Widowish: A Memoir(21)

“Thank you for everything,” I told the rabbi.

We hugged goodbye and she left.

That’s when I started to really cry. My poor Joel! He lay there in front of me, lifeless but alive. The doctors had warned me that turning off the machines didn’t necessarily mean immediate death.

“He could hold on for hours,” one said. “Sometimes it takes days. But with him, it will probably be quick.”

They assured me that Joel would feel no pain. For weeks he had been prodded and tested and observed. The doctors and nurses had been keeping him comfortable the whole time. I believed that death would finally provide Joel with the relief he deserved.

I was still afraid of all the wires he was connected to. It was still hard to get as close to him as I would have liked. I wanted to lie down next to him—him on his back, me on my side wrapped around him. I couldn’t. These entire three weeks, I could not get close to my husband. I could not feel him respond to my touch. I could not hear his laugh.

His suffering would be over; this I knew. This was my mantra, no more suffering . . . no more suffering. This is the thought that gave me the strength to say goodbye. I started at the base of the bed where his feet stuck out of the light blanket.

I kissed the top of each foot.

“I love you,” I whispered to him, squeezing each one of his long toes. “Finger toes” we would call them.

I moved up to his hands, careful not to disrupt the IVs, as silly as that now seems.

“Hun,” I said, kissing his fingers. “You.” Another kiss. “You.” Another kiss. “You.”

“I love you, hun,” I cried into his palms. “You!”

I now held his limp hand up to my face, whispering, “No matter what occurs . . .” because I would find him. I would. This made me smile through my tears.

I moved up to his face. His eyes were closed as they had been. He had a feeding tube in his mouth, the same one that had been there for weeks. I stroked his now thick beard.

“It’s OK, hun. You’re going to be OK.” I reached over everything, the wires and equipment, and kissed his head. “It’s OK,” I kept saying. “You’re going to be free. You’re going to be free. You’ll feel so much better. You will.”

A thought then occurred to me. I wanted Joel to know something that in hindsight I believe he already knew. With my mouth against his forehead, I told him, “Sophie and I will be OK. I’ll take care of her, hun. We will be OK.”

If I thought of Sophie at all, everything inside me spilled out through gasps and sobs and tears. How will I be able to give her a life without her father? How will I be able to do anything without Joel by my side? How will I be strong enough to raise her alone?

But I had the sense that Joel trusted we would be OK. I didn’t think he would be able to die if he had a shred of doubt about the two of us managing without him. I had a feeling that I could move forward because his love for us would give me the strength to. I held his head with both of my hands. I kissed his eyes. I took a deep breath.

I called in the doctor who was turning off life support. We had never met as his role was specific to end-of-life needs. I heard him inhale when he saw me. He looked at Joel’s chart and then back at me. He shook his head and said, “I’m so sorry.”

I would see the same expression from many people, but I didn’t realize why at the time. I would understand it much better in the weeks and months to come. It was because both Joel and I were too young for this.

The doctor sat down next to Joel and the machine that was keeping him alive. He looked at me. I nodded as I clutched a tissue to my nose and sobbed quietly.

“I’m going to turn off the ventilator. There may be some residual noise from him, but maybe not. He won’t feel any pain or discomfort.” He looked at me. “Are you ready?”

Again, I nodded yes.

“OK.” He did something with the machine, and suddenly the room got quiet. I didn’t realize how the machine had created a white noise environment all those weeks.

He took Joel’s pulse and looked at me. At the most, a minute had passed.

“He’s gone.” He said it kindly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

It was the first time I ever heard those words. It was stunning. I couldn’t connect the dots that my loss was Joel.

He then called the time of death. A moment later, a nurse came in and started unplugging everything. It was bizarre. I could have told them that I needed more time, that I wanted a minute with my husband, but the truth is, I wanted to leave. I could not stand to be there with Joel when he was already gone. I suspected that he had been gone days earlier but was holding on to give everyone a chance to say goodbye. That would have been so like him, putting everyone else first.

It would drive me crazy. If we were going to the theater or to a restaurant, Joel was the guy who held the door open for everyone when all I wanted to do was get inside and get the best seat.

I texted Jillian, said I was on my way down.

It was so strange leaving the ICU. I had been there every day for the past few weeks. It was a round room with a hub in the center for the doctors and interns. There was a nurses’ station and a break room. There were sick patients all around the perimeter. It smelled sterile. I did not want to say goodbye to anyone, even the nurses whom I got to know fairly well and the interns who worked so hard to understand what the cause of Joel’s illness had been. I just wanted to get out of there and never, ever go back.