
Driving along the other day -- hands on the wheel at ten and two, as per the instructions I received in 1976 from the Harold L. Smith School of Driving -- I listened as some expert/pundit/poobah on the radio referred to "reversing" climate change. Hah, what a laugh! As a global society we can't stop increasing our yearly emissions of greenhouse gases. According to the World Resource Institute, 37.1 gigatonnes of CO2 from fossil fuel energy sources was emitted in 2018, up 2.7 percent from 2017 and 12 percent from 2010. Hey, let's work on leveling off emissions and heading down ten or twenty percent before spouting reversal pipe dreams. So, like I said, I was driving along, across the traffic-jammed Tobin Bridge from Boston to Chelsea, my electric vehicle vastly outnumbered by its fossil-fueling burning cousins -- EVs comprise less than two percent of the U.S. auto fleet, though sales are rising -- and there to the right was the new Encore casino visible through the emission towers of an electrical power facility burning natural gas. The garish, brown-and-gold casino can be seen for miles around; the greenhouse gases spewing from the gas plant are invisible.

At the same time, my right hand clamped at two o'clock on the steering wheel felt stiff and weak. I shook it, stretched the fingers, and resumed responsible driving. In a few minutes I'd be with my 96-year-old mother in her room at the nursing home, and she sure as hell has it worse that me. Stuck in that wheelchair, legs useless, hands gnarled with arthritis. Her alertness fading as she drifts into an elderly twilight of confusion and boredom. How long, she asks me every time, am I going to be here? Next to that it's nothing that I have cubital tunnel syndrome from an entrapped ulnar nerve in the elbow. My right hand, my dominant hand, is now at 80 percent strength compared to the left one. The hand-doc at Mass General says I need surgery. No, he answers my next question, the procedure won't bring any strength back, but it should, probably, arrest the continued decline that will happen without surgery.

Our bodies fall apart as we get older. We try to delay and deny, but, well, everyone knows what comes after the but...so now I'm exiting the Tobin Bridge, under endless construction it seems, and the casino and the power plant are behind me, monuments to American exuberance, and the silence of my car battery is a sweet, green song. My mom's room has a view of the bridge, so maybe she's watching for my car. About then, let's say, it occurs to me that my slowly dying right hand is kinda like climate change. Bear with me, here comes a strained, highly imperfect analogy.
You've got a problem, see, and the fix for that problem won't make things better. No reversal is in the cards. In fact, the fix is a hassle and there could be unpleasant side effects. The only payoff is the knowledge, imparted by experts in fancy white coats, that you will be stopping matters, probably, from getting much worse. Well, for a lot people, it's hard to get psyched about that kind of choice. It's easier to say, Can't I just do those exercises with the squeeze ball instead of getting cut open? Can't we just drive less and use paper straws instead of performing surgery on the entire economy?
No, we can't. Get the surgery.
You've got a problem, see, and the fix for that problem won't make things better. No reversal is in the cards. In fact, the fix is a hassle and there could be unpleasant side effects. The only payoff is the knowledge, imparted by experts in fancy white coats, that you will be stopping matters, probably, from getting much worse. Well, for a lot people, it's hard to get psyched about that kind of choice. It's easier to say, Can't I just do those exercises with the squeeze ball instead of getting cut open? Can't we just drive less and use paper straws instead of performing surgery on the entire economy?
No, we can't. Get the surgery.