Widowish: A Memoir(2)

As summer came to an end, I knew that Joel was a lifelong friend. He continued working at Atlantic; I graduated college, where I got my bachelor of arts degree in English, and moved to New York City to work in the creative department of an ad agency. But after a few years, the promotion I was hoping to get went to someone else. My new boyfriend and I broke up. I knew I wanted to write; I just wasn’t sure that advertising was for me. I thought I’d try my hand at screenwriting and decided to move back to Los Angeles. As soon as I arrived back home, my best friend from high school invited me to a Dodgers game.

I was never into sports but had been to Dodger Stadium once before. It seemed bigger than I remembered. I handed over my ticket and walked through the turnstile. I looked up briefly to get my bearings and immediately saw a familiar face looking at me. It was Joel. His green eyes met mine, and my heart suddenly surged in a way it never had before. I was barely back in town. My life seemed in flux. Had I run into Joel that same night at a club, for instance, seeing a band, listening to live music, it would have made much more sense. This seemed so out of context, so strange and surreal.

Joel and his friend walked over to us. Joel and I hugged; it felt like no time had passed, even though we hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in a couple of years.

“This is so weird!” Joel smiled. “These aren’t even my seats!”

“I can’t believe I’m seeing you!” I said, laughing.

“When’d you get into town?” he asked.

“I literally just got back,” I said. “I live here now. Again.”

“Really? So New York didn’t cut it?” But I couldn’t answer. I was too shocked to see him.

“Come on.” My friend tugged at my arm. “Let’s find our seats.”

“Is it OK if I give you a call?” Joel asked.

I wrote down my phone number on his ticket stub. Our fingers touched when I handed it back to him. It was as if the stadium was suddenly empty and it was just the two of us, taking each other in. I didn’t want the moment to end.

“It’s really great running into you,” he said.

My friend and I left to find our seats, but when I turned around for one more look, Joel’s eyes were still on me. He was smiling.



We had been married nearly ten years when Joel started having trouble with his legs. He had left to play in his weekly basketball game. I had a busy day of filming, then made dinner for our family of three, and finished off with our daughter Sophie’s nighttime routine of bath, books, and bed. The kitchen was now clean, the dogs were asleep, and all was quiet. It was finally my cherished alone time. I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed a handful of chocolate chips, and was planning on settling in with The Real Housewives of New Jersey, when I heard the front door open. I was surprised. Joel had been gone for only about thirty minutes.

“Hun?” I asked.

He walked toward me, deeply distressed.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “My legs. They’re not working. It’s like I see the ball moving down the court, I tell my brain go get it but I can’t.”

It took me a moment to process this.

“What? What are you talking about? Are you in pain?” I asked.

“No. But it feels like I can’t play ball anymore. I try but I just stand there watching everything happen around me. I can’t move, no matter how hard I try.”

None of this made sense. Joel was healthy. He was an active guy and physical exertion meant everything to him. He played basketball and softball at least once a week. He’d also play racquetball a few times a month and went to the gym every morning. He had an optimistic and sweet disposition, but this inability to move, this disconnect between his brain and body, was alarming.

He sat down, deep in thought. I sat down next to him, leaned my body into his. He looked at me.

“Something’s wrong,” he repeated. “Something’s really wrong.”

I put my arms around him.

“OK, well, if something’s wrong, we’ll figure out what it is.”

Joel nodded in agreement, but I could tell that his mind was racing.

He started to meet with one neurologist after another, but because Joel looked like the picture of health, no doctor took his complaints seriously. He was young, not even forty-two. He had always maintained a healthy weight, he didn’t smoke, he had no reason to be in a doctor’s office. Each doctor visit was frustrating, and figuring out the cause of his issues took some time. But Joel was determined—he knew something was wrong, he felt it in his soul. Finally, a new neurologist did an MRI of Joel’s back and saw a bulging disk. He prescribed physical therapy.

“It’s not making a difference,” Joel complained a few weeks into treatment. “Anyone my age who gets an MRI of their back is going to find out they have a bulging disk somewhere. It’s bullshit!” He was suffering. Every week he’d show up for basketball, hoping for a different outcome, but then he’d be home early again. “I’m just going to stop for a while,” he said. “Give my legs a break.”

It was during this break from basketball that another symptom appeared—occasional numbness and tingling in his feet. Another MRI was ordered, one that would provide insight into anything that isn’t typically seen in a healthy person. Sure enough, these results were different.