakes needed to be replaced ASAP. I told him he should not take a risk driving his car as he could kill himself.
My Dad pooh-poohed me (only not so benignly). He said the brakes weren’t that bad and that I didn’t know how to brake properly. Huh? I yelled at him (because he’s hard of hearing): “All you do is put your foot on the brake pad and push. I know how to brake!”
Note on my Dad’s driving: My brother thinks he drives OK. I think he is so-so as I’ve been in the car with him during close calls because he tailgates and has to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front. My Aunt Shirley won’t ride in the car with him as the driver.
I knew if I didn’t get the brakes fixed before I left they would not get fixed right away. I slept even worse that night than usual because I thought of all kinds of horrible scenarios of my Dad behind the wheel of his Honda with bad brakes.
I imagined him running over someone’s dog—or a bicyclist who swerves into his lane—or a motorcyclist because they’re hard to see (and my Dad changes lanes without looking).
But what really terrified me was the thought of him hitting a little kid who may have accidentally run into the street.
I could not live with myself if my Dad got in an accident—hurting himself or others or worse yet, killing himself or others. My conscience couldn’t handle it.
In the morning I made an executive decision: take the car to a mechanic myself—without telling my Dad. I thought this was a smart idea. A maybe save-your-life idea. The right thing to do. I was making Orange County roads safer to drive.
My Dad later disagreed with every fiber in his worn out cardigan. It was an ugly scene.
To be continued in Part 3…
In case you missed it, here’s Part 1:
http://fuchsiawoman.com/blog/relate/father-daughter-bad-relationship-story/
