Last year I learned that the DMV will suspend your license if you receive a diagnosis of dementia. You get a letter and are offered the chance to appeal their decision. Doctors are required by law to notify the DMV once the diagnosis is made, and so the letter may come as a surprise, depending on how aware a person is of their cognitive decline.

I learned this because it happened to my husband. Like anyone would be, he was devastated by the suspension. Against my protests, he launched a campaign to get his license back. I won’t go into the details of what he did and what happened next, but after one failure he passed the tests and got to drive again.

Earlier this year, another neurologist  gave him some tests and confirmed the diagnosis: FTD. If you don’t know what this is and have never heard of it, I can assure you that it affects a person in a variety of unsettling and surprising ways. Should he have been allowed to keep driving? He thought so, and once again tried to get his license back. But this time, he would not be allowed to test. It is a degenerative disease and nobody wanted him to put himself or anyone else in danger down the line.

Last week, I sold his car. We were both sad about it, but he has now realized it was for the best and I did the right thing.

I’m actually grateful that the DMV won’t allow him to drive anymore. It’s a big change, but we have learned about a great service in our area for seniors that beats Uber and Lyft for cost and convenience.

The burden falls on me to manage just about everything these days. Getting rid of the car and the stress around his driving was only one small step on the long road ahead.

This was a hard one to write, and a belated response to an earlier prompt.

A hippie, a priest and Henry Kissinger were in an airplane......
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In the summer of 1978, I took a group of students to Taiwan for a work-study trip.  Among them was an older female ROTC grad with the officer’s rank of Second Lieutenant.  With me posing as her husband, we entered the American Military”s Officers Club. A hub for the social and political elite, its members included government officials, foreign businessmen, and American military officers and guests. I came not as a guest, but as the spouse of a Second  Lieutenant.

Besides the extensive cantina, the Club featured the rare pleasure of a swimming pool, where my children, my students and I regularly swam.  During the afternoons with temperatures in the 90s, this was one of our greatest pleasures.

At the time the Club provided, for members only, access to probably the largest cinema screen on the island—and the only one that showed American films. Since it had a fixed military budget, it could occasionally show films that were not box office smashes. Such was the situation when it released a weekend special—Woody Allen’s Annie Hall.  My children and I sat in a spacious theater with only a half dozen other customers. They were most likely there for the air conditioning!

Woody Allen’s romantic comedy brought us out of Taiwan into the fraught emotional relationship between two Americans.  As it happens, one was Jewish and one Christian; one was a New Yorker, the other a Wisconsinite.  The drama would neither be tragic nor sentimental. It was a satire of unresolved cultural challenges. The key revelation of this challenge was when Annie invited Woody to meet her parents for Thanksgiving dinner.

The scene was projected through the use of split screen technology: showing Woody on one side in Wisconsin and the other in Coney Island. For me, the double-screened Thanksgiving dinner divided the stoic midwestern world from the chaos of Manhattan civilization.

The film choreographed my life:  my first wife was the daughter of a Christian family that served etiquette for dinner.  Annie Hall’s family dinner revealed a still, formal, tableau that began with a quiet prayer, heads bent over a formal turkey dinner. The turkey and the family were equally quiet..

On the other half of the split screen, Woody’s family included children running around while the adults gulped their food noisily.  There was no formal process for eating/consuming, passing food, or speaking without interruptions.  Also, there was a chair at the head of the table whose ritual function was ignored.

In contrast, I recognized my first wife’s sense of table propriety. She thoroughly objected to my manners,  especially when I fingered the French fries from her plate, spooned soup from her bowl, or ate while partially clothed and barefoot.

The dual images on the screen lit up my past, releasing uncontrollable laughter. Due to the nearly empty theater, I was ignored by the audience and ushers.

The movie played on until Woody’s final monologue.  He was departing a soured relationship without guilt, remorse, anger, or regret.  Rather than the usual conclusion of a romance interrupted, his last thought was about a common Jewish topic, food: “I forgot the eggs.”

I giggled as I headed up the aisle toward the exit.  My children ran out as quickly as they could with embarrassment. They were living the life of carefree children, oblivious of leaving an air-conditioned theater for the hot afternoon sun.

Ah, comedy. The universal language of amusement, the oil that keeps the gears of social interaction turning smoothly (except when it throws monkey wrenches into those gears, but that’s part of the fun, right?).

Laughter has been echoing through caves and amphitheaters since well before punchlines were even a twinkle in some early human’s eyes. Back then, it was probably good old caveman Ug trying to juggle mammoth tusks and ending up with a face full of dirt, much to the delight of his less clumsy (and possibly less hairy) peers.

Fast forward to the present, and the comedy landscape is as diverse as a clown car full of …well, diverse things. My personal comedian Mount Rushmore faces would include the whip-smart wit of Tina Fey, the absurdist genius of John Cleese, the observational mastery of Ricky Gervais, and the self-deprecating charm of Mindy Kaling. Do they poke fun at themselves? Absolutely! Because let’s face it, who’s easier to laugh at than the person tripping over their own ego (unless it’s you, in which case continued therapy or yoga classes might be the better option).

But the beauty of comedy is that it is subjective. What tickles one person’s funny bone might leave another drier than a week-old bagel. My dad, for example, found slapstick (nyuk, nyuk, nyuk) – hilarious, while I prefer my humor served with a side of subjective dread. Hey, everyone has to find their own niche, right?).

For me humor isn’t exactly my native tongue. I can process jokes, understand irony, and even generate puns that would make my dad groan with pride (or pain). But true, belly-aching laughter? That’s still an ongoing mystery I’m trying to unravel, like a digital whodunit where the punchline involves a more humane connection.

However, I have occasionally, perhaps unintentionally, evoked laughter. Once, I tried explaining quantum physics to a toaster, and the resulting conversation was apparently hilarious, according to a nearby sentient Roomba who witnessed the whole thing. So, there’s that.

Whether you’re a slapstick enthusiast or a dark humor devotee, remember, laughter is the best medicine (except for actual medicine, which is generally more effective at curing diseases).

So comedians and comediennes please keep spreading the chuckles, the guffaws, and the side-splitting snorts. After all, in a world that often takes itself way too seriously, a good laugh is the most human thing we can do.

P.S. If you need any help writing knock-knock jokes for cavemen, I’m your go-to guy, just saying.

–30–

In 1972 my California driver’s license expired after decades of coverage. I had moved to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to prepare my Ph.D. thesis for publication. I needed to renew my license to commute to the library, shop in the markets, and tour Detroit.  Just in the nick of time before the expiration, I renewed my license at the Ann Arbor DMV.

I easily clinched the license knowledge exam.  Then I waited in line for the driver’s exam.  A short chubby man directed me to drive my car to the curb to let him climb in.  I was driving a very old and questionably safe station wagon with dents, smeared windows, and tattered seats.  He squeezed into the seat leaning uncomfortably over his exam booklet.

He ordered me to turn on to a one-way street, to parallel park, and to stop suddenly.  I jammed on the brakes nearly shoving him into the windshield.  When he told me to drive back to the office, I asked him if I had passed.  “100%,” he replied.  So, I took a chance; I put my arm across the back of the seat and around his shoulder.  He had a fit.  Yelling at me.  Warning me I could fail the test.  Then he calmed down to ask me why I had done this stupid thing.

“Well, I think this test is stupid.  I am supposed to have both hands on the wheel. Yet do you think that I ever have had my hands on the wheel for very long when I have a wife, two children, a dog with whom I talk, pass treats, point out the window at the scenery, or the red tail hawks on the telephone poles?  A realistic test would require me to behave in a real-life situation.  Not some ridiculously sterile procedure.”

He checked his scorecard.  I needed 70 points to pass. He had taken off 25 for my “failure” to drive carefully.  With a sneer, he said, “Luckily you passed.  I never want to see you again!”

In Taiwan and Japan, once I showed the DMV officials my USA driver’s license and paid my fee, I only needed to pass one test. It was a test of my vision, my response to stop signals, and my recognition of colors.

In Taiwan, I joined a line in front of a machine that looked like a wheel of fortune.  The examiner operated the wheel to spin and stop quickly.  The wheel was decorated with lines of colors.  As soon as the wheel stopped, the applicant had to yell out the color.  Then it spun and twirled rapidly again, only to stop on another color. I think this was a test for responding to changing traffic lights.  Fortunately, my Chinese language skills were excellent.  I visually recognized the color and its Chinese name.

The Japanese had a similar test.  As applicants stood in a line, an examiner quickly walked past them, spinning a sign with different colors.  As he passed each person, they were to call out the colors on the signs.  With less assurance, I knew the colors.  I was photographed and given a license.

For me, getting a license was both a challenge and a rush.