Widowish: A Memoir(11)

I felt very alone. Was Hal in denial or was I overreacting? As Joel’s wife, I was privy to Joel’s struggles. I had only just reached out for help recently. People, even close family, didn’t understand the extent of how the MS was affecting Joel . . . and us as a couple.

“I can’t walk, I can’t shit, I can’t fuck,” Joel would lament. “What’s the point of living?”

As I struggled with everything that was going on, Ellie had offered to call the rabbi. “This is what she does,” Ellie insisted. “When someone gets sick, you let the rabbi know.”

Sophie’s bat mitzvah had been only a few months before, so I felt very comfortable with Rabbi Hannah. Still, as much as I wanted to embrace my Judaism, particularly around the bat mitzvah, I had grappled with the realization that after all of it—the joyous weekend of bat mitzvah–related family activities, as well as the months leading up to it—I was simply Jew-ish. Outside of my liberal and cultural connection to Judaism, I just didn’t connect. But I knew Joel would have welcomed a visit from the rabbi without hesitation.

Judaism was always a part of his life, and it was important to him. He grew up in a Reform Jewish home, went to temple, celebrated and understood all of the holidays. I knew exactly where in the closet he kept his talit—a prayer shawl that men wear on special Jewish occasions. It was on his shelf of prized possessions, next to his Big Lebowski bobblehead and the rogue fly baseball he caught at a recent Dodgers game. That was one of the best days of Joel’s life. The ball came fast and unexpectedly in his direction, and he caught it barehanded and effortlessly.

I said to Ellie, “Sure. If you want to call the rabbi, go ahead.”

The next day, Rabbi Hannah came to the hospital. I was crying and hovering over Joel when she entered the room. Greg and Hal were watching the Dodgers in a World Series playoff game.

“Turn on the game!” Our friends were calling and texting me. “He’ll want to see it!” They weren’t wrong, he would want to see it. His beloved Dodgers hadn’t won the World Series since 1988. It seemed possible that they would go that far again. The game was on, but Joel had no idea.

I asked for some privacy with the rabbi.

“I don’t know what’s happening to him,” I cried to her.

Because we didn’t know how things got so bad so quickly, the doctors couldn’t predict what recovery might look like. But the prognosis wasn’t good. They started to use percentages about his recovery. They would say things like, “It’ll be slow, but he could make a fifty percent recovery. Maybe more.” Math was never my strong suit. But even I understood that the chances for a full recovery were low. Especially because Joel was admitted at less than 100 percent capacity.

“I know this is difficult,” Rabbi Hannah said. “We are all praying for him.”

“I appreciate that.” I was comforted by her presence, but I struggled with how to tell her my most recent thoughts.

I looked at Joel: his eyes were closed, he was wearing a hospital gown, the ubiquitous tubes were monitoring his vital signs.

Finally, I confessed. “I’m just not sure we’re all praying for the same thing.”

I didn’t know what I was praying for anymore. Joel’s recovery? To what end? I hadn’t heard his voice or felt him respond to my touch in days. Joel was tired of living with MS. He had felt compromised every day of his life for the past ten months. He was worried and lived in fear of losing his dignity. I wanted him whole. I wanted him as I had always known him—vibrant, alive, healthy.

But saying that out loud, admitting that I wasn’t sure what I was praying for, I was afraid I would be struck down by God on behalf of all Jews and good people everywhere. Or that I would at least feel some judgment from the rabbi.

How can I not be accepting of prayers for my husband’s recovery?

How can I not be accepting of people wanting Joel to get better?

Rabbi Hannah took my hands in hers. “Melissa,” she said, “what we are praying for is Joel’s complete and full recovery.” I nodded, wanting to believe that a complete and full recovery was even possible.

My tears were flowing when I whispered, “And if that doesn’t happen?”

She looked at me and said, “Then we pray for whatever is in Joel’s best and highest good.”

I took in those words carefully.

There was no reproach. No shock. No criticism.

Those words opened a door for me. I was finally able to exhale.





FIVE

Quality of Life

I gave the OK to move Joel downtown. Hal and I followed the ambulance during the transfer, and my best friend of twenty-five years, Jillian, met us at the new hospital.

I asked the head of that ICU, “Is my husband in a coma?”

“Well,” the doctor said, trying to explain, “I mean, coma is an umbrella term. He’s nonresponsive and noncommunicative, so yes, you could say he’s in a coma.” This didn’t seem to faze her, but her nonchalance left me in shock.

My husband is in a coma.

I turned to Hal. “Did you think he was in a coma?”

“No, but I think he’ll be OK. I think they can help him here.”

Hal’s optimism was admirable. Whenever I looked his way, he’d be smiling, hopeful. Or maybe it was some level of denial that Hal used to cope. I wasn’t wired that way.