Widowish: A Memoir(24)

We would have never guessed how prophetic this tradition was for us.

The view was the same, but the landscape had changed entirely. Sixteen years earlier, Joel and I looked out and envisioned our future together; now I couldn’t imagine a future without him.

Ellie, the arbiter of all things Jewish in my life, suggested that I hold shiva. My dad and Elisabeth encouraged me to do the same. Shiva is a Jewish ritual—a period of mourning where people come together to remember and celebrate the person who has just died. So many people had been reaching out, asking about a service or memorial, so shiva made sense to me. Ellie and my family of friends, along with Elisabeth, arranged everything, and shiva took place at our house a couple of days later.

I wore a dress that first day of shiva; I don’t recall wearing shoes. I sent an email, encouraging Sophie’s friends to attend. I tried to make a movie montage of Joel, something I had started for his fiftieth birthday a few months earlier but had never finished. I wanted to play it on a loop but our reliable computer crashed suddenly. I think Joel was telling me, Don’t worry about the movie, hun. You’ve got enough to do. So I let that go.

My house was full of people. People whom Joel and I loved. People who we didn’t see often enough. It was like a party. My funky yellow dining table was covered with food, along with every surface in my kitchen. There was music playing, thanks to Joel’s best friend, Greg, who took over what would typically have been Joel’s responsibility.

Ellie passed me with a platter of sandwiches. “You’ll have food for days!”

Mimi walked around with a trash bag, picking up after people. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re cleaning as we go.”

Elisabeth gave me a hug. “You just relax, Melissa.” And she moved on to put some flowers someone brought into a vase.

But I was relaxed, and I wasn’t worried. Sophie was running through the house with her friends. Some of her teachers were there. Her soccer coach from years ago, her preschool babysitter, family and friends I hadn’t seen in years.

But people seemed to steer clear of me. Not too many approached. I saw some of Joel’s friends from the softball team he played on when we first got together. I was excited to see them. It had been so long! But none of them looked at me. I finally went up to them.

“You guys!” Two of them had tears in their eyes but tried to smile. One of them hugged me. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “We’re all going to miss him.”

I realized that he was crying. I looked around. My house was packed. There were so many familiar faces! People from yoga, a family we knew from our neighborhood who we ran into on Joel’s birthday trip to Mexico, our neighbors. It made me so happy to see everyone.

But I kept looking for the one face that wasn’t there.

Joel’s.

And then I remembered. Joel wouldn’t be walking out of the kitchen with a plate full of food. He wasn’t going to be coming in from the backyard having just gone for a swim. He wouldn’t be walking through the front door with the dogs from a walk.

He would never be coming home.

I hate the word dead. It’s so cold and final. I rarely use it. Joel is gone, Joel died, but I won’t say he is dead. It’s too shocking, too painful.

But that is why people are filling up my house.

That is why people are looking at me with pity.

That is why people are scared of me.

My husband died.

It hit me hard. My heart was pounding. The room started to spin. I didn’t want to see these people anymore. I started to heave, trying to breathe, but again there wasn’t enough air in the room.

I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I got under the covers in all of my clothes, and the weight of the world came with me.

I miss you, hun.

Where are you?

When will I see you again?

I let myself cry, and after a while, I was able to steady my breath. I clung to Joel’s pillow and liked that it felt wet from my tears. It was proof that this was real. I needed proof because it was all too hard to believe.

My body relaxed. I thought of Joel, I tried to see him smiling and laughing, but all I could do was see him in the hospital. He was tired. So tired. He was suffering. I ended his suffering. Now mine was beginning.

Who will end mine?

I felt deflated and not just alone, but lonely. My house was full of people—people who would all be leaving. Going back to their own homes with their spouses. They’d share their disbelief that Joel had died.

He was young. He had more life to live. It’s so sad!

They’d express their concern for poor Melissa . . . and poor Sophie.

My house was full of love and sadness. I had never seen so many people under my roof.

None of them knew what I knew. That Joel was in bad shape long before he went to the hospital. They didn’t know how anxious Joel felt going to bed at night because waking up every day he was met with uncertainty over how he would be feeling. Would he be able to get out of bed? Would he be able to concentrate at work? Would he be able to safely get Sophie to school? These are the thoughts that kept him awake at night.

“I won’t use it!” Joel said angrily when I told him I had applied for a disabled parking placard for him earlier that year.

“But you need it! There’s no shame in it.”

“I can still walk,” he said. “You act like I’m incapacitated.”