Rules of the Road

Four way stop signs need to come with instructions. Especially when they are placed mere yards from a railroad crossing with a three way stop, where cars routinely turn in front of other cars appearing over the slight blind spot of the tracks even though that means the person behind the person trying to turn becomes a sitting duck for the next train speeding through.

How many people do you know who approach a four way stop and are immediately conscious of the order in which the other three stoppers arrived. Add in the complications of right and left turns and a four way stop sign becomes an invitation to a free for all. Sometimes I think the best policy is to close your eyes and go, and hope for the best. An occasional leap of faith is a good thing, right?

Life is full of four way stop signs, crossroads that leave the already indecisive among us stymied. It's not so much about where to go -- we all have some idea of what we want and where to get it -- but when. How quickly do we take our foot of the brake and move forward? Some forge ahead, without worrying too much about the consequences. But most of us spend a lot of time waiting for a sign, a sign far less ambiguous than a four way stop, often in vain.

I sometimes envy my mother, whose "black and white" view of the world allows her to receive instructions and signs with great clarity. Sure, she may be one of those folks who wait too long at the corner (she doesn't care; she can't hear all the honking), but she has unshakable confidence in her authority figures, and she knows exactly when to pull the trigger.

Last week, when I visited her, I told her I was sure she could ditch the cumbersome walker she's been dragging around for weeks and put the full pressure of her hundred pound frame on her bad leg. The official doctor visit was still a week away, though, and she steadfastly refused to take the plunge and set her foot down, even for a moment. She was feeling absolutely no pain, mind you, but, alas, like I said, the official doctor visit (i.e. the audience with God) was still a week away.

I knew I should have stuck with pre-med. The other day, the very prominent Manhattan orthopedist in charge of monitoring the progress of my mother's elderly bones pronounced her fit to walk on both legs. Shocking. Even the physical therapist's cautionary words, that she should not ditch the walker completely yet, fell on deaf ears. Okay, well everything you say to my mother falls on deaf ears, but you know what I mean. God had spoken, and by golly, you do what God tells you to no matter how tired you get or how much you start to ache.

So mom is now hopping around like a bunny, exercising her atrophied left leg with reckless abandon. Sure, it hurts like hell by the end of the day, but the very prominent Manhattan doctor said it was okay. When you're stuck at an intersection with mere mortals (like your daughter, who gave up on medical school after her second organic chemistry exam) urging you on, you hold your ground. But when God speaks, you listen.