My Glory Was I Had Such Friends, page 30
Even so, Ann remains convinced that the mishap was her doing. She is well aware of the protocols outlined in the emails and how her first night in my hospital room diverged from them. As I see it, though, a bit of nonconformity during my sister-in-law’s visit is both fitting and welcome. In contrast to my tightly wound and routine-focused friends and me, Ann is refreshingly spontaneous and intuitive. She goes with the flow and the feel of the moment with an easy confidence that I admire and sometimes try to emulate (with only modest success).
It is because of Ann’s unique influence that I have dared to hold the reins of control more loosely at times and to take an unexpected path every now and then. She’s the only friend of mine who still possesses a few hippie sensibilities alongside her more conservative ones, moving seamlessly between the far-out and the predictable. A modern dancer by profession in her early life and a therapist in her current line of work, Ann operates on the soul level by seeking substance over form. She tends toward platform clogs (comfortable), the do-it-yourself hair dye (less ado), and the calm, balanced mothering of her two Free to Be You and Me daughters (more harmonious). There is a glow of joy in her home that is enviable—an absence of pressure that invites long, serene exhalations. I’ve been fortunate to settle into the rocking chair in Ann’s living room often, where I feel myself floating above it all.
Married for the past twenty years to Scott’s brother Gary, Ann has been a constant and vital presence in my life. By her seamless, worry-free approach to slipups—which she usually laughs off easily and waves away with a swish-flip of her hand—my dear sister-in-law, who is older than I by a few years, reminds me of my much younger self, when not every action had monumental consequences and not every inaction felt like such a great big deal. In her take on life, a missed opportunity only opens the chance for another try at it. I’ve reflected on this quality in Ann a lot lately, contemplating whether I might cut myself some slack—maybe even bend a rule or two. What harm could come and who would know?
Last night in my hospital room, however, Ann set out to do a very specific job that had been perfected and set out in detail by her predecessors. She brought full intention to it and relied on her night owl nature to help see things through, but she knew the minute she woke this morning that all had not gone according to plan: “Uh-oh . . .”
“No, Ann, it’s okay—really.”
“I didn’t, did I?”
“Yeah, you did. But it’s fine. I figured it’s about time I try to get through the pacing on my own a bit. There’s nothing anyone can really do to make the pain go away faster, so—”
“Just can’t believe I slept through—”
“Ann, all the girls would have slept through if I didn’t scream to wake them. But last night, I chose to try to handle it myself.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Okay . . . I understand.”
“And I did okay, see that? Good to know that I’m not a completely dependent mess. . . .”
It strikes me how much I want to put Ann at ease. Things have changed—I have changed—since Jill occupied the cot as my first friend visitor over a month ago. At that time, it was all about what I needed from those around me—most specifically, getting them to understand. But since then, the understanding has come to flow both ways. Where I used to be so hungry to take in empathy, now I am just as eager to give it.
I put my hand on Ann’s shoulder and look into her eyes. “Do you know how happy I am that you’re here?”
She swats at me, half smiling. “Yeah, yeah. But I promise you—I will stay up the entire night tonight so you won’t be tempted to let me sleep . . .” She pauses, smoothes her hair back nervously and sighs, as if doubting her own pledge
Only reparative action would soothe her. So when Scott came in this morning ready to put his sneak-out plan into action, Ann rose to the occasion at once, hell-bent on carrying it out perfectly.
She listens now to Scott’s reiteration of her role with unblinking eyes.
“The shower will be running and the bathroom door will be closed, right? So, if a doctor or nurse comes in, just tell them Amy’s still in the shower and they should come back in about twenty minutes.”
“Right. I got it.”
“Thanks, Ann,” I say, signaling for Scott to pull the two telemetry leads off my back. “I still feel funny about this plan, though . . .”
“What’s the worst that can happen? You get caught and we don’t get to do it again.”
“Again? I say we do this once . . . That’s all I have the nerve for.”
“You got this, Ames. You got this,” Ann assures me.
“Okay, press away . . .” Scott says, handing me the nurse call button.
“Hello, can I help you, Amy?”
“Yes, hi. I’m going to take a shower. My friend is here with me, so I don’t need any help. I’m taking off my telemetry now, okay?”
“Thanks for letting us know. Enjoy your shower!”
“Thanks.”
“All right, here we go,” Scott says. “Ann, you head out first and tell us if it’s safe to come.” He walks me to the door, and I secure a yellow surgical mask over my mouth and nose. Ann steps into the hallway and he peeks out after her, watching as she walks to the intersection where we will turn toward the elevator. “That’s a thumbs-up—let’s go!”
“Holy crap,” I murmur as he clasps my hand tight, leading me out the door.
We reach the sharp left that leads to the elevator. Ann is there, again with a thumb pointing up. She runs ahead of us and pushes the down button in the vestibule—a move that was not articulated as part of Scott’s plan but is terrifically helpful. By the time we arrive, the elevator is already there and waiting for us. “Pressing the button—great idea, Ann. Great!” I say, stepping inside swiftly.
“Good luck, you guys,” she says, and the doors close.
We’re not alone in here, Scott and I. There are a few others heading down with us in the elevator—two nurses, a doctor, and two people in street clothes. I’ve got a mask on, but this is not necessarily suspicious since transplant and chemotherapy outpatients wear masks in hospital settings. So do visitors who might have a cough. What I’m afraid may give me away, though, is the way my mask keeps flapping smack up against my mouth when I breathe in—fast, fast, fast. I’m gasping. Scott notices, and grips the length of my arm from elbow to wrist. He pops his eyes at me—I got you, I got you . . .
We step out into the lobby.
People moving, everywhere! There’s a Starbucks kiosk—Look how long the line is! Everything is fast and bustling and incredibly alive. I hear the street sounds from close up now. And there’s light . . . I’m moving toward natural light!
I take off the germ mask as Scott pushes open the door. We step outside. “And here’s the courtyard,” he says, “just like I told you. See the outdoor sculpture? This one’s a fountain, but they turned off the water because of the drought. We can sit. You want to sit?”
I don’t respond.
“Amy, you all right?”
I nod. I’m still struggling for breath. But this is not what catches my words in my throat. I am overwhelmed. All of this life around me! All this air! And open space! And the sunshine, oh, the sunshine . . .
“Is the sun this bright in New York?” I ask Scott. “I don’t remember sun like this. Oh, honey! I forgot how beautiful . . .” I’m crying.
Scott takes me by the arm and leads me to a ledge where I can sit. I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky. “Ahhhh . . . so good . . .”
“I told you so. This is just what you need.”
“You were right, Scotty. I feel like I’m dreaming . . .”
“We can’t stay long, though,” he says, taking my hand with tenderness.
“Okay, okay. But I know it’s here. And now I know I can come see it. Feel it on my skin. I’ve been in a hospital room for so long . . .”
“Give me a kiss,” he says, tapping my chin with his finger.
I open my eyes and then close them again, and we kiss.
I feel the strange sensation of a real smile stretching my mouth, my face.
Happiness.
This is all it takes—five minutes under a bright, clear sky and one kiss from Scott, and I am supremely, utterly, immediately blissful.
Scott turns to me again. “This is what you’re doing it for—for us . . . for our life together . . . for little moments of sunshine and blue. That’s all we need to be happy. You’re going to get that heart, Amy. We have to keep hoping . . .”
“Yeah, okay . . . okay,” I say, blinking away tears as he guides me up from the ledge and toward the hospital lobby doors.
“You can do this again tomorrow,” he says, smiling.
“I want to . . . I really do . . .”
“Then we will.”
I secure my germ mask in place, and we step inside the building, leaving all color and light behind us. The lobby is dim and the ceiling feels awfully low. We step into the elevator and Scott presses six. It’s the first time I’ve seen my floor button pressed. I realize with a start: this is what Lauren has done . . . and Jill and Joy and Leja and Robin and Val . . . and Jody and Jack and Ann . . . and my father and the rabbi. And Scott—my wondrous, adoring love and lifeline—who has pushed that button more than anyone, all day long, every day, for so many weeks. How strange to be standing here with him when he presses it yet again, delivering me back to my waiting list sickbed.
But maybe over the next ten days, I hope, a surgeon carrying a cooler with a donor heart packed in ice will press this same button, lift up through this same elevator shaft, and save my life.
Oh, to be able to live. To stand in the sun again with my Scott.
From: Joy Ceterra
Subject: Hello Friend
Date: May 3, 2014 at 9:28 PM
To: Amy Silverstein
Hi Amy . . .
I have to say, you have such wonderful friends. I’m sorry it has taken these past few months for me to get to know them on a deeper level. They are so warm and lovely and supportive even to me these past months—part of me wishes I had stayed in NY and had the opportunity to get to know you all as a group even better. It makes me happy to know you’ve been surrounded by so much love in your life—Scotty of course, but these wonderful people too. Each so different, but all wound together in their amazing love for you.
Today . . . I know you felt the sun—the sun . . . something I take for granted. For me, sun is medicine for my soul—so it made me happy to know you were able to feel its wonderful energy today. But I can understand that that feeling it must also have made you feel cheated—that something so simple in concept as the sun on your body is such a rare treat for you as you wait and wait and wait . . . I wish you could feel the sunshine every day to remind you of this simple beauty that awaits you if this heart were to come.
I’m glad you’ve had time with your wonderful Annie. I imagine she’s been a comforting soul, helping you feel cared for and loved.
I’ll see you Wednesday afternoon. I look forward to our talks. Tonight—please try for just a little more sleep with the Valium. Be kind to yourself, friend.
With love,
Joy
After an intensely caffeinated day, Ann feels prepared for the night ahead. She sits in the chair beside my bed and vows again to stay upright and awake all night long. Nothing I say can dissuade her. “I’ve only got one more night here to do it right,” she tells me. “I’m not going to risk falling asleep again. After last night, I don’t trust myself.”
“It’s me you shouldn’t trust—I decided not to wake you.”
“Did you decide not to wake any of the other girls?”
I pause, but not for long—I can be honest with Ann. “All right. I didn’t have the heart to wake you, no pun intended. Can we please drop it now?”
She shrugs. “Okay. But you should feel free to shut your eyes and go to sleep. Don’t let me keep you up just ’cause I’m sitting straight like a scarecrow here.” She has settled herself into a chair beside my bed with an iPad on her lap.
I turn on my side and face her. “My pacemaker is going to keep me up. Give it fifteen minutes—watch. That’s why I dread going to sleep. It’s the worst part of my day. So I’m in no rush to close my eyes.”
“Want to talk, then? We can chat if you want . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, good.”
“But let’s not talk about waiting for a donor heart, all right?”
She chuckles. “Fine with me.”
“Let me tell you, then, about your sweet daughter Abby. Do you know—she’s texted me every night . . . every single night . . . to say ‘I love you’ and good night? And she sends the goofiest pictures. Got one the other day of her on the toilet, in a bathroom stall at school. ‘Thinking of you, Ames,’ she wrote, or something like that. I laughed out loud.”
“She’s a nut muffin.” Ann smiles. “And oh, she loves her Auntie Amy. Maddy too. Both my girls adore you.”
“I adore them.”
“You know, Ames, I’m going to need your help with Abby’s college applications in the fall. I want to talk with you about some schools that might work well for her—where she can play soccer and get academic help if she needs it.” Abby has a learning disability and has to work hard at writing and organization.
“She can do it,” I say. “I have full confidence in her smarts.” I witnessed Abby’s natural aptitude and study capacities just a few months earlier when she was required to memorize a hefty chunk of Romeo and Juliet for English class. Ann delivered her to my house for a dose of Auntie Amy’s literary memorization technique. I taught Abby my method, and she caught on immediately and with enthusiasm, so we went ahead and memorized all the pages in one sitting. I called Ann and told her she could come pick Abby up early, happy to report that she had the material down perfectly. She’s a memorizing whiz, actually. “And if a kid can memorize, she can do well in any subject. Period,” I said.
Abby earned the best grade in the class on recitation day. Still, Ann was no less concerned with finding just the right college where Abby would be sure to thrive—and then there was the matter of prodding her to complete her college applications on time and with full effort. And now this challenge was close at hand: Abby would be finishing her junior year in just two months, and already there had been college-counseling seminars at her school, as well as assignments in English class that were prompts to prepare for the standard college application essay. “I’ll be handing her over to you to help with some editing in the fall, of course,” Ann tells me now.
If I’m here for it, I can’t help but think.
“Actually, she told me she wants to write her essay about you, Ames . . . about the texts she writes you every night and how much she admires you. She’s so proud of those texts, you know.”
“She should be. You know, when you’re young, you want to run away from people who are scary sick, right? Don’t you remember being little and passing a cemetery and holding your breath? What Abby is doing is pretty remarkable—reaching out to me every single night. I tell you, it’s so much more mature than the way my twenty-five-year-old friends acted when I had my first transplant . . . some of them headed for the hills and we never spoke again. Abby is brave.”
“She loves you.”
“Yes, but she’s got something in her, that girl. She’s—uh-oh . . .”
Heaviness.
A pulling in my chest.
And here it comes . . . the searing pain from shoulder to shoulder.
“Ann—I’m pacing, damn it. Ow, ow . . . Oh my God, ow . . .”
She jumps to her feet. “Should I, uh . . . what can I do for you? I, uh . . .”
“This is worse than ever,” I gasp. “Holy crap . . . ouch . . . ouch . . .” I shift my legs over the side of the bed and push myself to standing, hoping it will make my pulse rise. “Help me, Ann. I’m too weak . . .”
She slips her hand around my waist, and I lean my body weight against her. “I got you.”
“Ow . . . ow . . . it’s ripping through my chest!”
“Should I call the nurse?”
“Uh . . . no . . . well, maybe yes . . . I don’t know. The pacing has been a lot worse lately. Let’s, uh . . . give it another couple of minutes . . .”
“Can you stand it?”
“I have to stand it, Ann. This is what my life is now . . .” I press my lips together and feel my eyes well with tears. “But just for ten more days now. And then, no more. No more.”
Ann blinks long and shakes her head. “Just hold on, hold on to me . . .”
“Oh, Annie!” I cry, collapsing against her shoulder. I begin to weep. “Sorry you have to do this . . .” Up until this moment, I’ve tried hard not to let myself cry during nighttime pacemaker firings because it seemed only to make it so much harder on everyone. Friends have attended to these episodes with a loving but mostly logical, problem-solving approach—each woman with her own method and goal of getting me through, it seemed, and an air of confidence, whether real or skillfully feigned. Ann, though, is not capable of methodology; she has no guile. She is simply present, with wide green eyes, not even attempting to mask the tortured twisting of her facial expression or the lack of self-assuredness upon seeing me so ill. Had Ann come earlier in the spreadsheet calendar, I would have been an easier sight to bear and challenge to rise to. But timing and fate have placed her at the closest point to my end and the furthest point from hope; she is here to catch my near-ultimate fall—and I am so comforted by her presence. Her body movements channel serenity—a dancer’s grace in the way she elongates her neck and folds toward me ever so slowly with a gaze of acceptance. I am reminded of a yoga teacher’s whispery instruction to imagine floating on a lotus flower—There’s no need to change anything . . . You’re just as you need to be in this moment . . .
