FAST CAR is a Song About Caregiving

Driving home in a snowstorm today, the song Fast Car came on the radio. I can sing every word because I've loved it since Tracy Chapman first released it in 1988. But maybe I had never listened carefully to the words before. This is a song about craving escape from a prison of caregiving and poverty. It's also about feeling helpless and invisible. And yet there is hope in the words, too. 

You got a fast car
And I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere

Any place is better
Starting from zero, got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
Me, myself, I got nothing to prove

You got a fast car
And I got a plan to get us out of here
Been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money

Won't have to drive too far
Just across the border and into the city
And you and I can both get jobs
Finally see what it means to be living

See, my old man's got a problem
He lived with the bottle, that's the way it is
Said his body's too old for working
His body's too young to look like his

So, Mama went off and left him
She wanted more from life than he could give
I said, "Somebody's got to take care of him"
So, I quit school and that's what I did

You got a fast car
Is it fast enough so we could fly away?
Still gotta make a decision
Leave tonight, or live and die this way

So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk
City lights laid out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder
And I, I had a feeling that I belonged
I, I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car
We go cruising, entertain ourselves
You still ain't got a job
So I work in the market as a checkout girl

I know things will get better
You'll find work and I'll get promoted
And we'll move out of the shelter
Buy a bigger house, live in the suburbs

So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder
And I, I had a feeling that I belonged
I, I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car
I got a job that pays all our bills
You stay out drinking late at the bar
See more of your friends than you do of your kids

I'd always hoped for better
Thought maybe together you and me'd find it
I got no plans, I ain't going nowhere
Take your fast car and keep on driving

So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder
And I, I had a feeling that I belonged
I, I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car
Is it fast enough, so we could fly away?
You still gotta make a decision
Leave tonight, or live and die this way

Here is the original music video from 1988. It's a song that surely speaks to the hearts of caregivers, young and old, including those who decided to stay and those who chose to leave. 

THE MILLSTONE OF HAPPINESS

 

Yesterday, I was driving to visit Nicholas, listening to the radio as I always do in the car. On air was an episode of Krista Tippet's podcast ON BEING. Krista was interviewing an author about the idea of joy and how it differs from happiness. "The millstone of happiness" is a turn of phrase that stayed with me. 

We are told that happiness is a birthright, that it is a constant state of being that we should aspire to, regardless of the circumstances of our lives. If we are not happy, we are lacking. This idea of happiness is hollow, inauthentic and ultimately unsatisfying not to mention unachievable. It is a millstone dragging us down. For caregivers, chasing happiness is a zero sum game.

Think instead about joy. Joy is fleeting, it can be experienced amid (or even as the result of) suffering. Joy is authentic and it does not deny the full range of human experience. Joy is a tougher sell because it is complicated, but it is potent and more related to a kind of ecstasy. 

It struck me that joy is related to hope, but happiness is not. Happiness in today's world seems closer to hopelessness. We caregivers know this. 

Hope

“Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of hope — not the prudent gates of Optimism, which are somewhat narrower; nor the stalwart, boring gates of Common Sense; nor the strident gates of self-righteousness, which creak on shrill and angry hinges; nor the cheerful, flimsy garden gate of “Everything is gonna be all right,” but a very different, sometimes very lonely place, the place of truth-telling, about your own soul first of all and its condition, the place of resistance and defiance, the piece of ground from which you see the world both as it is and as it could be, as it might be, as it will be; the place from which you glimpse not only struggle, but joy in the struggle — and we stand there, beckoning and calling, telling people what we are seeing, asking people what they see.”

– Victoria Safford

Then and Now, Remembering When Nick Was Small

Last week I had the pleasure of speaking to parents at the Holland Bloorview Kids' Rehabilitation Hospital in Toronto. The building is new with a welcoming, light and homey feel to it - certainly very different from the old Hugh MacMillan Rehab Centre that used to stand in its place. Nicholas and I went to Toronto when he was three and four years old. There, we had his first psychology assessment, seating clinics (we received his first wheelchair) and inpatient stays for gastro consultations that came through Sick Kids' Hospital. I walked in to the new centre and was met immediately by a delighted squeal of recognition - it was the doyenne of all community connectors, Louise Kinross, chief of communications for the hospital and editor of "Bloom", a parent magazine about all things disability. Louise and I had been emailing each other for months and we felt like fast friends, but we'd never met in person. We hugged and began to tour me around the facility. My eyes fell upon a bench, placed in front of a window to allow parents to view their children having aqua therapy in the pool below. All the parents were leaning forward, pointing and chatting quietly. I listened for a moment as they compared challenges and triumphs. I was flooded with memories.

It's been a while since we did therapy with Nicholas. We haven't given up hope for change in his abilities, but we accept who he is and we no longer feel the urgency of that desperate love of parents for their young children - children who hold so much potential for improvement. We are in the middle age of our parenting. But seeing the other families and hearing their stories at my talk, I wondered whether we should be more hopeful for change in Nicholas. I looked at the weary faces of parents, young and old and I thought about our life. There, at Holland Bloorview, there was so much help - so much hope for change. Had I given up on all that?

The morning that I packed and prepared for my drive back to Ottawa, Louise met me and said, "Before you go, I want you to meet Dr. Tom Chau. He's the Director of Research here. Have you heard of him?" I answered that yes, I had heard of his amazing work in using movement and music to facilitate communication in children with very severe impairments. Louise guided me up to the fourth floor and knocked gently on Dr. Chau's office door. A good looking, slim and well-dressed Asian man introduced himself and Louise left us to chat about communication technology. The doctor explained about some of his new inventions and asked about Nicholas. I hesitated a little - did I want to enter this territory of hope, therapy and worry again? I breathed and began to tell Nick's communication story of computer switches, auditory scanning, coded verbal and non-verbal messaging that is his way of talking. Dr. Chau nodded and I made a decision. "Can you help Nicholas?" I asked. "Of course, he is 23 years old and you work with children", I added perhaps too quickly. "Of course we can help Nicholas", the doctor said. We work with all ages when we are researching new technologies." Then he showed me a video of a young man, very like Nicholas, who used his voice to hum in order to prompt the computer to speak his chosen words. A kind of necklace called "The Hummer" sensed the tonal vocalizations of the young man and turned these sounds into computer messages. My eyes widened and I said quietly, "Could Nick wear that and use it in bed and in his wheelchair?" I asked. "Yes, sure", Dr. Chau replied. I began to feel the old excitement of potential and positive change. "I'll write to you and we are definitely interested. Thank you so much!"

I went to Holland Bloorview to tell our family story. People came to hear me and to learn. But it was me who learned from the families there - I tasted hope and remembered.