Widowish: A Memoir(12)

Although this was a different hospital and we were dealing with the same dire circumstances, it did feel hopeful that Joel’s MS specialists were here. His doctor was able to rule out that certain viruses known to be related to MS and the new meds that Joel had been taking were causing this coma. I was happy to have Joel under the watchful eyes of his team. These doctors knew him as a person and not just as a patient. They were familiar with his case, which gave us some confidence that maybe we would all come out of this slightly less scathed.

Sophie seemed OK. I tried to minimize any worry that I was feeling so that I wouldn’t transfer my fears to her. It’s not that I was holding back, but I had nothing concrete to tell her: “Daddy is in a coma, which means he’s resting. His body is working really hard to fight off whatever is making him so sick.”

“But he’s going to be OK, right?” she’d ask.

“That’s what they say. It’s hard to know. It will be a slow recovery.”

She took that at face value. I also didn’t bring her to the hospital often. She didn’t like being in the ICU, and I assumed visits were traumatic. Joel was surrounded by people who were very sick. Their ailments were visible. They were able to communicate their pain and discomfort. Joel wasn’t.

Joel was also younger than all of the other patients by at least twenty years. He still had his dark and full hair, and his beard was growing in. He did not look like he belonged. But there he was. Tubes in his mouth, arms, and hands.

It had been over a week since I took him to the emergency room, and yet we didn’t have more information. He had another MRI. A brain angiogram. A spinal tap. Several EEGs to monitor brain activity. More blood work. More cultures. The doctors kept asking me if Joel had a rash recently. They continued to circle the idea that this was a virus. But which one?

They ruled out anything bacterial, which meant antibiotics would not have helped. They ruled out cystic fibrosis. His liver function was normal but his brain activity was slow. Every day was another educated guess about his condition, and while I tried to stay positive, it was difficult. Joel was in a coma. If this was a virus, then there was no treatment. What they were doing was supportive care—keeping his lungs clear and feeding him. There was no specific infection they could treat. At this point, Joel’s MS doctors checked in daily, but they took a back seat to the plethora of specialists who were all trying to figure out his mystery illness, which seemed to come from a yet-to-be determined virus.

I was inundated with calls and emails, and I had nothing definitive to share. I was waiting for the doctors to figure out how to make him better. I assumed they would.

My dad and Elisabeth were staying with us, which was helpful in every way. As glad as I was that Sophie was getting some grandparent love, I needed some of it, too. I went into their room one night while they were in bed watching TV. I sat on the floor at the foot of their bed and started to sob.

“I should have taken him to the hospital sooner,” I cried. “I didn’t know what to do. His fever was so high! But then it would come down when he took the Tylenol, so I thought he’d be OK. It was like that for days.”

“You did the best you could,” Elisabeth said. “Don’t beat yourself up!”

“Really,” my dad echoed. “Joel’s in good hands. You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

But it all played in my head over and over. He had a high fever. But then he’d feel hungry and eat something. He was up. He was walking around. Then he’d get back in bed with a fever. We were laughing, telling jokes. I couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Sophie’s eighth grade class had made some get well cards, and I taped them to the machines around Joel’s bed. Ellie’s husband had visited Joel and brought in some family photos he put on the bulletin board. Joel’s friend and business partner, Ben, came to visit one day and was astonished that I wasn’t playing any music.

“You gotta bring some tunes when you come back,” he said. “It’s Joel we’re talking about. Music will help him!”

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that myself. So the next day I brought Joel’s iPod and hooked it up to some portable speakers. It was a great idea. All the doctors and nurses wanted to be in his room. We were vibrant and young. Joel still looked handsome.

My parents were able to join me at Sophie’s talent show. They sat a few rows in front of me while I put on a brave face and sat in the back of the middle school auditorium. Sophie wanted to surprise Joel and me with her role. She initially downplayed it and said she didn’t have much to do in the show, when in fact she was one of the masters of ceremonies. She was onstage most of the evening—confident, happy, and proud of herself.

I was entirely distracted. I kept thinking, Joel should be here. What is happening to my husband? I miss him!

I was also watching my phone. I was waiting for a call from our internist. He was our family doctor of the old-school variety—patient, thorough, and genuine in his concern. He had been in regular contact with Joel’s doctors, and I wanted to hear his point of view on the prognosis.

My phone rang. I stepped outside.

“Melissa!” our internist said. “I’m sorry, dear. Joel is really very sick. How are you holding up?”

“Not great,” I said.

“He’s in excellent hands. If it’s a virus, then it will be a slow recovery, but he can pull through. You need to stay strong for yourself and for your daughter. How is she?”