Widowish: A Memoir(8)

I knew why Joel was asking. I turned to face him.

“I need to bring in some steady income again,” I said.

“That would help,” he said. “I’m sorry, hun. I just . . . I’m not sure how much more I can work. I don’t . . .” His voice cracked. This was killing him. I sat down next to him. Buried my head in his shoulder.

“I just don’t feel well. I can’t keep working if I’m like this,” he said, welling up. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” I said. I rubbed his back. “It’s OK. We’ll be OK.”

But my mind was racing.

Joel is suffering. He’s getting worse. I need to do something to help.

The next day I started calling agents and producers I had worked with in the past. I sent emails and set up lunches. I had an idea for a half-hour show and decided to write that script on spec and use it as a sample to get hired on an established show. If I could garner interest in my spec and someone was interested in producing that, great, but a staff writing job was the goal. The work and income would be consistent.

I worked on my idea. I wrote the script over a few months and felt good about using it as a sample. I had planned to start sending out my script the following Monday.

But that was the weekend I took Joel to the emergency room.

Once he was settled in his hospital room—as if it were a hotel!—I wanted to get home and disinfect the house and do laundry. I didn’t want Sophie or me to catch whatever Joel had. We needed to stay healthy.

I don’t want Sophie to worry.

I don’t want Joel to get worse.

What is happening to my husband?

That first night Joel was in the hospital, Sophie slept in bed with me. I tried to stay positive when I told her before lights out, “You’ll spend tomorrow with Nana and Papa doing something fun! Then I’ll meet you at the hospital in the afternoon so you can visit Daddy.”

“OK,” she said with a yawn.

This seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan.

I returned to the hospital the next morning with Joel’s pajamas and some of his favorite foods. I thought we would hunker down together and hang out . . . but when I got there, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Joel was sitting up in his bed, but he wasn’t alert. His brow was creased, and he seemed to be in distress and speechless. He knew that I was there, but he didn’t acknowledge me. He was out of it in a way I had never seen, and I didn’t know what to do. Doctors came and went, and nurses took his vital signs. It was hard to take in. None of it made sense. I was scared.

Two days before, Joel had been home. He was feverish, but we were joking. He lay in our bed, wrapped in blankets and propped up on pillows, when he said he wanted me to put him out of his misery.

“Just kill me, hun. We need to figure out how you can do it, though, without getting caught.”

I sat down next to him and smoothed a cool cloth on his forehead.

“Yeah, I don’t want to go to jail,” I said, smiling.

“Exactly. What would happen to Sophie?” he wondered. “We need a good plan.”

“How about I smother you with a pillow?” I offered.

“That could work,” he said thoughtfully. He looped his pinky finger with mine. I kissed his hand. We started laughing because we had many conversations like this. It was because of the MS that we had both serious and fantastical ideas about the end of life.

“If I die,” Joel would say, “just make sure you marry a nice guy so that Sophie has a good father figure around.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait,” I’d say. Then I’d add my favorite line: “Jeff Tweedy will be a great stepfather.”

Joel would then say, “I approve.”

The joke was that I could name anyone of the moment: Jeff Tweedy (lead singer of the band Wilco) . . . Howard Stern . . . Marc Maron . . . Anyone who both Joel and I liked for whatever reason. Once when we were at Trader Joe’s, a nice employee found something for us that wasn’t on the shelves. Joel smiled at me, pointed to the guy, and said, “I approve.”

Even when it seemed like he was at his worst, we didn’t think he was going to die. We found relief in the comedic and absurd. It’s how we coped with our lives taking a turn neither of us saw coming.

Nothing that was happening in the hospital now, however, was funny. By Sunday night, Joel was nonresponsive and noncommunicative. I was overwhelmed, confused, and terrified. I was worried for myself, worried for Sophie. The person I needed most was unable to help me . . . and I had no idea how to help him.

Sophie slept with me again the next night. It was early October. She had just started eighth grade. There was so much to look forward to! She was cast in the school talent show that had rehearsals for weeks. Having been in previous years’ musical theater productions, she was determined to get a real part this year. There were school trips planned to San Francisco and New York City, not to mention middle school graduation and then high school. It was a fun time in her young life. She had good friends whom she loved, and she was excited for what lay ahead. I didn’t want any of that to change.

“Daddy’s going to be OK,” I told her that Sunday night.

“When do you think he’ll be home?” She was concerned about him making it to the talent show the following week.

“Hopefully in time to see you perform!” I tried to sound hopeful, but I was at a loss. While she slept, I called the hospital. It was the middle of the night.