Widowish: A Memoir(15)

It was hot, mid-August, and the city was crowded. The two of them were spent. Given the traveling, touring, and general tumult that comes with such a big trip, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to fall asleep on a bus less than twenty-four hours after arriving. But Joel wasn’t just exhausted, he was fatigued. There’s a difference. He wasn’t bouncing back as fast as he used to. This was apparent throughout the whole vacation.

Sophie was ten years old at the time, and it was the first and only time all of us were in Europe together. We wanted to honor Joel’s wish to travel before his condition got worse. At the time, I didn’t believe that the disease would progress to the point where Joel wouldn’t be able to walk, but we both liked the idea of travel and taking a big family trip.

The journey we planned was a week-long cruise that went round trip from Barcelona (where we would spend several nights before the cruise), through the South of France, then on to Italy with stops in Florence and Rome before making the return to Spain. After the cruise we planned to spend some time in London visiting friends.

“Why are people talking to you in Spanish?” Sophie asked me when we were in Park Güell one afternoon.

“I think they think I’m Spanish for some reason,” I said.

Joel chimed in, “You kind of look it.”

“Es posible,” I shot back.

Joel continued. “And your high school Spanish has held up muy bueno!”

As a family, we were making small adjustments. As we toured the cities, I carried a heavier backpack with guidebooks, water, sunscreen, and a camera. Joel carried a small bag with our snacks, passports, and money. Joel was stoic, as always, but between the heat and all the walking, it was too much for him.

In Pompeii, a week later, we were on a morning tour of the ancient ruins. It was ninety degrees outside and the air was thick and humid. Sophie and I kept up with the group, and Joel, who had said he was fine to take the heavier backpack, lingered a bit behind.

“Hun,” I said to him. “Let’s switch.” I handed him the lighter bag.

“No. I’m good,” he said. “Just taking it all in.”

I moved ahead with Sophie but kept a watchful eye on Joel. His walking was fine back then but the ground was uneven. The heat was oppressive. He had to take breaks, and he moved slowly.

“Hun,” I said again a little while later. “Please.” I handed him the small pack, holding out my hand for the large one.

He sighed and gave in.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he said. “I’m really fine. I don’t like you treating me like I’m not.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m a pain in the ass.”

But that’s how the trip went. I continued to be a pain in the ass. Joel did his best but would acquiesce when I insisted on doing the heavy lifting. The symptoms of MS weren’t so bad then, but he felt them. He didn’t like being the slow guy in the back . . . or having to pack his medications and keep up that routine while we were away . . . The MS was persistent. It came on vacation with us.

Sophie, meanwhile, didn’t notice the nuances of Joel’s condition. Sometimes when he was just a few steps behind or needed to sit down for a minute, I’d tell her, “Daddy’s OK. He just needs a break right now.”

She’d ask, “Is it his MS?”

“Yup!” I’d answer. “But I think we could all use a rest anyway.”

She understood. Joel’s MS was simply a matter of fact. She didn’t worry over it because Joel and I were accepting that this was part of our life.

When I think of Sophie in those preteen years, I remember that she was so happy and easygoing. I always say that she got her patience, kindness, and empathy from Joel. She may have his eyes and my hair, but all of her goodness comes from him. It’s evident in the way she documented our trip. She loved making short videos explaining where we were and what we were doing.

“Hi, I’m Sophie!” she’d say into the camera. “Here we are at the Spanish Steps. It might sound like we’re in Spain, but we’re not! We’re in Italy!” And she’d wave her arm behind her in a grand gesture to show the Spanish Steps in Rome. I love those videos; she can’t even look at them now. She’s mortified by what she wore, how she sounded, what she looked like. But she was adorable and chronicled our trip in a memorable way. Sometimes if I really want to annoy her, all I have to do is say Hi, I’m Sophie! in an affected voice for her to roll her eyes and scream, M-o-o-o-m!

Joel managed well for the most part, but if we had the option of finding an out-of-the-way gelato shop or art gallery, or of getting back on the ship, Joel almost always, and uncharacteristically, preferred heading back to the ship. There was a day in the South of France when Joel and Sophie didn’t get off the boat, even though we had a tour booked. Sophie wasn’t feeling great; all of the exotic foods and continuous motion of the ship and our city touring wasn’t sitting well with her. Rather than encourage her to try to do the easy, air-conditioned exploration tour of Nice and Monaco, Joel quickly offered to stay behind with her.

I gave him a look. “Really, hun?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I could use a day off.” He kissed me and said, “But you should go.”

“Yeah, Mom. Have fun. Daddy and I will be fine,” Sophie said.