A Lot Can Happen Between the Bridge and the River

Where I grew up, it was flat. FLAT! Those of you who have never visited the South Plains of Texas may not fully understand the severity of that statement. It was flat! It felt like you only needed a good pair of binoculars to see China. Flat!

This, naturally, meant that I had very few interactions with heights. I had no reason to fear heights, because I never really encountered "height." Sure, my hometown of Lubbock TX had a twenty-story building, but I had never even stepped foot in it until I was 22. And like most young boys, I climbed my fair share of trees, ran around on a number of roofs and even spray painted my initials onto a water tower. In high school, as part of theatre classes, I climbed ladders to hang lights dozens of feet above the stage. Not once was I ever afraid ... I certainly didn't have a fear of heights.

In fact, I still don't think I do.

But that doesn't mean that fear and discomfort aren't right around the corner.

In the year 2000, at thirty years of age, I had my first encounter with vertigo. It was frightening, debilitating, dizzying and ... for a brief moment or two ... certainly seemed life-threatening. I remember that first 'attack' vividly:

I was standing on a packed 33rd Street/Queens Boulevard platform waiting for the 7 train to take me back into Manhattan. It was 5:30pm and the platform was as crowded as can be. It was a hot May afternoon as I stood on the edge of the platform and peeked down the tracks ... the train was at the 40th Street station and would arrive in moments. "Thank God," I thought, "I hope the A/C is working in my car."

I then glanced over at the green glass of the Citigroup Building (One Court Square) that reflected the sun. And in an instant, I was all-but delirious ... the world was spinning, I wasn't sure I could keep my balance, sound seemed to fade and the approach of the coming train seemed muffled. A cold sweat ran down my back and dripped from my nose. I felt I would fall over (onto the tracks!) in a second. As the train pulled into the station and passengers piled on, I forced my way to the back of the platform and crouched between a bench and a garbage can, trying to maintain my composure through sheer will-power.

I logically knew that I was okay ... I wasn't going to fall over. I tried to rise to my feet ... and the sensation of imbalance increased. So I crouched again (how I must have looked to all the other strap hangers coming and going from the platform), squeezed my eyes shut and tried my best to concentrate ... just focus and make it go away.

After several minutes (which felt like hours) it did.

Over the following months, these 'attacks' would occur and re-occur with alarming regularity. Some were minor and brief, others incapacitating and several minutes long. I began to refer to the time spent in an 'attack' as "the gap between the bridge and the river." In time, the fear felt during the attack diminished ... because I had confidence it would end. No matter how hopeless or helpless I felt nor how frightened I was that the end of the 'attack' might mean the end of my life, I had the will-power to see it through and the faith that I would be alright.

A lot can happen between the bridge and the river.

For me, it was a fascinating analogy. What must be going through a man's mind after he has thrown himself from the bridge and before he hits the river? It was a phrase I had first heard from my brother when he was going through an exceptionally rough patch ... he felt he had tossed his life away and was just waiting for the end to come and hit him in the face. As a means of reassuring him I told him that "a lot can happen between the bridge and the river."

And that, my friends, is how my still occasional bouts with vertigo shape my character and my faith. They are a reminder. No matter how low I feel, no matter how grim the situation, no matter how certain (or uncertain) the outcome ... I have the will-power and the faith that something will happen to spring me back to the bridge to continue my journey.

And one day ... one day when I'm hurtling through space headlong towards the dark and murky river ... I may just sprout wings and fly.