Yoni kisses my cheek and climbs into the hospital bed with me. He wraps his arms around me and turns his face toward mine. “Chary, you’ll get off the vent. You’ll get out of the hospital. We’ll get married and have . . .” he trails off, teasing out a smile from me. Both of us know that sentence wasn’t going to end with “kids.” “Everything will be OK. You just need to rest for another day, then you’ll start breathing on your own again.”
Resting my head on his shoulder, I hope he’s right. A mischievous smile sneaks its way across my face. “What if I told you I was pregnant?” I mouth slowly.
“I’d think it was an immaculate conception,” he says, straight-faced.
I begin to silently laugh. “No. What if my whole virginal thing was a ruse and I’d been having other relationships on the side?”
“That’s not funny,” Yoni says blankly. Even the suggestion tortures him a bit, which is exactly what I need at the moment.
I begin listing off the names of my potential sidepieces. Only then does it really become evident how much Yoni’s lip-reading skills have improved.
“That’s not even . . . You would never . . . Shhh . . .” He puts his hand over my mouth and turns on the TV.
“Get out of that bed!” a firm whisper rouses me to consciousness.
“Annette,” says Yoni, rolling off my bedside onto the floor, “we were just watching a movie! We fell asleep!”
“Well, you managed to fall asleep in her bed,” points out Mom. I decide I can best diffuse the situation by pretending to still be asleep.
“Annette, I think I’ve proven . . .”
Mom interrupts. “Nothing. You’ve proven nothing. You think just because Charity’s in the hospital that you’re some kind of knight in shining armor for sticking around. Charity has never wanted for admirers. When she gets out, she’ll have her pick of whom she ends up with. It might be you. But until the two of you are married, you are not to cross the lines I know she has outlined for you. Do you understand?”
“That goes without say . . .”
“I expect you to say it.”
“Of course, Annette, of course,” he says. “I don’t think you know your daughter very well if you think she’s going to abandon her beliefs for a night of passion in a hospital bed.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about,” she scoffs.
With that, I hear the metal legs of two chairs scrape against the floor. Mom and Yoni sit down, and an uneasy silence falls over the room.
I’m glad I kept my eyes shut.
Yoni was right on a number of counts, and certainly about breathing. The next day, doctors begin weaning me again and I’m allowed to walk around the room.
One day, Mom comes in with her arms filled with Styrofoam takeout containers brimming with kapsa and baklava—offerings from the Saudi Arabian and Qatari ladies who are staying in her hotel while their husbands receive treatment at the clinic. Most of them have large families and Mom’s a natural addition to their ranks. They’ve quickly become part of her ever-extending Cleveland “family.”
She gives me a bite of the food. The chicken is plump and moist, the rice fluffy yet crunchy. I could eat this all day! Before I know it, I’m licking honey and rosewater off my fingers—the last remnants of my Middle Eastern feast. Mom hasn’t been this happy in a while.
When I go home, I will find food like this and eat it until I’m fat.
Within a few days, I’m transferred back to the step-down unit in preparation for discharge. My legs dangling off the side of the bed, I can think of nothing but how happy I am to be off of the ventilator once again. I bow my head in a prayer of gratitude when the door swings open.
Slim with a short bob, the nurse is attractive and probably in her midfifties. “I’m Barb. I’m going to be your nurse while you’re here.”
“We’re so happy to meet you!” says Mom.
“I’m not your nurse. I’m hers,” Barb dismisses Mom, nodding in my direction. Turning back toward me, she continues, “Trust me. By the time you leave, you’re going to be happy you had me.” She wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm, gives me a handful of pills, walks to the sink, and fills a glass with water. “Mom, discharge is one of the most stressful parts of transplant,” she says as she works. “When she’s ready to go, you aren’t going to believe it. When that time comes”—she looks back to me—“I am going to be your bulldog. Not your mom’s. If need be, I’ll have her dragged out of here by security. I’ve done it before.”
Mom and I glance at each other uncomfortably.
“So just keep that in the back of your mind. Call if you need anything!”
The door closes behind Barb, leaving a pregnant silence trapped in the room. This whole period of recovery has been like experiencing the different stages of childhood in hyper lapse. From waking up to eating to learning to walk. On to trying to be responsible for my own body and my own care. For heaven’s sake, there’s even been drama with boys! In some ways, I fear that letting me live my own life is going to be almost as painful for Mom as staying in this hospital—it’s just a different way to lose me. But this is the first time that someone has acknowledged the dynamic that has been slowly building between us. Up until now, it’s been more like my great-grandma Dick’s Jell-O salad—we both know it’s there and we’ll have to eat it soon enough, but we’d prefer not to think about it.
A doctor comes in to check on us. “Well, Charity’s doing extremely well, isn’t sh—”
Before she can finish her sentence, Mom pounces. It’s clear that Barb struck a nerve. “Excuse me, Doctor, but a week ago we were told that ‘Charity’s doing extremely well.’ Later that night, she had a major decompensation which sent us back to the ICU for nearly a week. If you even mention discharge, I’ll have a very hard time taking your medical advice seriously.”
“Well,” the doctor falters, blindsided by Mom’s furor, “that is why Charity’s here. She’s preparing for discharge. Maybe in days, maybe weeks. Either way it’s getting close and we’ll have to talk about it.”
“But not in some sort of imminent way,” Mom clarifies. “We almost lost her.”
Silent, tense stares are exchanged between Mom and the doctor, the doctor and me, and Mom and me. For a few moments, we sit frozen in a sort of psychological Mexican standoff. Then, wordlessly, we all agree that now isn’t the time to talk about “it” or anything else, and we each retreat to our respective corners of the hospital.
Each day since returning from the ICU, I visit the stairs. It’s great physical exercise, but it’s even more important mentally. What was the most physically strenuous and draining activity I’d ever engaged in is now something I look forward to. It’s a very real reminder that, if I’m determined enough, I can accomplish the impossible.
It’s December. For me, tucked away in the heart of the hospital, the weather is always the same—on the chilly side of tepid. But the scene through the window looks blustery. Liberty, Mercina, and Glorianna are in town for winter break. They accompany me to the hospital staircase. Liberty holds one of my hands as Glorianna stands beneath us with a video camera. Today, I’m going to climb the entire flight. I pull up one foot followed by the other, and the steps come almost easily. Soon, Mercina trades places with Liberty and I go for a second flight. I go until we run out of stairs.
Discharge is becoming more and more inevitable. I’m hoping, praying, that I’ll be home in time for Christmas in Colorado.
On December 20, Kelynn, the discharge nurse, walks into my room. Tall with dozens of black braids neatly combined into two massive twists, she’s at once friendly and in control. “Charity,” she says, in a warm, mezzo voice. “You’re going home soon . . .”
“Not that soon,” interjects Mom.
“She has to gain two pounds, but then she’ll be ready. Theoretically, she could be home before Christmas.”
A flash of excited energy shoots down my spine. Home for Christmas!?
“Oh, no,” Mom insists. �
�That’s impossible. Kelynn, I’m sorry, but look at her.”
I feel my heart crumple. In the past four years, I’ve spent roughly half of all major holidays in the hospital. If I add another to the tally, I’m afraid my spirit might just curl up and die.
“Annette, we’ve been going over her paperwork carefully,” Kelynn explains. “She’s off of the ventilator and off of oxygen entirely. She’s walking. She has use of her hands and arms. Her balance is improving. She eats on her own. She’s off of nearly all pain medication and her vital signs are normal. The social worker said that once she could climb stairs, she’ll be ready to go home. And I’ve heard she can climb a lot of stairs.”
Mom is furious. She’s heard this sermon too many times before, and it’s never ended well. She stalks out of the room and attempts to slam the door behind her, but hydraulic stops leave it to squeeze shut gradually.
After a few moments, I turn to Kelynn. We both know I need to get out of here.
“This is your microspirometer,” she says. “You blow into it every day and it measures your lung volume.”
Microspirometers; incentive spirometers; positive expiratory pressure devices—Kelynn takes me through the breathing exercises I’ll have to do daily when I leave. Then she starts on my dozens of medications and when precisely I have to administer them. There’s Prograf at 8:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. sharp; Noxafil with meals; antibiotics, steroids, antivirals, antifungals, magnesium, folic acid, oxycodone as needed for pain. In all, there are over thirty pills a day. There’s so much information, my head starts to spin. Kelynn stops herself midsentence—
“You know, this is a lot. How about I come back tomorrow to finish up?”
I nod gratefully and she says goodbye. The door shuts behind her and, for the first time in months, I’m actually alone. Thinking about everything is overwhelming. How will I learn it all in a couple days? Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I’m not ready. But if I stay here much longer, I’ll either get sick again or go crazy. Maybe both. May the best option win.
Step-down is like a mini Middle East, but less healthy and more peaceful. My neighbor to one side is a famous Kuwaiti businessman. On the other, it’s an Orthodox rabbi. A Saudi princess is recovering from surgery at the end of the hallway and her entourage fills half of the hospital wing. Then there’s Mom and me. We’re both Ashkenazi, but Yoni lends us some Semitic cred.
One night, I’m on a walk with Yoni around the ward. We pass a young woman and I smile at her—as is my habit. She smiles back as our paths cross. Then, just before reaching the door at the end of the hall, she doubles back.
“I am so sorry,” she says, with the faintest accent. “I’m Huda. Your names?”
We introduce ourselves.
“Oh!” says Huda. “Yonatan—that’s Hebrew for Jonathan, right? Are you Israeli? My grandfather—the only woman he ever really loved was Jewish. He was going to take her as his third wife, but his first wife forbade it . . .” She pauses. “Well, anyway, my father—he’s here. He’s— I think he’s almost next to your room.”
“How long has he been here?” I ask.
“Let’s not even go into that,” she says with a sad smile. “I love it here, though. I have a brother in Washington, DC, and another in Aspen. The Cleveland Clinic is just our third home in your country.”
“That’s like my family,” I say, smiling at our similar geographies. “I’m from Colorado, but my family lives in DC and Denver!”
“What a tiny world in this hospital.” She shakes her head in happy disbelief. “Will you be home for Christmas?”
My eyes fall slightly. “I’d love to, but I doubt it. And I feel terrible because we always have a wonderful holiday party on December twenty-third. But since I’m in the hospital, my family is going to cancel it so we can spend Christmas here.”
“No, no, no!” insists Huda. “You cannot miss your party! We’ll just have to have it here instead.”
We immediately delve into plans together. When Huda walks off an hour later, Yoni smiles. “It looks like you’ve found a kindred spirit.”
Over the next days, the entire family arrives in Cleveland. Zen arrives on Monday with Shiloh. Corban follows with his girlfriend, Narae. Levi, then Kimber and David and their daughter arrive next, and, finally, Tomicah, Sarah, and their two sons join the melee.
Just like we planned, we have our party on the twenty-third. The girls set up in the lobby of our wing of the hospital, decorating with paper chains and popcorn garlands. The party is a reunion of some of my favorite people I’ve met during my stay in Cleveland. Michelle, the nurse who brought me the matzo ball soup; Rodney and Raven who’ve transported me all of the way from surgery to where I am now; Nick and Laura—nurses from the ICU; Russ and Bill, my respiratory therapists. Some of our neighbors stop by and a few members of the princess’s entourage come too. Huda has conjured the most amazing Middle Eastern food I’ve ever tasted, and my siblings come with dishes whipped up in our hotel room’s kitchenette. There’s sparkling cider, beautiful cheese, and fruit. There’s even music! My nurse Katie brings her six-year-old daughter along to serenade us with “Silent Night.” Her crystalline voice reminds me of mine and my siblings’ caroling parties back when we were kids. It’s not Christmas in Colorado, but it ain’t too shabby.
Just as the party is winding down, a magnificent “Ho, Ho, Ho” rings out into the room. Then the swinging white doors open and Santa Claus walks in. Who set this up? I glance at Mom and my siblings, but they all look as delighted and bewildered as I feel.
“Ho, Ho, Ho!” he calls out again.
Santa’s suit is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Shining black leather boots rise past his knees, where they’re met by the deep crimson velvet of his pants. Heavy brass buttons snuggle into pristine white fur to close up the front of his sumptuous jacket. Behind him, he carries a large velvet sack. One by one, he removes gifts from it with white-gloved hands, giving a gift to everyone in the room. When he gets to me, I notice a few stray black hairs peeking out from underneath his beard and gold-rimmed bifocals frame friendly black eyes.
Turns out our Santa Claus is a prince!
Somehow, this dreaded hospital holiday has climbed the ranks in my “Most Magical Christmases Ever” list. But I still tire easily. Sensing my nervousness, Yoni helps me back into my bedroom, closing the door behind us.
He turns on some Christmas music and takes me by the hand, placing his other hand on the small of my back. Together, we dance. Twirling me slowly, we manage not to get caught in my monitors, cords, and tubing.
“Let’s go downstairs to the chapel, just you and me, and get married,” he whispers into my ear.
I laugh.
“I’m not joking! Let’s do it!” he repeats, this time more emphatically.
“Yoni, do you know how angry my family would be if we got married downstairs without inviting them?”
Blushing slightly, he looks down at his feet.
I lean in and whisper in his ear. “But even if we don’t get married now, you get bonus points for being romantic.”
Eventually, the music ends, leaving us in silence. All of a sudden, I realize how tired I am. Yoni takes off my shoes and lifts my legs into bed, and tucks me in. Then he pulls up a cot along the left side of my bed, takes my hand, and falls asleep beside me.
I’m not going home for Christmas. It’s disappointing. But I think of a night, many years ago, when another virgin was far from home with the man she loved. Since Mary is the now-celebrated mother of Jesus, it’s easy to forget how hard she had it. Life for me certainly isn’t easy, but I’m here and, right now, that’s enough.
Overnight, Mom, Liberty, Mercina, and Glorianna have turned the hospital room into a Christmas dream. Stockings hang, lights twinkle, and exquisite paper snowflakes drift through the air. It’s lovely. My godmother, Suzie, has sent giant boxes of gifts for everyone here. Old friends visit and we exchange gifts with the other patients on our floor. In the evening, Grandma Nancy and Aunt
ie Margot arrive with an extremely pink hat covered in glittering LED lights. There are plenty of reasons for gratitude, but I can’t help feeling like a failure for once again dragging my family to a germ-infested hospital for yet another celebration.
When Yoni leaves for New York late on Christmas Day, I don’t know how I’m going to cope. Mom’s nervousness has crescendoed into a full-throttled protest against our imminent hospital departure. In my idle moments, I daydream about dosing her with my Vicodin to calm her down. She’s convinced that if we leave the clinic, I’ll die. I’m convinced that if I don’t get out of this place soon, I just might kill someone.
ACT II, SCENE 3:
Leonora
After an impossible journey, Leonora rests in the safety of a convent.
Sono giunta!
At last I am here!
Grazie, o Dio!
I give thee thanks, O God!
Estremo asil questo è per me!
This is my last refuge!
Son giunta!
I am here!
. . .
. . .
. . . a Dio sui firmamenti,
. . . to God in Heaven!
inspirano a quest’alma fede,
May this music bring comfort,
conforto e calma!
comfort and peace to my troubled soul!
—GIUSEPPE VERDI, LA FORZA DEL DESTINO
It’s the morning of December 30, my 107th day in the hospital. I’m finally going home.
Bundled up like a leftover Christmas present, Zenith rolls me out into the cold darkness of morning. Glass doors slide open and a wall of freezing air hits me. My eyes widen and my heart quickens. It feels like I’m waking up all over again.
Mom and Zen help me into the car as quickly as they can, scared that I’ll catch cold. Then we’re off to the airport.
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