mom’s car that wasn’t
Top 5 Reasons to Take Public Transportation
Independence doesn't always come with a steering wheel.
Your adult children are so amazing, because they have a FULL life.
Walking to the bus stop counts as exercise.
You might meet someone who changes your routine.
Because the best transportation plan is the one you'll actually use.
Mom's Car That Wasn't
Most of my Gen X friends eventually have The Conversation. You know the one. "Mom... Dad... maybe it's time to stop driving." My mother, naturally, did things the other way around. When Mom moved from Connecticut to California in 2014, she was 70.
Mom: Not that it matters to me, but…should we ship my car to California?
Me: Mom, no. Let's sell the East Coast car—the one with the snow tires and the salt rust—and buy you a nice used California car.
Simple. Or so I thought. My sister patiently drove Mom from dealership to dealership. Toyotas. Hondas. Fords. Mom's favorite word, however, was the same in every showroom. "No." Like the French, she led with it. No car. No purchase. No fifteen-minute drive from her condo to our house. Instead, we had to drive to her place. Every. Single. Time. We planned the day. Planned the meal. Planned the timing. Planned who was driving where.
As business owners—working pretty much around the clock—having to drive to Mom’s place didn’t exactly give us time off. Transportation became our side-hustle. The one upside? When Mom eventually moved into assisted living, we only had one home to sell. No car.
The Walkable Neighborhood That Wasn't
In 2017, Mom moved into assisted living in one of San Francisco's most walkable neighborhoods. We’re talking the only place in the entire city with flat sidewalks, parks, a library, coffee shops, grocery stores. All you had to do was open your door and walk. Genius! One small problem: Mom didn't really want to walk anymore. She had a rollator and she preferred life to come to her.
The facility even offered a shuttle to doctor's appointments, Trader Joe's, and outings around the city. She wasn't interested. "It hurts my neck." Fair enough. Why bother with impersonal service—and neck pain—when she had me, my sister, and Bernie (her boyfriend)
Enter: Public Transportation
Here's the funny part. This woman had grown up mastering public transit. Brooklyn buses. The IRT. The BMT. The T in Boston. Later she drove all over New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey like a seasoned road warrior. Then one day an attendant at assisted living suggested something: Paratransit card.
Mom: I could save money on taxis. Maybe Bernie and I could ride the bus together!
For Bernie...she'd consider a bus. Love really does move people.
"Great," I said. "Let's get you a paratransit card."
The day arrived. I pulled into the white loading zone. Mom rolled into the lobby carrying a neatly labeled folder. PARATRANSIT.
Me: What've you got in there?
Mom: Proof of residence. Passport. Passport photocopy. Doctor's signature. Application.
Me: Wow. Good work, Mom.
The paratransit office was tucked into one of those forgotten corners of San Francisco that urban planners seemed to accidentally skip. Although right next to the City’s Building and Planning Department, it was impossible to access. Like the Bermuda Triangle on land! One wrong turn and you'd be halfway to the Bay Bridge. The entrance looked like a faded storefront. The office wasn’t much better: Handwritten signs taped to the walls. Plastic chairs that looked rescued from a high school cafeteria. Single pane windows and a red “take a number” reel. This was clearly where bureaucracy wen to die. I dropped Mom at the entrance.
Me: I'll go park and be right back.
She looked at me. The look. The Please don't leave me look.
Me: Mom... I have to park.
Mom: Really?
Me: You've got this. Be brave. Summon your courage
Then came the true San Francisco endurance sport. Finding parking. Around the block. Around again. Read the street signs. Interpret the street signs. 2 hours could work. 2 hours could be too short. Finally finding a spot. Taking a picture of where I'd parked because... perimenopause.
Mom was exactly where I'd left her. Passport in one hand. Empty folder in the other.
Mom: I'm done. Submitted everything. Had my picture taken. They're mailing the card. Take me home... Please.
About a month later I asked how the buses were going.
Mom: Oh...I found a paratransit taxi driver I love. She gave me her cell phone number. I just call her directly and pay cash. I don't even use the paratransit card.
Me: Wow, Mom. That's awesome!
My internal monologue? Can she also take you to your weekly hair appointment? Asking for... me.
Sometimes independence doesn't arrive looking the way we imagined. It doesn't always come on a bus. Or behind the wheel of a car. Sometimes it arrives in the form of one kind taxi driver with a cellphone number tucked into your wallet. And honestly? That's transportation worth hanging onto.
anecdōtes:
Welcome to anecdōtes, our weekly writing prompt for those of us taking care of aging loved ones while simultaneously googling “am I having a midlife crisis or is this just Tuesday?”
This Week’s Writing Prompt:
Write about a time someone surprised you by solving a problem in a way you never would have thought of. Sometimes the best plan isn't your plan. Sometimes it's theirs.
dōt.age exists because we’re all navigating the uncharted territory of caring for aging parents, and we need to share our stories.
This isn’t about being a writer—it’s about being human and sharing our messy, unfiltered truths of eldercare.
Each week, we’ll drop a prompt.
You write for five minutes.
No polish, no pressure—just permission to be gloriously imperfect.
If you want to share what you wrote, send it our way and we’ll share it on our Substack so we can all feel a little less alone in this wild mixtape that is our lives.
SEND TO: LNahmie@gmail.com
dōte.worthy
Remember volunteering for safe rides in High School? In this aarp article I found out about katherine freund and her organization iTN (independent Transportation Network of America)…who knew? Amazing information.
How will we live when we reach the end of our drivespan? thought provoking.