And then I had to drive home.
Big whoop, right? Just you wait, you cruel-hearted invisibles. When I drive home from my sister's, I have to drive past the exit to the fancy-pants Harvard-affiliated hospital where Jane died. Every time. Unless I wanted to drive around Boston which, ugh. No, no, I save time and wrench my heart.
I've only had to do it twice since January, but all I can think about are the two panicked drives I had to make: the one on Sunday, when we thought we were about to lose her, and Thursday, when we did. It's about an 18 mile drive. That Sunday night, I got to the hospital in 10 minutes. It was very Italian Job/Gone in 60 Seconds. Really. Ask Tom. That Thursday the same drive took me over an hour. Morning rush hour traffic. In BOSTON. Worst. Drive. Ever. I was out of my head, screaming at the other cars to let me through, driving on the shoulder, pounding on the steering wheel, unable to get to the HOV lane, unable to get to my girl.
That's what I think about every time I go north through Boston. I'm fine once I'm in the tunnel and I love going over the Zakim Bridge, but getting there... Hoo, boy. That drive is not of the fun variety.
Going past the hospital in New Hampshire? No big. It was for so long such a boring, unexceptional part of my day that I don't get a single quell going by. But not Boston. Not going north.
Some day, it'll be an unremarkable drive again. I'll be able to go home without my heart trying to beat through my chest. That'll be a good day.