Widowish: A Memoir(32)

“He had MS. So, yes, moving was difficult,” I answered through my tears.

“Ooh,” she said as if she had finally gotten an answer she was looking for. “He can move now, my dear. He’s so happy; he has his legs. And his bike. Did he like to ride a bike?”

Before I could answer, Candy smiled and giggled a little.

“Oh my God, he’s stroking your face right now. He loves you so much.”

I put my hand on my cheek. I closed my eyes. I could picture Joel standing there, his hand on my cheek, my hand on his hand.

“Who is the boy?” she asked.

“What boy?”

“Do you have a son?” she asked me inquisitively.

“No,” I said, suddenly nervous. I wanted to hear more about Joel. All of this information was coming at me so fast. I wanted her to slow down.

“There’s another man. With a son. I can’t believe this!”

Candy started laughing again. “You are blessed, you know this? This man with a son. He loves you, too.”

I looked at her as if another head were growing from her neck.

“What man?” I said.

“Someone you know,” she continued. “But it won’t last long. That’s what your husband is telling me. But he doesn’t mind. It’s OK.”

What the hell? Another man? Who has a son?! I don’t want another man. I just want Joel!

“I don’t think I want another man,” I said.

She shrugged. “What can I tell you? He’s coming.”

Candy tilted her head as if she were listening. “Maybe this will make sense. Your husband wants me to tell you . . .”

I sat up taller in my seat, leaned in a little closer.

“‘I approve,’ he’s saying. He approves.”

She opened her palms and raised her eyebrows as if to say, There you have it.

Two things were made clear to me that day.

1. Joel really was still with us. I could go home to Sophie and tell her. I was so excited! Daddy’s really with us! I would say, He’s here!

And

2. Psychics are nuts.





TWELVE

I’m a Widow

Sissy?” I said into the phone, unable to catch my breath. “I miss Joel!”

“Oh, sissy,” Holly said patiently. “I know you do.”

It was our wedding anniversary, my first without him. We would have been married seventeen years. I was sobbing uncontrollably in my hotel room and had been for hours. I was in Chicago visiting my friend Jennie. Sophie was on a school field trip to San Francisco that weekend, so the timing worked out for me to get out of town. I did not want to be home without Joel on our anniversary. I thought being away with one of my best friends, in one of my favorite cities, at a fancy hotel I decided to treat myself to, would help. But grief doesn’t care about any of those things. Just like MS, it travels with you no matter where you go, no matter how far, no matter for how long.

Jennie and her husband had planned to take me to dinner. They were downstairs in the hotel bar waiting for me.

“I’m not sure if I can make it,” I had cried into the phone an hour earlier to Jennie. “I’m a mess. I can’t stop crying.”

“OK, I totally get it. We’ll wait in the bar, and if you feel like you can pull it together, great. If not, no pressure. Just keep me posted.”

I thought I would spend my anniversary walking down Michigan Avenue, stopping at a cute café for lunch, buying something nice for myself, and reflecting on my seventeen years with Joel—more if I counted our time together before we got married. Instead, I had left the hotel without an umbrella, got stuck in the rain, got lost trying to find a nice day spa where I could get a massage, and ended up back at the hotel early, soaking wet and sobbing.

“Of course you’re feeling sad,” Holly said. “Joel’s not there to celebrate with. It’s terrible. It’s hard to believe.”

“I miss him!” I wailed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop crying!”

My sister stayed on the phone with me. I was afraid to hang up. I thought my tears would envelop me, that I might drown.

I kept twisting my wedding ring around my finger, hoping that my memories of Joel—younger, healthy, alive—would come back to me. I tried so hard to remember my wedding. Our life together. The way he smelled. But five months later, I could still only remember Joel in the hospital. Barely alive, waiting for me to give the OK so he could die. The only smells I could conjure were the hospital smells. The only memory of us being close was holding Joel’s limp hand in mine, trying to avoid the tubes in his veins. I could not get out of the hospital, as hard as I tried. I could talk about Joel and recall certain events spent with him, but they were dulled. I kept waiting for my memories to become vibrant and real again.

Holly and I eventually hung up. Jennie sent her husband home, and she came up to my room. She, too, was patient. She had lost her mother when she was young, so she understood what grief was like and that it was unpredictable.

After crying for hours and hours, I forced myself to change my thinking. I can cry anywhere at any time. You’re in Chicago, go do something fun, I told myself. That’s what you’d do if Joel were here.

So Jennie and I went down to the hotel restaurant and got some food. I got a fancy cocktail, and we toasted Joel. My tears had subsided. I was breathing again. I slept well that night, but I woke up with a grief hangover. I wasn’t quite myself. My widow fog was clouding my weekend, but it was time to get back home.