Stumptown. Puddletown. Rip City. Great nicknames but for me Portland will always be the City of Bridges. Growing up both north of the city and just south in its suburbs, my life has crisscrossed them countless times. Each with its own character: the Ross Island’s narrow lanes begging for certain death, the Burnside splitting Portland while housing the homeless, and the Steel, a stout double lift bridge there to get the job done. Then there’s the mighty Fremont, with its large suspension arcs and mass of concrete. It’s the Fremont that contains the story, it’s this bridge, the highest and largest crossing the Willamette that changed my life.
The four of us piled into the family “mini” van to go visit some friends north of Portland. Stwa (pronounced sh-twa), the nickname my father acquired from his initials, felt it necessary to have a Ford Aerostar extended van—even with only four people in the family. “We’re tall. We need the room,” he’d explain. He was right, although the van was a bit excessive, with me at 6‘9”, he at 6‘4”, my mom at 6‘0”, and my sister still growing, we weren’t the stealthiest of families. So, both my sister and I had our own seat. It kept bickering to a minimum which perhaps deafened Stwa to my mom’s constant complaints about driving the beast. However, this time Stwa was at the helm as we pulled out of our driveway.
It was mid-afternoon in early spring. The infamous Portland drizzle was falling with the sun still poking through the clouds creating that distinct mix of liquid sunshine. The tinted windows of the “stretch van” made the interior a funny shade of brown. Not that I noticed much. I was glued to my Gameboy. My sister was in the far back seat surrounded by Barbies and craft books. She was eleven and always entertained herself—the exact opposite of me at her age.
As we headed up the freeway we took the bypass around the city crossing The Fremont. We were on the bottom level as we headed north. Large steel trusses formed X’s between the two roadways causing the light to flicker through the tinted windows. My parents were in the front having a usual “discussion.” I was trying to ignore them and remain focused on my Gameboy. Unfortunately, playing in the car always made me sick, and the sun flashing between the trusses wasn’t helping. So, to avoid a stomachache I put down the Gameboy and started listening.
“I’m fine, it’s just a couple of tests,” she was saying.
“That’s good I just think you need to get in quickly,” he replied.
“I know, I will. The doctor wants to do a biopsy. But he thinks it’s just fiber build up.”
“Okay but you can never be too sure.”
“Yeah, he said I’ll probably have to stop drinking so much coffee. He thinks the lumps are probably related to the all the caffeine I’ve been drinking. I’m up to almost 5 cups a day.”
“Julie!”
“I know I should cut back. I really don’t want to give it up, but we’ll see what the doctor says.”
“You’re going in Monday?”
“He couldn’t get me in until, Tuesday. He said they’d have the results by Friday.”
The sun ducked behind a cloud as we reached the other side of the Willamette, dulling everything in an overcast grey. The concrete maze of overpasses cleared away and the road turned north. With my stomach feeling a little better, I turned my head back towards my Gameboy.
Five years later there were only three of us.
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