"Driving Denny"

During our forty-nine years of marriage, Denny was rarely a passenger in our car. Wherever we went, he drove, and I rode along. It was that simple. No questions asked. A mutual assumption had been made by both of us so long ago that I had forgotten the reason. But this driving arrangement was about to change forever.

Denny’s fast-growing cancer required such aggressive treatments that he was often too ill to drive. That’s when I became his official chauffeur—and when I remembered the reason I never drove when he was the passenger. He was the king of back-seat drivers.

Though ill and weak, he found the strength to become my personal driver’s education instructor. Many of his tips were helpful, but most of his comments were criticisms. His “instruction” never ended. Once I actually counted fourteen comments about my driving during one round trip to Kaiser Hospital. Lots of trips to Kaiser, lots of “helpful” tips, lots of stress headaches.

I protested—“Enough already!”—and put him on a ration of five criticisms per round-trip. My darling Denny tried, but it wasn't easy for him to keep his mouth shut. Out of the corner of my eye, I would notice his hand fly up to issue directions, but he'd catch himself and pretend to adjust his cap or scratch his head. He might start to use a cautionary tone, but instead substitute a fake little cough or pretend that he had forgotten whatever he was going to say. And so it went until he eventually returned to full-time monitoring of every mile I drove.

I tried the honest, up-front approach. “Honey, when I drive alone I have a lot of confidence, but when you're in the car I have none at all. My driving is growing worse. I'm anxious when you're my p-p-passenger [I started to cry right about here], and I dread these trips more than I can possibly tell you.” The tears I shed were really big, and Denny felt terrible.

He felt so bad that he began to compliment my driving. He praised my ability to stay in the middle of my own lane, my parking skills, my confidence as I passed slow cars, and my overall driving improvement. It was like being patted on the head or patronized, so I never quite got out of my angry mode. I prayed a lot: “God, help Denny get off my back, or help me ignore him while I'm driving. I don't want to spend our precious time together being mad.” We were in the car a lot, so I prayed a lot!

Denny got sicker as his cancer spread, but he still had a mission concerning my driving. He managed to sneak in a comment—or two, or three, or more—on every trip to the hospital, and I finally grew accustomed to it after almost ten months of treatment. Perhaps God had whispered to me, “Betty, get used to it. He doesn't have much time left.”

Indeed, he didn't. Aggressive treatment was hurting him more than helping and it had to be discontinued. He was glad to be free of it, but he was visibly thinner, weaker, and more frail than ever before. During his last week of life, our family surrounded Denny, and someone was always at his side. When he grew too weak to speak, he would smile and make a kiss with his lips or pat someone's arm. He died gently, as we laid our hands on him and cried. We were grateful that his struggle was over, but we were also numb with grief and exhaustion.

The two weeks following Denny's death are a blur. It was a montage of paper signing, arrangements for private and public services, phone calls, out-of-state relatives, food appearing from nowhere, tears, hugging, and shared memories.

Once things finally settled down, the relatives were gone and so was the food. Thank-you notes were written. Wonderful, supportive letters arrived each day filled with memories of Denny, and it felt good to cry. But it was quiet and lonely. I had so many things to do, but I couldn't decide what to do first, so I did nothing.

One morning I received a call from the memorial park. “Mrs. Auchard, we have your husband's cremains ready for you.” The container was small and wrapped neatly in brown paper. It was presented to me in a dark green, velour drawstring bag. I hugged it to my chest, then set it in the seat beside me—the passenger seat. I patted it gently and even considered protecting it with a seat belt.

Something occurred to me as I drove this container home. This was probably the only time in our forty-nine years of life together that Denny was my passenger and wouldn't be saying a word about my driving. I caressed the velour bag again and wiped away my tears so I could see where I was going—'cuz you gotta stay alert when you're driving Denny.