Willa's Journal

Sunday, March 7: Losing control

The hospital where my dad was is in a part of town that I don't go to very often. Never, in fact. So I suddenly had to figure out to get there from home, from my Mom's house, and from work--each a different direction.

The first night I went there from work, I missed the turn, and rather than get on the highway going the wrong direction, I made a quick right turn on what I expected to be just a regular street, intending to go around the block. I ended up on the Broadway Bridge, crossing the Missouri River.

I hate bridges. I think if I were asked to name my phobia, it would be bridges. I don't know why, exactly--but then, phobias don't really lend themselves to analysis, do they? If we understood them, they wouldn't be phobias. I don't think I'm afraid of the bridge failing; what it feels more like is that I'm afraid I'm going to lose control of the car and drive off the side.

My palms started sweating, and I felt like I was close to hyperventilating. I kept telling myself, you're okay, you're fine, you'll be fine, you can do this . . . and then I drove off the Broadway Bridge (you thought I was going to say, "I drove off the side," didn't you??) and onto the next bridge, which my sister said was probably the ASB Bridge. I have no idea how I did this, whether they're somehow linked, or whether I turned--I don't remember, and I don't really care. All I know is that I managed to survive crossing one bridge, and immediately ended up on another one.

And then . . . I don't know. Somehow, in trying to get to Research Hospital from downtown Kansas City, Missouri, I ended up in Parkville, and then Kansas City, Kansas. But I got there eventually, none the worse for wear.

But bridges. I don't hate all bridges, but long ones really do make me feel crazy: long, metal ones. Suspension bridges, I guess. It got me thinking about the worst bridge in the world, or at least the worst one I've ever been on. The Sunshine Skyway Bridge, which spans Tampa Bay between Tampa and Bradenton. Bob and I drove across it one year going to Sarasota from Orlando. It turns out that, at 5.5 miles, it's the world's longest cable-stayed concrete bridge.

As we drove over it, I kept wondering what would happen if your car broke down?

And it didn't help that, out in the ocean, you could still see the pilings from the original bridge, which collapsed after being hit by a freighter during a spring storm, killing 35 people, most of them passengers in a Greyhound bus that plunged into the ocean.

Logically, I know I'm not going to lose control of my car and plunge over the side into either the river or the ocean, but I also don't see the phobia disappearing any time soon. It's just one of those things.

More articles:
Sunshine Skyway Collapse
Sunshine Skyway History
For many, Sunshine Skyway bridge is a dark symbol of sadness and loss

* * *

Last Monday, after I went to the doctor and got my all-clear, Bob and I went out to dinner to celebrate (okay, we were mostly celebrating the fact that we got to have sex again, but also that everything was healed, and there were no complications). We went to La Cocina del Puerco. It's one of our favorite places to go, but we hadn't been there in awhile. It's more of a summer place--they have tables outside on the patio and play Mexican music--but I think we just hadn't thought to go there.

We had a good time. I had a Margarita and shrimp fajitas, and Bob had shredded pork, and we had guacamole, and the owner brought us a free dessert--I don't know what it was, really. Burnt creme, I think. He (the owner, a new owner, I believe) had been a little obnoxious when we came in, and teased me a lot. Which I didn't mind, at all, but I think he might have thought he went a little too far. Thus, the free dessert.

Bob came home this afternoon and suggested we go there tonight. I said, "On Sunday night?" and he said yes, why not? Not that there's any reason not to, we just usually don't go anywhere on Sunday nights. Not a big "date night." But we're going. I think he may just want me to have one of those potent Margaritas again . . .

* * *