reporter, he needed evidence, there was none. I wonder what the old Rich would have to say about the new Rich.
***
Lunch is over, Rich has fallen asleep. "He was a heavy smoker, wasn't he?" three doctors have asked, after looking at his swollen legs. "No," I tell them, wondering what's in store for me, a sixty-three-year-old woman smoking a pack a day. "Rich never smoked," I say, and they look surprised. Well, that is not strictly true. Rich told me that all together in his life he had smoked parts of six cigarettes.
I got hypnotized once to stop smoking. I smoked three packs a day and one late night, condensing George Steinbrenner's biography for the
New York Post
(nothing negative, they told me), I finished four. I called a hypnotist the next day, although hypnotism scared me. What if I couldn't come back from wherever I went? I imagined myself dangling at the end of a fishing rod, flung far into a lake, unable to be reeled back in. What would become of me? Who would inhabit my body? The hypnotist had a long gray ponytail and love beads. "I haven't lost a patient yet," he said. I walked in a smoker and three hours later walked out with no interest in cigarettes. That lasted twenty years.
My daughter Jennifer knows I'm smoking. She can tell over the phone. "I'm just drinking tea," I tell her. She is expecting twins in August, and has every reason to want her mother healthy. "No," I say, "of course I'm not smoking. Do you think I'm crazy?"
A few months ago I was wondering about whether I could afford to hang on to my apartment in the city as well as live full-time up here in this house. Winter was coming and the price of oil high, and the roof would need replacing soon, not to mention offspring who could use help now and then. I worried about this a lot. I tried to imagine selling the place I'd lived for almost thirty years. I didn't feel a huge pang, since all my stuff is up here, what's left of my apartment looks like somebody's half-eaten sandwich. But still, but still.
On Thursday I went to pick Rich up and bring him home for the afternoon.
"I can't leave" was the first thing he said to me.
"Why not?" I asked.
" We've got to sell the apartment," he says, "the real estate lady is coming today." It had been years since Rich mentioned the apartment. I didn't think he even remembered it.
I'm visiting Rich every day at the hospital. I leave my cigarettes in the car. Stroke victims, heart attacks all up and down this floor of the hospital. Is this what I want? I don't even like smoking. I don't want a cigarette. But something with a longer reach than me wants one, and I wind up smoking a pack a day. Ridiculous.
The third day Rich tells me his foot is going to be amputated. He is calm, matter-of-fact. "No," I reassure him. "Nobody's going to amputate your foot. Your foot is fine," but then I wonder. Maybe the episode left him without feeling. Maybe he was numb. Was that why he couldn't stand? Here was a possible clue as to what happened. I stroke his foot. "Can you feel that?" He nods. " That?" he nods again.
"How much sensation makes a toe?" he asks.
Not so long ago I was asked to write an essay about being a caregiver.
But I'm not a caregiver,
I wanted to say,
I'm a wife.
I scribbled notes for days, weeping with frustration and sadness, still defensive, still justifying my decision not to bring Rich home to live.
But I couldn't have done it,
I kept reminding myself,
nobody could have.
When I went to see Rich that week he mentioned our troubles. "What are your troubles?" I asked, and clear as a bell, this was his answer: "I want to leave this place and go back to New York City. I don't think they're doing much for me here and I think I could be released in your care."
***
I keep wondering where Rich went when he vacated his premises. He sat on a chair in the common area, his head down, hands folded. His face was expressionless. But it's impossible not to interpret even a blank look; our species' survival can
***
Lunch is over, Rich has fallen asleep. "He was a heavy smoker, wasn't he?" three doctors have asked, after looking at his swollen legs. "No," I tell them, wondering what's in store for me, a sixty-three-year-old woman smoking a pack a day. "Rich never smoked," I say, and they look surprised. Well, that is not strictly true. Rich told me that all together in his life he had smoked parts of six cigarettes.
I got hypnotized once to stop smoking. I smoked three packs a day and one late night, condensing George Steinbrenner's biography for the
New York Post
(nothing negative, they told me), I finished four. I called a hypnotist the next day, although hypnotism scared me. What if I couldn't come back from wherever I went? I imagined myself dangling at the end of a fishing rod, flung far into a lake, unable to be reeled back in. What would become of me? Who would inhabit my body? The hypnotist had a long gray ponytail and love beads. "I haven't lost a patient yet," he said. I walked in a smoker and three hours later walked out with no interest in cigarettes. That lasted twenty years.
My daughter Jennifer knows I'm smoking. She can tell over the phone. "I'm just drinking tea," I tell her. She is expecting twins in August, and has every reason to want her mother healthy. "No," I say, "of course I'm not smoking. Do you think I'm crazy?"
A few months ago I was wondering about whether I could afford to hang on to my apartment in the city as well as live full-time up here in this house. Winter was coming and the price of oil high, and the roof would need replacing soon, not to mention offspring who could use help now and then. I worried about this a lot. I tried to imagine selling the place I'd lived for almost thirty years. I didn't feel a huge pang, since all my stuff is up here, what's left of my apartment looks like somebody's half-eaten sandwich. But still, but still.
On Thursday I went to pick Rich up and bring him home for the afternoon.
"I can't leave" was the first thing he said to me.
"Why not?" I asked.
" We've got to sell the apartment," he says, "the real estate lady is coming today." It had been years since Rich mentioned the apartment. I didn't think he even remembered it.
I'm visiting Rich every day at the hospital. I leave my cigarettes in the car. Stroke victims, heart attacks all up and down this floor of the hospital. Is this what I want? I don't even like smoking. I don't want a cigarette. But something with a longer reach than me wants one, and I wind up smoking a pack a day. Ridiculous.
The third day Rich tells me his foot is going to be amputated. He is calm, matter-of-fact. "No," I reassure him. "Nobody's going to amputate your foot. Your foot is fine," but then I wonder. Maybe the episode left him without feeling. Maybe he was numb. Was that why he couldn't stand? Here was a possible clue as to what happened. I stroke his foot. "Can you feel that?" He nods. " That?" he nods again.
"How much sensation makes a toe?" he asks.
Not so long ago I was asked to write an essay about being a caregiver.
But I'm not a caregiver,
I wanted to say,
I'm a wife.
I scribbled notes for days, weeping with frustration and sadness, still defensive, still justifying my decision not to bring Rich home to live.
But I couldn't have done it,
I kept reminding myself,
nobody could have.
When I went to see Rich that week he mentioned our troubles. "What are your troubles?" I asked, and clear as a bell, this was his answer: "I want to leave this place and go back to New York City. I don't think they're doing much for me here and I think I could be released in your care."
***
I keep wondering where Rich went when he vacated his premises. He sat on a chair in the common area, his head down, hands folded. His face was expressionless. But it's impossible not to interpret even a blank look; our species' survival can
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