Widowish: A Memoir(14)

“Nothing cold to eat anymore, OK? No salad. Warm food and tea. No coffee. And we’ll give you herbs.”

I did this for months. I enjoyed the ritual of zen-ing out twice a week for twenty minutes. We felt hopeful. I took their pills and herbal supplements and vitamins to boost my fertility. I gave up caffeine and red meat and drank protein shakes. But every month, after calculating the best time to conceive and saving up sex, or having sex like crazy—nothing.

Eventually I took hormones to produce more eggs, but they made me overly emotional and weepy. I went to the doctor to have her inseminate me at the exact right time of the month, but again—nothing. Joel and I realized that the change in diet and shots and doctor appointments were doing us in. Every month was an emotional roller coaster, and it had been like this for five years. Living with the possibility of getting pregnant every month was causing a tremendous amount of anxiety and disappointment. We kept going back to the idea that we already had a child. An amazing child who we loved and adored and who was good and kind and smart and beautiful.

Joel and I loved each other. We loved Sophie. We loved our life together. We were a family already, and that was everything. Together, we mourned the family we thought we would have . . . and by focusing on what we did have—which was so much!—we were able to move forward.



Joel was now in a teaching hospital, which meant there was never just one doctor, but one doctor being trailed by anywhere from one to four other doctors. Some were already specialists in their particular area of study, others may have been residents, but it was a continual parade of smart, ambitious, and perplexed doctors and legitimate wannabe doctors who looked at Joel’s illness as a mystery they were determined to solve. I’ll never forget how young these doctors were.

“It looks like they’re in Halloween costumes dressed up as doctors,” I said to my bestie, Jillian, who was at the hospital with me almost every day that October. She and I had met when I first moved back from New York. We grew up together working in television. We were at each other’s weddings and there for the birth of each of our children. Having her with me while Joel was in the hospital was a huge comfort. “I keep expecting them to say, ‘Trick or treat,’” I said.

She shushed me with a nudge. One of the doctors overheard. He rolled his eyes, but I didn’t care. Just figure out what’s happening to Joel . . . and tell me that I’ll be bringing him home soon.

It was after a group of four pulmonary specialists examined him one morning that I realized what we were dealing with. One of the four, a woman whose name I must have written down somewhere, pulled me aside and gently asked, “Is your husband a man of dignity?”

By now, it was hard to keep track of which doctor did what. There were cardiologists, pulmonologists, a slew of neurologists, physical therapists. I didn’t understand why a lung doctor was even part of Joel’s team. But this gentle and well-meaning doctor had pulled me aside and asked me about Joel’s dignity. I told her: “Quality of life is important to him.” That was my line. That is what I told every doctor and nurse who walked into his room, whether it was to take his temperature or draw blood. Because he had MS, Joel and I had had many discussions on life and how we wanted to live it. We wanted to grow old together. We wanted to be healthy. We wanted to live fully. Quality of life, for Joel, meant that he would remain active and self-sufficient. He did not want to rely on someone else to feed him. Having just turned fifty years old, he did not want to be in diapers.

She put her hand on my elbow. “What I mean is, is he someone who wants to be perfectly capable of being independent.”

I looked at her. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Well,” she said, “it looks that as of now, the kind of recovery we can hope for is that he may be able to hold a comb one day.” I tried to breathe, but it came out as gasps as she continued. “But he wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

What is the proper reaction for a wife when she hears this about her once healthy husband? There was not enough air in the room for me to breathe. My mind was swirling, I felt myself go blank.

“Thank you,” I managed to say. The truth is, I appreciated her clarity. I nodded my head. I understood what she was saying. I watched as she walked away. I stood in the hospital hallway by myself. I leaned against the wall, sighed heavily, and slowly let my back slide down the wall until I was seated, my legs splaying out in front of me.

I started to cry. It was the kind of cry that comes from someplace so deep inside that it felt like I was made of water. It had been over two weeks since this trauma had started. Two weeks of uncertainty. Of fear. Of confusion.

I knew that Joel wanted no part of what was happening to him. There were countless doctors, nurses, and specialists. One invasive procedure after another, all trying to establish his diagnosis. How did he fall into a coma? What is this that is wreaking havoc on his brain and central nervous system? Will he be able to recover?

I realized that everything was up to me now. I knew in my soul that everything I did from this point forward had to be for Joel. He no longer had a voice, so I was his voice. Sitting there in the hospital hallway, my tears nowhere close to drying up, I knew that Joel and I were connected, and this gave me strength for the many decisions I would soon have to make on his behalf.





SIX

Holding On

There’s a photo I have of Joel and Sophie that makes me happy and sad at the same time. We were riding on a Hop On Hop Off tourist bus in Barcelona, Spain. In the photo they are both asleep but sitting upright in their seats, with their chins resting heavily on their chests. We had arrived the night before, but for some reason, I wasn’t feeling jet-lagged. We had been exploring the city all morning. Joel and Sophie sat together on the upstairs part of the bus; I was on the lower part, studying the map and figuring out where we should get off and what sites to see. A stop was coming up, so I went upstairs to get them and found them both sound asleep. I couldn’t believe it. We were in Barcelona! There was so much to take in! But here were my two travel companions, out cold.