“Yes, they arrived:
No change.”
Well, that too is for the best, he consoles himself with dimmed eyes: his Michaelinka is a tough cookie. His wife wants to live. She has whom to live for. She has what to live for…
“The condition is still critical,” Grandpa reports from the department:
“A precise diagnosis, there is none, quite literally.”
Unfortunately, imaging technology, or god knows what, was still in its infancy. And the doctors, too, fumbled in the dark:
“There was no C.T.
And we could not have even dreamed about an M.R.I.”
Helplessness speaks from within him. Even today, when needed, the expensive machinery exists… but in a different hospital…
“Yes, hospitals have an ego, too. Imagine such an absurdity: politics even on one’s sick-bed…”
Grandpa did everything within his power.
“Discretely” held consultations: doctors are also human beings. They, too, can make mistakes. And they, too, must be watched.
“Never trust anybody but yourself”, he commands me.
The neurosurgeon at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem has a different approach:
“We might want to consider drainage. Otherwise…”
Suggests a consultation.
Grandpa conducts himself diplomatically.
The doctors are reluctant:
“Without trust, it’s difficult to function.”
And they, too, are right.
Eventually they give their consent.
The professor from Jerusalem wraps up a long day of surgeries. And toward evening he walks in refreshed.
“How do they do it, the doctors?!” he wonders.
The head of the department welcomes him.
Grandpa paces the corridor.
The consultation drags on.
And he can hardly take the tension…
Finally, the head of the department, in a white coat and the professor in a suit, tie and slight bow of the head, pass by him ceremoniously. The professor nods hello. To the head of the department, Grandpa is invisible. And as one person they are swallowed into his office, at the entrance of the department.
Fear of the boss stresses out the secretary, who urges him into the room.
The professor, proficient in departmental conduct, lets the head of the department have his say, then continues:
“Mrs. Shavit,” he says, addressing the patient before the illness, “has an aneurysm: due to a convoluted fold, probably congenital, the artery wall weakens, until it ruptures. In your wife’s case, a major blood vessel in the brainstem was damaged.”
Removing a skull model from the shelf, he demonstrates step-by-step what happened.
Drainage can be performed.
“However, in her condition, it is inadvisable to move Mrs. Michaela to Jerusalem,” he says, allowing himself a further degree of familiarity.
“First, we must do everything to lower her blood pressure. Otherwise, once I open,” he continues, pointing at the location, “the blood will erupt as if from a fountain. And I won’t be able to see what’s going on, inside, in the skull.”
I, too, shudder at hearing this “naturalistic” style, as he refers to it.
The professor is putting himself at the disposal of the head of the department, and of Grandpa.
And leaves.
In those days they were strict about visiting hours.
Him—they could not drive out.
Grandpa returned to his wife’s bedside.
“Wait on the other side of the door!”
The nurse instructs.
The resuscitation team charges in.
I, too, must know:
Who?
What?
The doctor comes out:
“Shut the door!”
And once again they let him in:
“No change in her condition.”
The same familiar gestures. Perhaps slightly more freedom of movement.
“It will be fine,” I wish along with him.
Grandpa brings over a gramophone and records from home. In the pre-miniaturization era everything was big and cumbersome and heavy. In the corridor he sterilizes everything with cotton balls and alcohol, even the grooves of the records.
The doctors summon the head of the department:
“In her condition—this is not what your wife needs.”
And to the staff’s astonishment, the head of the department does not stand his ground.
In the alienated space, Andrés Segovia, whom his wife so loves, strokes emotion and tenderness on the strings of the classical guitar, and makes his way through the labyrinth of notes in the subtle theme of Bach’s Chaconne.
Holding his breath, Grandpa studies her face:
A reaction—there is none.
The machinery pants and cautions.
The nurse injects.
Pumps.
Writes down.
“On the brink of the abyss—the treatment is second to none in its devotion,” he says, a smile sours on his face.
“No wonder!
When in a state of unconsciousness,” he snickers bitterly, “the sickness is being treated, not the patient…”
In the shortening breaks between treatments, he lets Segovia perform variations on a theme by Mozart.
And…
…As if nothing.
His heart sinks with the large hand of the white clock on the wall.
And every minute, an eternity.
And he longs for the magical touch of the ‘Bachianas Brasileiras’ by Villa-Lobos, who, according to his wife, merges the style of Bach with lively Brazilian music.
“And…
And…
…Not even a blink.”
He prays.
Takes moonstruck oaths.
And vows never to break them.
Even hides talismans under the mattress.
And puts his trust in the second movement of Joaquín Rodrigo’s ‘Concierto de Aranjuez’ in the restrained yet powerful performance of Julian Bream, the British musician, who moved his wife with the virtuosity of his playing and his sensitivity to nuances. “And…
Nothing.”
The music plays.
And the respirator inhales and exhales:
“What a surreal vision…”
And in his heart, love. Faith. Hope.
The doctor is in the “unit.”
“Any improvement?” The tone is businesslike and the gaze is yearning.
“We managed to slightly lower her temperature. To stabilize her blood pressure. It’s possible there might be a bit more freedom in her movements. Her condition could change any minute. As long as the blood vessel still isn’t functioning, there’s no way of knowing.”
“When…?”
“It varies. Usually, within ten days to two weeks from the day of the episode.”
And the “sympathetic” doctor suggests trying to stimulate a response:
“Michaelinka, I’m squeezing your hand.
If you feel it, squeeze my hand back…
Just once…” he begs for his life.
For the god-knows-how-many times, he tells his wife that she wasn’t feeling well and has been hospitalized. He sends her warm kisses and get well soon wishes from Talinka, who is eagerly awaiting her recovery and swift return home.
And in the meantime, until she recovers, he is here.
With her.
Not budging from her bed.
“Please, Michaelinka: one squeeze, just one.”
“That’s it!!!”
He turns pale:
“There’s a response.”
“A response, reflex—it isn’t conclusive. Let her be for now. Try again later…” The doctor peeks over his shoulder.
I count the days with him:
A week has passed.
Eight days.
“In the bat of an eye,” nine.
One day for each of Talinka�
�s years, “the apple of her eye.”
His eyes sink deeper into their sockets.
The tremor in his lips becomes stronger:
Oh, the relationship they have had…
The roaring laughter…
What joie de vivre. What joy of life.” Longing mixes with grief and the intensity is uncontainable.
His face darkens:
On the ninth day, before sunrise, commotion.
Doctors.
Nurses.
No entry. We have an urgent case on our hands.
“How is Michaela Shavit?”
I am anxious with him.
“Not now.
Not here.
Please wait outside.”
Hastened steps. Averted gazes.
His heart foresees foreboding.
I pace the hallway with him.
Time stands still.
And does not stop running out.
The hours go by:
One hour.
Two.
The doctors—evaporated.
Dropped out of sight.
The social worker—nowhere to be found.
Only nurses.
The spark of hope is fading.
His face turns even paler.
And there is no one to talk to.
Two doctors appear.
Unfamiliar faces.
Out of nowhere a senior physician emerges.
The three pass him by immersed in lively chatter, and are swallowed into the gaping mouth of the department.
The senior doctor returns.
Invites him to his office:
“Recurrent hemorrhage…
Multiple system failure…
Clinical death…”
Grandpa’s eyes are torn open.
He hears and nothing sinks in.
And the doctor is in a rush.
And he disappears off the face of the department.
Grandpa shuffles his feet.
Once again puts on a sterile coat.
Covers his nose and mouth.
The red fluid pours out.
Scrubs his hands.
Same bed.
Same Michaelinka.
He strokes her.
Her forehead is warm.
Her cheek, too.
Her hand.
And her toes.
Grandpa says goodbye. And he is unable to part.
He parts. And doesn’t believe he is parting.
And time stands still:
Grandpa is there.
And I am there with him.
Time goes by.
Grandpa, who refuses to be consoled, sinks into his loss:
As long as he aches for her, his Michaelinka is not dead.
To ache less is to part with her more. He does not stop hurting.
To mourn less is to lose more. He lives the tragedy every moment.
“And our Talinka is still tiny.
A little girl.
Merely nine…”
Deeper the sadness seeps in.
“It isn’t fair that I had a mom only for nine years…”
His voice becomes childlike and his face contorts in horror.
“And what do you say to a nine-year-old child who loses her mother?
What is there to say at all…?”
“Mom… was exactly my age now…”
Suddenly I realize.
Grandpa does not respond:
He is with an orphaned child, whose needs he had never been aware of.
Never cooked for her. Never even fried an egg.
Never bought a thing, not even a pin or a shoelace.
Never participated in a parent-teacher conference.
Never accompanied her to a doctor’s appointment.
He is petrified.
Everything threatens him.
Worst of all…
The emptiness in the mornings…
To detach himself from the bed was as hard as parting the Red Sea.
To send the child to school was a preternatural effort.
Apart from Talinka, everything was redundant:
The day.
The night.
Food.
Drink.
He couldn’t swallow a thing.
He was redundant.
And there is no helping hand, a voice from the grave utters from within him.
I, an expert on Sue’s genealogy many generations back, was acquainted for the first time with his parents, Matty and Rivka, who, when “what happened, happened”—were not in good health. And with my grandmother’s parents, Loneck and Bronia, who were saved from the Holocaust but not from the nightmares.
“What is there to say?!” He suppressed a moan.
“Everything is water under the bridge, everything is water under the bridge,” he repeated as if ignoring an ache:
“What happened, happened…
And life must go on.”
Slowly slowly he began doing things his own way, to the best of his ability, which was infinitely inferior to his wife’s:
“And who could compare to her and her mental strengths.
Always attentive.
And what a sense of humor…”
Another wave of longing washed over him.
“Her capacity for containment was a sound box, compared to which even a Stradivarius is but a cricket.”
But he was young, “inexperienced.”
And his life rotated around one axis:
Work.
There was nothing left for him but to hope his Michaelinka knew how much he loved her.
How much he loves her…
His eyelids drooped.
Only the puppies’ barks rasped from time to time.
I, who was beside myself, rolled up the hose.
I put the mop back, too.
“Ellienka,” he said, finally opening his eyes and staring at me. “Why am I telling you all this?!”
As if the valve of a pressure cooker popped. And once the gases of life regulated, it sealed, never to be reopened.
“…What was I talking about?” he looked at me with glazed eyes.
“About Sue, who’s a symbol of devotion and motherhood…” I repeated, until eventually the threads of his tangled thoughts raveled. And in an exhausted voice he began talking again about the needles the insatiable pups stick in her nipples. And about the pain he reads on Sue’s face. And as if mumbling to himself, the more he contemplates motherhood… the more he is pushed into the corner with respect to fatherhood…
“Seven pups he sired, and I doubt he even knows he is a father.
Tell me, Ellienka, with complete honesty:
What is Champion doing?
How is he contributing?
What is he giving of himself to the pups…?
He stood on the bridge he built between two peaks, and looked down at Champion.
“If he didn’t live at home,” I replied, the flickering ember inside me sparked again, “trust in him that he would know exactly what to do. Here, with us, it’s just unnecessary:
So what does it say?
That he doesn’t know he’s a father?
That he doesn’t know how to be a father?
That he isn’t a good father?
That he’s a no-good father?
That he doesn’t care about them?
Why?”
“That’s a fascinating observation.” He was caught by the horns in the thicket of his thoughts: “It has far-reaching implications… An entire worldview is hiding behind it…”
He shifted his supporting right hand. Dropped his left. Fumbled through the pocket of his shirt. Fished out his glasses. Put them on. Pressed them against the bridge of his nose. Looked up. And fixed his gaze on me:
“With your permission, Ellienka, I have another small question for you.” He cleared his throat. “Well: if his family members live in conditions that are more or less acceptable,” he asked with an ambivalent voice, “is that enough for you to consider him a g
ood father… or… perhaps… that is not quite the case?”
If the pups are fine. And Sue doesn’t have a problem. And he—even though you separated him from his family—checks what’s going on in the garage each and every night, that means that in his own way he’s looking out for them. And without sparing him I threw in his face that I don’t forgive any of them—especially not him!—who followed Champion and saw how he treats them.
“So if for him that’s fatherhood, so what?!
So that’s just the way it is.”
Once the stinger of the indignation was removed, the animosity that was consuming me began to withdraw. The walls that had been closing in on me, came tumbling down. And as the distance I kept from myself grew shorter, everything began to take on its former dimensions and colors.
“This is a truly Kafkaesque allegation,” he debated with himself:
“Joseph K also found himself wrongfully accused one day. And what was he guilty of? What was he guilty of?” he kept repeating. “Existence. Sheer existence. Existence, as such. There is a reason that from the very beginning the legal authority is woven warp and weft in his daily routine: at home. At work. Wherever he turns, there lies his guilt. And since we are dealing with existential guilt, the choice is reduced to one of two: either ‘ostensible acquittal’ or ‘indefinite postponement.’ ‘Uma qa mashma lan?’ he asked me in Aramaic, ‘and what does it mean to us?’ he translated. The perpetuation of guilt. “And yet, as long as breath is in him, hope is not gone. And the evidence is that when he is about to be executed, and ‘a window opened out, somebody, made weak and thin by the height and the distance, leant suddenly far out from it and stretched his arms out even further…’ Joseph K wondered: ‘Would anyone help?!’ and parts with the world ‘like a dog!’
A Dog’s Luck Page 7