The "doctor" in this true-life scenario is my mechanic. The patient? My 1993 Toyota Camry. And as of last Monday, it's official: She's a goner.
I knew when I - errr, my mom - bought a 1993 Camry last October that it wasn't going to be the start of a particularly long-term relationship, though I'd hoped we'd be together a bit longer. Maybe she got angry with me because I somewhat cruelly nicknamed her The Time Machine, an ode to her long-ago birthdate. Or maybe she was just plain tired, a result of her advanced age & the fact that I drove her from Ohio to New Hampshire in the snow & ice at 120k+ miles. Regardless, she's now dead, stuck on the mechanic's lot as she awaits a tow truck to take her to her final resting place.
The event that led to her death was truly traumatic: It involved a harrowing roadside breakdown, both physically (her) & emotionally (me), on a highway drive back from Boston. The phone calls that came afterward mostly involved me crying, especially to my mother (hey, I never claimed to be a real adult). "I JUST WANT A CIVIC!" I screamed. "How about an Accord?" she asked patiently. "I JUST WANT A CIVICCC!" I repeated, this time with extra oomph in the form of added whininess.
After a week of carlessness-induced despair, Nathan & I today made our way out to the Honda Barn - used car dealerships always aim to be classy! - where I stuck to my very particular, somewhat stubborn guns & refused to look at anything that wasn't a late-model Civic... & took the requisite steps toward purchasing my first car. It's not mine yet (credit check pending!), but my fingers are crossed & my thumbs are up.