But I never got it.
For me, easy was sometimes difficult. Without Joel, I worried how I would understand anything.
My heart broke for Sophie more than it did for myself. What must she be feeling? At that point in time, the only experience she had with death was our beloved cat, Puddin’. Losing a pet does not prepare a child for the death of a parent. Her four sets of grandparents were all alive and well.
It’s unnatural for a child to lose a parent before her grandparents.
Just as it’s unthinkable that a parent outlives their child, this was out of order. It made no sense.
The fact that Hal had lost his own father at the same age as Sophie was, thirteen, seemed particularly cruel that he was now, at seventy-three, about to also lose his son.
Elisabeth, too, had lost her mother as a young girl of ten years old.
My mother lost her father at seventeen.
The grandparents provided me with some solace that although this loss seemed unbearable, it was survivable. While Sophie was aware of these facts, losing Joel was no comparison. This loss was hers.
I continued to go to the hospital every day that week. I called a select group of friends to come and say their goodbyes. I thought of who Joel would want to see and who he wouldn’t mind seeing him so compromised. I had acclimated to seeing him nonresponsive with tubes everywhere. But our friends weren’t. They all thought of Joel as energetic and alive. Even with my warning that it wouldn’t be easy to see him like this, it was shocking for almost everyone who came by.
With so many visitors during the preceding days and weeks, I had been growing accustomed to seeing grown men cry, but still, it was crushing every time.
One friend cried so hard he left puddles at his feet.
Another friend went to say goodbye at a time I wasn’t there. He called to tell me about it and had to call me back three times. He was sobbing so hard each time he called that he couldn’t get his words out.
By then I had cried so much that I thought I would run out of tears.
On Halloween, I helped Sophie get ready, and then dropped her at her friend’s house with her plastic pumpkin bucket to collect candy in. She told me that she was excited to go trick or treating with her friends even though she knew she’d be saying goodbye to her dad the next day. But an hour after I dropped her off, I got a call to come pick her up.
When she got in the car, I said, “I’m sorry, Smoosh. I know it’s a rough night.”
She was visibly upset. “It’s my hair!” she cried. “It was supposed to be curled under like Snow White, but it was taking forever and everyone was waiting to leave so we couldn’t finish it. It’s not how I wanted tonight to go!”
I nodded.
“I don’t know why I even bothered going out.” She fished around her plastic pumpkin candy bucket. “I don’t even like the candy I got!”
She cried and was frustrated and quiet on the short ride home. I didn’t know how to comfort her, but I was fairly certain her tears were over something much more significant than hair and candy.
There were eleven of us surrounding Joel in his hospital bed the next morning. Our immediate family, Sophie and I, and Rabbi Hannah. He was still being kept alive when Rabbi Hannah said the kaddish, the Jewish prayer for mourning. There was sobbing, there was shock; the grief in the room was palpable. It was loud. It was ugly. It was painful.
When the kaddish was over, each family member took some private time with Joel. Afterward, they all wanted to leave the hospital. I understood. This was the saddest thing I had ever experienced. They wanted to get away from it. Sophie, too, decided to leave with her grandparents. I would meet her back at our house in a few hours.
I was left alone with Joel. At this point, he was still on life support. The nurses and doctors were giving us our privacy. I am not the kind of person who wears a lot of makeup, but I had some on that day. I even wore my long hair down. I wanted to look pretty. I wanted Joel to remember me that way. I had the thought, He is dying young. What if he doesn’t recognize me when I see him again? I could be old and wrinkly, but he’ll still be young and handsome.
I remember feeling anxious when Rabbi Hannah knocked on the door.
“You’re sure you’re OK?” she asked.
“I’m just staying to say goodbye,” I told her.
“I’m happy to stay with you,” she said.
It was a Friday. A busy day for rabbis, the start of the Sabbath.
“I’m really OK,” I assured her. “My best friend is coming to pick me up.”
I had arranged with Jillian to bring me home from the hospital that day. She texted that she was downstairs and said I should take my time.
“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 ex
pression 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.
As I waited for the elevator, I put on my sunglasses. I continued to cry. I could not comprehend what was happening. My husband just died.
I saw people on their phones; friends were laughing and making plans for the weekend. People were getting on and off the elevator. My husband just died.
As I walked through the hospital lobby and outside its doors, people were driving their cars and looking for parking. Someone was eating a sandwich.
How could they? Didn’t they know? My husband just died.
I saw Jillian’s car. I saw her waiting for me. The sun felt warm on my face. I felt a sense of urgency. I wanted to run! I did not want to look back. I wanted to get home to Sophie.
It was over.
I wanted to tell Joel that I would find him . . .
But as I opened the car door, it didn’t feel like I had left Joel alone inside the hospital.
It felt like he had left with me.
I was not going to let him go.
NINE
Doing Clooney
There’s a mountain trail near my house that I’ve been hiking for about twenty-five years, even before I lived so close to it. It’s a little over three miles long and there are a few different entry points. The trail is actually a wide path that is paved part of the way, then becomes a dirt footpath, and eventually leads you into a residential neighborhood, which happens to be where George Clooney lives when he’s in Los Angeles. Because of this, my friends and I call it the Clooney hike.
There have been times in my life where I do Clooney every day, and other times when there are weeks in between. In the beginning, when Joel and I lived in my Hollywood apartment, my friend Jennie would pick me up on Saturday mornings, and we’d drive over Laurel Canyon to do Clooney. Jennie has since moved back to Chicago, and I’ve had a variety of walking partners over the years. And quite often, I do Clooney on my own.
You are hit with a pretty steep incline at the onset. I have a no-talking rule when starting the climb because even after so many years of schlepping up this side of the hill, I still can’t catch my breath for at least the first ten minutes, let alone carry on a conversation. You zigzag up the mountain for about another twenty minutes after that. It’s rigorous, but the abundance of wildflowers and eucalyptus trees makes up for it. By the halfway point, there’s a reprieve, and a short part of the trail becomes flat with spectacular views of the valley, Mulholland Drive, and snowcapped mountains in the distance. Eventually, you realize that you’re walking downhill. The neighborhood appears just beyond the bend. Soon you’re passing George’s house, and sure enough, you’ve completed the loop, gotten some fresh air, and moved your body in a way that is considered exercise.
In those early days of losing Joel, my life became that hike. I kept expecting to be able to catch my breath. I kept thinking that things might get easier or at least slow down. I was waiting for the reprieve. But things weren’t easy for a long time. I just kept climbing uphill. Conversations were difficult. Catching my breath, impossible. I wanted to stop hiking, stop climbing, but my every day became the climb. It was months before I could breathe again.
I was sitting at our yellow-painted dining table. It was the night Joel died. My neighbor Roxanne was leaving to pick up my dad and Elisabeth from the airport. Jillian had stayed with me since leaving the hospital. Sophie was asleep in my room.
“I’m worried about Joel,” I said to Roxanne as she was heading out the door. “I’m afraid he’s cold. I’m afraid he doesn’t know what’s happening to him.”
I saw Roxanne and Jillian exchange a look.
“I think Joel’s OK, honey,” Roxanne said. “I don’t think he’s cold.”
“I’m worried,” I kept saying. “He’s better when we’re together. I think he’s confused without me there.”
I didn’t know where there was. But I believed what I was saying. I believed that Joel was lost that night. That he was confused and didn’t know where to go. People talk about seeing a white light when you die. That you travel through a tunnel, toward the light, and that family and friends who have passed are there to meet you. But with the exception of his grandmothers, who had died years and years earlier, there was no one “close” to help show him the way. No contemporaries, no one who had a first degree of separation. This thought had me reeling.
“He doesn’t know what to do,” I cried. “He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.”
Jillian offered her comfort, too. “I think Joel’s OK,” she kept saying. “I don’t think you need to worry.”
But worry became my new normal.
Earlier that day, when I got home from the hospital, I held Sophie, and we cried.
“I really believe this, Smoosh,” I said to her. “I don’t think that Daddy would have let go if he didn’t think we’d be OK on our own.”
“I think so, too,” she said. Whether or not my thirteen-year-old really agreed with me, I wasn’t sure. But she was following my lead. I wanted to comfort her more than anything.
“We’re going to be OK,” I cried to her. “We’ll be OK.”
I was convincing myself of this, too. It was just the two of us now. I felt the weight of that responsibility immediately. I was mad at Joel for leaving us, but I was happy that he was no longer suffering. I could not get the thought of him in the hospital out of my mind. I kept trying to remember him from our life together, but I couldn’t get out of the hospital.
I tried to picture him in the mail room of Atlantic. I saw him in his hospital gown.
I tried to remember us breaking the glass at our wedding. I saw the tube taped down around his mouth.
I tried to remember him laughing, elated, telling me, “She’s got so much hair!” as Sophie was being born, but I only heard the machines that were keeping him alive.
If I couldn’t have Joel with me
, physically, I at least wanted my memories. They didn’t exist. They couldn’t. I tried to breathe, but my lungs could find no air. So I tried not to move, for fear I myself would die, too. I tried to make sense of things. I couldn’t. It wasn’t just that my heart was broken, my soul was shattered. All of the bones had left my body. There was nothing holding me up.
Somewhere along the line, Joel and I had decided we wanted to be cremated when we died. But a few months earlier, out of the blue when we were both getting dressed for the day, Joel said to me, “Maybe we should be buried when we die. Recycled back into the earth.”
I shook my head dismissively. “Nope!” I said. “I don’t want to feel guilty for not visiting you in a cemetery. And I wouldn’t want you to feel guilty for not visiting me, either.”
Joel thought about it for a second, then shrugged. “OK.”
It was a fleeting and ridiculous conversation. But now I felt guilty. I wanted Joel cremated so I could keep him close, literally keep him next to me. I still carry some of his ashes in my yoga bag.
I wanted to be alone, but with people. I wanted to gather my thoughts, but not have a thought in my head. I wanted to come to terms with this impossible new reality, but I didn’t want to think about any of it.
Our dogs were also grieving. They had been waiting weeks for Joel to come home. They were anxious and made me cry every time I walked through the door. They expected him. They wanted him.
While Joel was still in the hospital, I had gone into a holistic pet store and burst into tears. The woman who worked there came out from around the counter and held me.
“It’s OK to cry.” She asked, “Is your fur family sick?”
I collected myself and told this woman I had never met before, “My dogs are grieving because my husband is in a coma and they haven’t seen him in weeks. They miss him.”
It all poured out of me. “He had a fever. I thought he was contagious so the first night he was in the hospital, I went home and washed all of his clothes, and our sheets and towels. I didn’t want us to catch whatever it was he had. But now nothing even smells like him anymore, and the dogs don’t understand what’s happening.”
Widowish: A Memoir Page 7