A Widow’s Story: A Memoir

How bizarre all this would have seemed to us, a week ago! This shuffling man in hospital pajamas, trying not to wince with pain, leaning heavily on a young woman therapist’s arm, an IV gurney tugged in his wake.

As Ray is walking—unsteadily, leaning on Rhoda—but he is walking—I am thinking Don’t fall! Don’t fall please.

In the hospital corridors it isn’t uncommon to see patients walking slowly with or without therapists—tugging IV gurneys in their wake. All these days, hours—the IV line has been embedded in the crook of Ray’s bruised right arm—dripping in the antibiotic that, like a magic potion in a Grimm’s fairy tale, has the power to save his life.

An attendant arrives, to take Ray to Radiology for X rays.

It seems that a “secondary infection”—“of mysterious origin”—“nothing to worry about”—has appeared in Ray’s left lung—which is to say, in Ray’s (previously) uninfected lung.

“But—is this bacterial, too?”

(How matter-of-factly this adjective rolls off my tongue—bacterial.

As one might say infinity, light-year, a trillion trillion stars—in the naive speech of the non-scientist.)

The smiling young attendant—female, dark-skinned, cheery and sturdy-bodied—her name tag is Rhoda—says with the bright smile she lavishes on all patients and patients’ relatives who ask such naive questions of her—“Ma’am, I don’t know! The doctor will tell you.”

Which doctor, I wonder—Dr. I_, or Dr. B_?

Bacterial. One thing that I have come to know—the nightmare-vigil has so impressed me, for life—we are not so much surrounded by invisible and very greedy life-forms as enveloped by them—at every instant of our lives—and before our births, in the womb—we are flesh-vessels for these microscopic life-forms that require us for warmth—for warmth and nourishment—those bacteria that benefit us we call, with anthropomorphic instinct, good; those bacteria that seek to ravage us, and destroy us, we call bad.

It is utterly naive, futile, uninformed—to think that our species is exceptional. So designated to master the beasts of the Earth, as in the Book of Genesis!

“Infection”—another problematic term. For by definition any infection is bad—but some are not-so-bad as others.

“Mr. Smith, can you tilt your head this way?—that’s great.”

One of the nurses is shaving Ray’s jaws, that have grown stubbly. This is a task I might have done for Ray myself—or, if we’d thought of it, I could have brought him the right sort of mirror and Ray could have shaved himself.

“Your husband is very handsome, Mrs. Smith. But you know that.”

Without his glasses, eyes closed, Ray does look handsome—his cheeks are lean, and remarkably unlined for a man of his age—his forehead is marred by the faintest frown lines, scarcely visible in this light. As the nurse deftly shaves him, wipes away lather—I feel a sense of unease, that Ray is becoming adjusted to the hospital setting, ever more comfortable with the eerie passivity such a setting evokes—as in Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain in which the young German Hans Castorp arrives as a visitor at the tuberculosis sanitarium in Davos, in the Swiss Alps, in the decade before the outbreak of World War I, and as if in fairy-tale enchantment remains for seven years.

After Ray is shaved he returns to the New York Times scattered across his bed. The visit to Radiology—he was gone for forty minutes—seems to have had no discernible effect upon him—one in a succession of hospital tests—at least not so invasive as others.

Both his arms are bruised, discolored from blood-drawing. Even for a stoic the constant blood-drawing is becoming painful but he doesn’t complain, Ray isn’t one to complain.

He seems not to recall his mildly delusional state of the other day, nor am I likely to remind him.

A room in a nurse’s house! How convinced Ray was, that this was where he’d been situated, for what reason he could not have said. I want to think that one day—maybe—when he’s well, and home—and the hospital vigil is but a memory—I will tell him about this notion of his, and we might laugh about it together.

And how does the remainder of this Sunday pass?—languidly reading, talking, listening to choral music played on a Sunday arts channel on TV. By coincidence this is the identical Sunday-afternoon classical music program that is broadcast on the radio, to which we often listen at home.

Once listening to a recording of Mozart’s Requiem Mass Ray had remarked in that bravado way in which, when you’re young, you might speak of dying, death as if you had not the slightest fear of it—“Promise me you’ll play that at my funeral.”

“But you said the same thing about Verdi’s Requiem Mass.”

“I did? I did?”

This was years ago. This was another lifetime. We were living on Sherbourne Road in Detroit, Michigan. We were living then in the aftermath of the so-called Detroit riot of July 1967—fires, gunshots and looting only two blocks away on Livernois Avenue—a nightmare cacophony of fire sirens, police sirens, random shouts and cries—National Guardsmen deployed to protect municipal property with rifles—an acrid smell of smoke, smoldering fires that lingered for days—this racial tinderbox of an American city as cliché-speech described it that was at the same time our home.

In the hospital, on this February afternoon in 2008, decades later I don’t want to think of this. Of our innocence, ignorance.

We’d been very happy in that house on Sherbourne Road where in an upstairs room—a former child’s room pink-walled and unfurnished except for a desk, a straight-back chair and a single bookcase—I would write my novel them while Ray commuted to the University of Windsor, Ontario, across the Detroit River in Canada.

I was teaching English at that time at the University of Detroit, a Jesuit-run institution at Six Mile Road, about a mile from our Sherbourne Road house. I loved my classes at U.D. and I was very friendly with most of my (mostly male) colleagues but within a year I would leave to teach, with Ray, at the University of Windsor where we remained from 1968 to 1978 in a single-storey brick house on the Detroit River across from Belle Isle . . .

Hospital vigils inspire us to such nostalgia. Hospital vigils take place in slow-time during which the mind floats free, a frail balloon drifting into the sky as into infinity.

In the late afternoon of Sunday, February 17, 2008—as dusk comes on, and deepens to night—it’s decided between us that I will go home early today, and return early in the morning. How exhausted I am suddenly!—though this has been Ray’s best day in the hospital so far, and we are feeling—almost—exhilarated.

Discharged to the rehab clinic on Tuesday?—a few days in rehab and then—home. By next Friday? Next weekend?

I kiss my husband good night. My very nice husband with his smooth-shaven jaws. It is not an extraordinary leave-taking for it feels so very temporary—I will be returning to this room so soon.

“Good night! I love you.”

Chapter 14 The Call (#ulink_5d51a0c6-bc90-5448-b314-844e9df2e1ac)

February 18, 2008. The call comes at 12:38 A.M.

Waking me from sleep—a phone ringing at the wrong time.

There had long been the dread, when my parents were alive, and elderly, and their health crises escalating, of the phone ringing late—at the wrong time.

We all know this dread. There is no escape from this dread.

For finally I’d been able to sleep—in our bed, and with the light out—we’d been feeling so hopeful when I left the hospital in the early evening—the first time since Monday, I was able to shut my eyes, to sleep—and now this feels like punishment—my punishment for being complacent, unguarded—for leaving the hospital early—stunned and dry-mouthed I stumble from bed, into the next room—which is Ray’s darkened study—where the phone is ringing. And when I lift the receiver—“Hello? Hello?”—the caller has hung up.

A wrong number? Desperately I want to think so.

Almost immediately the phone rings again. When I pick it up it’s to hear the words, if not the voice—the voice is a stranger’s voice, male, urgent-sounding—that I have been dreading since the nightmare-vigil began—informing me that “your husband”—“Raymond Smith”—is in “critical condition”—his blood pressure has “plummeted”—his heartbeat has “accelerated”—the voice is asking if I want “extraordinary measures” in the event that my husband’s heart stops—I am crying, “Yes! I’ve told you! I’ve said yes! Save him! Do anything you can!”

The voice instructs me to come quickly to the hospital.

I ask, “Is he still alive? Is my husband still alive?”

“Yes. Your husband is still alive.”

And now I am driving into Princeton in the dark of night—along Elm Ridge Road—onto Carter Road, and left onto Rosedale—Rosedale, which will lead straight into the Borough of Princeton several miles away—these country roads so well traveled by day are deserted by night—there are no streetlights—no oncoming headlights—the roads are dark, snow-edged—I am thinking This can’t be happening. This is not real—this, the very summons I’d been dreading, I’d wished to think with a child’s faith in magical thinking that if I’d dreaded the call, if I’d imagined the very words of the call, surely then the call could not come—that would not be impossible!—though I am desperate to get into Princeton and to the hospital, I force myself to drive at no more than the speed limit—as I’d been careful to drive slowly and with as much concentration as I could summon, during this past week—for it would be ironic, it would be disastrous if I have an accident at such a time—when Ray is waiting for me—through a roaring in my ears the telephone voice has acquired a more urgent tone—almost, a chiding tone Still alive. Your husband is still alive. Aloud I say, “He is still alive. My husband is still alive”—in a voice of wonder, terror, defiance—“Ray is still alive”—such pathos in still, so provisional and desperate—this past week I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself, instructing myself—encouraging myself as one might encourage a stumbling child You can do it. You will be all right, you can do it. You will be all right! When I’d thrown on clothes in the bedroom, to prepare for this frantic journey, this admonishing voice had lifted in a semblance of bemused calm—Be careful what you wear, you may be wearing it for a long time.

In the ghost-white Honda I am veering over the yellow line into the other lane, for some reason I am having difficulty gripping the steering wheel—my hands are bare, the wheel is cold yet the palms of my hands are slick with sweat. I am having difficulty seeing, too—the road ahead, in the Honda’s headlights, looks smudged. I think that there is something wrong with my vision—it’s as if I am peering through a tunnel—in the periphery of my vision there are shadowy figures—beyond the snow-edged road—I’m afraid of being struck by a deer—in this area it isn’t uncommon for deer to wander out into the road and even at times to leap into the path of a vehicle as if hypnotized by headlights. Now my voice lifts frightened, thin—“Is Ray going to die? Is Ray going to—” I am not able to acknowledge the possibility as I am not able to acknowledge the terror I feel, and the helplessness—such frustration as I enter Princeton Borough and the speed limit drops to twenty-five miles an hour—here, I must wait for a very long time—how long, how long!—a nightmare of lost time!—waiting for the red light to change at the intersection of Hodge Road and Route 206—which is called State Road in Princeton—there is no traffic on State Road as there is no traffic on Hodge Road—no traffic anywhere in sight—yet I am obliged to wait at the light, I am too fearful of driving through a red light, too conditioned to “obey” the law and at such a time especially—at last the light changes—I drive to Witherspoon Street, turn left and drive several blocks to the hospital—past darkened houses—I am able to park in front of the hospital, at the curb—only one other vehicle is parked here, at this time of night—desperate I run to the front door of the hospital which of course is locked—the interior of the hospital, semi-darkened—yet more desperate I run to the ER entrance which is around the corner—my breath is steaming, panicked—I am pleading with a security guard to let me into the hospital—I identify myself as the wife of a man “in critical condition” in the Telemetry unit—several times I give my husband’s name—Raymond Smith!—Raymond Smith!—thinking how astonished Ray would be, how embarrassed, in the hospital too much is made of things he’d said the other day—the security guard listens to me politely—he is middle-aged, dark-skinned, sympathetic—but can’t let me inside before making a call—this takes some time—precious seconds, minutes—like butterflies with frayed wings thoughts fly at me in random and frantic succession He is still alive. It’s all right. He is waiting for me, I will see him, he is still alive. How frustrating this is, how strange, whoever called to summon me to the hospital hasn’t made any arrangement for me to be allowed inside—maybe there is some mistake?—the wife of Raymond Smith isn’t supposed to be summoned to the hospital?—someone else is expected?—but then the security guard informs me that yes, Mrs. Smith is expected on the fifth floor, I can enter through a door he opens—blindly I run through this door and find myself in the hospital lobby—at first not recognizing the familiar surroundings, twilit and deserted—how eerie it seems, no one is around—the foyer is empty, the information desk darkened—the coffee shop darkened—my panicked heart is beating like a frantic fist as I run to the elevator—ascend to the fifth floor—now stepping out of the elevator I am terribly frightened, turning left for Telemetry as usual I taste cold at the back of my mouth This is not happening, this is not real—of course, Ray will be all right. In Telemetry there is no one around—except at the nurses’ station—lights, white-clad figures—in my distraction I don’t see any nurses I know—by the way they regard me, with impassive faces, they know—must know—why I am here, at this time of night when no visitors are allowed in the hospital; and now—at the farther end of the corridor outside my husband’s room I see a sight that terrifies me—five or six figures—medical workers–standing quietly outside the opened door—as if they have been awaiting me—as I approach one of them steps forward—a young woman doctor—a very young-looking woman, a stranger to me—silently she points into the room and in that instant, I know—I know that, for all my frantic hurrying, I have come too late—for all my scrupulosity in driving at the speed limit, waiting for the light to change like a programmed robot, I have come too late—in a trance I enter the room—this room I’d left only a few hours before in utter naivete, ignorance—kissing my smooth-cheeked husband Good night!—our plans were for me to arrive early tomorrow morning—that is, this morning—I was to bring page proofs for the upcoming Ontario Review—but now Ray is not sitting up in his bed awaiting me—he is not awaiting me at all but lying on his back motionless in the hospital bed, which has been lowered—I am shocked to see that there is something not-right here—Ray’s eyes are closed, his ashen face is slack, the IV tube has been removed from the crook of his bruised right arm, there is no oxygen monitor, there is no cardiac monitor, the room is utterly still—Ray’s eyelids don’t flutter as I enter, his lips don’t twitch in a smile—I don’t hear his words Hi honey!—numbly I come to the bed, I am speaking his name, I am pleading with him as a child might—“Oh honey what has happened to you!—what has happened to you!—Honey? Honey?” For Ray seems so very lifelike, there is no anguish or even strain in his face; his face is relaxed, unlined; his hair is not disheveled; it is true that he has lost weight this past week, his cheeks are thinner, there are hollows beneath his eyes which are beautiful eyes, gray-blue, slate-blue, I am leaning over him as he lies motionless beneath a sheet, I hold him, I am frantic holding him, kissing him, I am crying for him—urging him to wake up, this is me—this is Joyce—this is your wife I am pleading with him for Ray is one to be coaxed, persuaded—he is not a stubborn man—he is not an inflexible man—if he could he would open his eyes and greet me, I know; he would murmur something amusing and ironic, I know; I hold him for as long as I can, I am crying, his skin is still warm but beginning to cool; I am thinking This is not possible. This is a mistake; I am tempted to shake Ray, to laugh at him—This is not possible! Wake up! Stop this!—for never in our lives together has anything so extraordinary happened, between us; never has anything in our lives together so divided us; I am telling him that I love him, I love him so much, I have always loved him; now the young woman doctor has entered the room, quietly; the others remain in the hall, looking in; in a lowered voice in which each word is enunciated with precision the young woman doctor whose name has flown past me, whose name I will never know, explains to me that everything possible had been done to save my husband, who had died just minutes ago—he’d gone into unexpected cardiac arrest—his blood pressure had plummeted, his heartbeat had accelerated—it was a secondary infection and not the original E. coli infection that had driven up his fever—within just the past few hours—his left lung was invaded, his bloodstream was invaded—though they tried very hard there was nothing more to be done.

I am too stunned to reply. I am too confused to know whether I am meant to reply. It is very difficult to hear the woman’s voice through this roaring in my ears. I think that I must look distraught, crazed—the blood has drained from my face, my eyes are leaking tears—but I am not crying, not in any normal way am I crying—with what frayed remnant remains of my sense of social decorum I am trying to determine what is the proper response in this situation, what it is that I must say, or do; what is expected of me? It won’t be until later—days later—that I realize that Ray died among strangers—all of these medical workers gathered in the corridor outside his room, strangers—Dr. I_ is not here, Dr. B_ is not here, Dr. S_—Ray’s cardiologist for several years—is not here; none of the other ID specialists who’d dropped by to examine Ray and to speak with me is here; smiling Nurse Shannon of whom Ray was so fond is not here, nor even chattery Jasmine.

It is 1:08 A.M. Late Sunday night. None of the senior medical staff is on duty at such an hour. No one of these medical workers including the young woman doctor is more than thirty years old.

I will not hear from any of the staff who’d become acquainted with Ray this past week in Telemetry. Not even Dr. B_ who was the admitting physician and whose signature I will discover on the death certificate noting that Raymond J. Smith died of cardiopulmonary arrest, complications following pneumonia. 12:50 A.M. February 18, 2008.