My dad has always changed the oil in his cars. It’s one of
his obsessions.
“Every 3000 miles, Susan. You need to get that oil out!”
he’d scold after I moved away from home. “I’m telling you!”
He still changes his own oil. He owns a 1992 Toyota Corolla
and a 2005 Hyundai Sante Fe. In March 2014, he had set up the equipment in the
garage to change the oil in the Toyota. This involves several bricks that
elevate a wooden plank. He backs the car onto the wooden plank to elevate it so
he can get under the car to open the oil pan. (I’m questioning the direction of
the car in this situation. Wouldn’t you need the front of the car elevated
because that’s where the oilpan is? Seems like he used to drive the car onto
the bricks so the engine would be elevated, but that’s not what happened in
this situation. And maybe dementia is the reason for this.) It involves a
helper: his trusty wife.
One evening, I got a text from my sister: “Don’t call them.
Something happened. I’ll call you later.”
Very strange.
When she called she explained that my dad had backed the car
up most of the way onto the bricks but wanted to correct the car’s position on
the bricks. Instead of changing gears, he hit the gas with the car still in
reverse, drove over the bricks, and through the garage wall into the basement
stairwell on the other side of the wall. A little more gas and the car would
have gone down the stairs backwards.
I don’t know what happened then. I never got the details. I
don’t want to know. He was able to “drive” the car out of the stairwell. The
car wasn’t hurt, nor was he. But I’m sure his pride was hurt no matter how much
he may have blamed mom for not telling him how close he was or something to
deflect guilt from himself.
In the end, the car was fine, the oil was changed, the wall
was fixed, and life continued.
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