I grabbed the hand-held urinal, waited for a gap in traffic, squeezed out of the car, and, by the trunk, urinated. (Why not do so in the car, some of you might ask? Cramped in the front seat, with only a narrow stance, I could not do so.) I could see over the side of the bridge. The funny part of my mind observed, “It’s not far enough down to jump.”

As I emptied the urinal over the side, I saw two, waving lights coming toward me. I had noticed, before, that two vehicles had stopped past the bridge. Two men walked back to help me. I tossed the urinal in the trunk before they arrived.

I got my tote bag but couldn’t get my cane, so I walked about an eighth of a mile, holding on to the two Samaritans. They had called the highway patrol. They marveled at how the vehicles weren’t slowing down, many not even moving to the passing lane.

Mike helped me into the warm cab of his truck. His wife, Kathy, had moved to the driver’s side and gave me water, and a big tissue, when I started crying--out of pain, relief, frustration, anger, disappointment.

The other driver--of the van I’d attempted to pass and whose name I didn’t get--walked back for my cane. A patrol car was now parked behind my car. The trooper waited until a wrecker arrived before moving behind Mike’s truck.

I thanked the generous couple, thinking about the future, when I might able to be so kind to others.