In the Driver's Seat

on early 2026 surprises

My car received a terminal diagnosis last week. This was not something I was expecting for the first quarter of 2026, or at all. Months ago, in the midst of driving Joe back and forth to the hospital–close to a 3-hour round-trip ride of significant hills–the engine on my 2012 Hyundai started ticking. I took it to the mechanic, got an oil change, and asked them to look into it, but they said they didn’t hear anything. All looked fine.

That was good, at the time, because nothing else in my life was fine. And this car was our only transportation to the many appointments, emergency room visits, and every other errand because Joe’s car was in even worse shape. It, in fact, died a mere three weeks before he did.

If I’d realized the ticking in my engine was like the crocodile coming for my Hyundai, I’d have been more persistent. But plausible deniability worked for me. Joe was my main concern. And then, after he passed, making it to Florida. If the mechanic had told me then what the issue was, I’d never have risked the drive. It worked out in my favor–only the engine light finally came on, but I wasn’t stranded. I could keep putting this off.

Then last week, I took the car to a trusted family mechanic for another oil change and check-up before my upcoming drive home. The look on his face said You’re not driving this home. “Timing chains and manifold,” he added. “Seems a little early for that diagnosis. Were you good about oil changes?”

I’m no stranger to early diagnoses. “Yeah,” I said. “I was, actually.” How do I explain to this kind old stranger the number of miles I put on this poor vehicle in just three years? Three moves between three states, three years of treatments, appointments, and several little road trips in between, so that we could try to feel as normal as possible. “But I drove her into the ground this past year.”

He just nodded. I appreciate the lack of trying to get me to fix it and pay them the thousands they would have made. When I left to go out to the lot to bring my dying car home, the same exact model of Joe’s old car was parked right next to mine. “I guess the cars are choosing to go with you, baby,” I said.

While I’m here in Florida, I try to take time most weekends to go explore something, whether I’ve been there before or not, just to get out of the house, be around people, and soak up the sunshine. Quite lucky I am that the car has not dumped me somewhere yet, I figured I’d better just start looking for something new. Last fall, I wouldn’t have been able to replace this car, but now I can, and so I just had to dive in to the daunting task.

I walked into the Subaru dealership knowing exactly what I wanted, what I could pay for it, and wondering how much patience I’d have for a salesperson. Mustering up conversations with strangers is especially taxing right now. It’s been hard enough with people I love. I’m getting better with it, but this would be the test of all tests. I ended up being assigned the most talkative young man I think I’ve ever met. He was around the same age as my kids, with two little ones of his own.

As we spent the better half of a day together, we shared each other’s lives. I know, on some level, it’s an act of his. But it was on mine too. I didn’t want to be there, ultimately, but I was going to make the most of it. I encouraged him not to get a puppy while he has two babies. Just wait a little while, for his wife’s sake. He told me stories about his grandma raising him in rural Florida and the tight ship she ran. I told him my husband had died, and so that’s why I was here, buying a car out of state. He told me he never went to college because he struggled so hard in high school with ADHD. And he was happy that he’d had his kids so young because when he was older, he’d still have so much of a life to live. I used to feel that way, too. I just nodded. Hopefully, sweetheart.

We needed each other that afternoon. A sales transaction, yes. But also a human one.

On the test drive, he had me pull over for a moment. We switched seats, and he took me off-road into this huge grass field, with very steep and rocky hills, to show me what an Outback can really do. I assured him afterwards that this car would never do that again.

Because I was going to buy it.

In the early days after Joe passed, folks checked in with me on a near-constant basis. Everyone knows this is the experience of a widow: incessant checks and then suddenly everyone vanishes. I knew it was going to be the likely course, but it still strikes me. In those first 6-8 weeks, especially, I was deep in shock and recovery still. I couldn’t have a conversation if I wanted to; there were no answers to anyone’s questions, and even their encouragements sometimes burned because part of me was still thinking: This can’t actually be happening.

That early support was both lifesaving and impossible for me to actually take full advantage of, but it allowed me to keep breathing.

Now, though it’s still rather early in this process, I’ve gained some strength back–both physical and emotional. I mostly enjoy conversations with my good friends; it’s not exhausting me or leaving me without words like it was in the beginning. A week ago, I met friends at the beach for the weekend and had a lot of fun. Despite the empty fourth chair at every meal, which is a rough reminder of who’s missing, I was mostly thankful for my friends, the time we spent, and the fact that we could all still talk about Joe and toast to his beautiful life.

I cry after every good time like this, though. I’m so grateful that happy, lighter moments, even days, are returning, but once they are over, sadness always follows. Because I want that fourth chair to have a certain pirate’s ass in it. When I explore, I want my hiking partner getting his muddy boots on the new floor mat. When I come home, I want to tell him about what I did that day, the little armadillo I saw, or the manatees, or some crazy old people on golf carts when I have to shop in the Villages.

I cried when I emptied out the Hyundai, tiny remnants of a thousand road trips, into a trash bag. I patted that car as I turned away from it. “You did good. Thank you for getting us through the most difficult thing we had to do.”

I got into the Outback, breathed in that new-to-me car smell, which will only last about 30 seconds once my dogs make themselves at home, and I drove away from the last reminder of the last three grueling years. Tears of gratitude and goodbyes. Tears for some sort of new life on the horizon. Tears, hoping Joe will always be in my passenger seat, saying, “It’s okay. You did good.”

He never complained about my driving, not even once.