MY GRANDMOTHER IS visibly upset. Her arms crossed, she laments that she can no longer drive her car. “You all took it off me,” she crows to assembled family. Her licence, she means.
At 82, she’s still a spring chicken in some circles, but the python that is dementia has found a spot inside her head, and coils more tightly around what was once her with each passing day. She can barely make a cup of tea, let alone safely drive a car. Even though she wants to.
It was in early adulthood I gained a sense, a bit too vividly, how responsible it is to take driver’s licences off those too infirm, or who’ve reached too advanced an age. Almost 15 years ago to the day, I was sat in…
