They drove in silence back to the house. As they pulled into the driveway, David said, “You really need to talk to Katie.”
THAT THANKSGIVING WE piled into the Monavan and drove to Clare’s khaki-colored Arts and Crafts house in Darien, Connecticut, where Jay’s extended family had gathered. He was so skinny, but he’d made a huge effort to look as good and as much like himself as possible in his quilted Barbour jacket and tweed sport coat. An English driving cap covered his bald head.
Whenever the Monahans and their cousins the Conroys gathered, a touch football game followed. I stayed inside with the girls and watched from the living-room window. It was so hard seeing my once healthy, athletic husband sidelined. But Jay was right in it, clapping and cheering everyone on, calling plays, even trash-talking his brothers.
We were also celebrating Jay’s father’s 75th birthday. Jay gave a toast full of color and wit. Gripping his wineglass, even his fingers looked thin and fragile, as his entire extended family watched, transfixed by the poignancy of that moment. Jay’s illness lived among us, especially at the holidays. Instead of joyful benchmarks of our evolving lives, each one had become a gut-wrenching “last.”
January came, along with our birthdays: Carrie’s 2nd, my 41st, Jay’s 42nd. He was on a new chemo regimen that knocked him out. He spent his days in his bathrobe, lying on the sofa in the den watching the History Channel, surrounded by prescription pill bottles, his wig resting on a Styrofoam head on a shelf in our closet. When I came home one day, he turned to me and said, “This is no way to live.”
All these years later, I realize how delusional I’d willed myself to be. I recently found a letter I’d written to my great-aunt Carrie Hibbler:
He’s been having a pretty rough time of it lately, feeling pretty miserable in general. The good news is, the chemo seems to be working, so keep your fingers crossed and say a prayer that it will continue to work.
It was dated January 21st.
ON JANUARY 23RD, I met with Earl Kramer, the president of the co-op board in our building. New York co-ops are notoriously picky about who can live there; they rarely allow an apartment to be subleased, but we had gotten special dispensation to rent in the building for two years. The lease was almost up, and I was worried about having to move out while Jay was sick—or worse. The owners of the apartment had told me they were going to be in London for another year, and they would be happy to let us stay on. But I needed permission from the board.
“My husband is very, very sick,” I told Mr. Kramer, breaking down in front of a man I barely knew. “I’m so worried about him, and I’m worried about our girls if something terrible happens. It would be so helpful if we could stay here just one more year.”
He looked at me sympathetically. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this,” he said, “but rules are rules, and we just can’t allow you to stay.”
I went downstairs, washed my face, and didn’t tell Jay. It would be our last night together.
37
Saturday Morning
JANUARY 24TH, 1998—it was freezing outside. Jay was coming off a particularly bad night, although I thought he might rally if he ate something. But he just couldn’t; food, even water, felt terrible on his tongue. I wasn’t sure what was ravaging his body more, the cancer or the medicine.
By now, Jay was emaciated, and his legs could barely support what was left of his body. As a result of something called bitemporal wasting, his skull almost seemed visible through his skin.
“I look like a Holocaust victim,” he’d say, regarding his sunken cheeks and protruding cheekbones in the mirror.
“Stop,” I’d say. “No, you don’t.” Even though he did.
That morning, I finally convinced him to have a few sips of club soda. Then I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
Standing at the stove, I heard a glass shatter. I ran to the powder room—Jay had collapsed on the marble floor. I whirled into crisis mode and dialed 911. Then I called our upstairs neighbors Gail and Lenny Saltz.
“Lenny, please,” I said frantically, “come downstairs. Hurry, please.”
Gail grabbed Ellie and Carrie and took them to their place to play with their three daughters, who had a dollhouse mine loved; Lenny, a GI oncologist at Memorial Sloan Kettering, rushed into the powder room.
Jay was sprawled out on the floor. Lenny crouched at his feet, saying softly, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I cradled his head. “Please breathe, Jay,” I said, “just breathe.” I still wonder if he heard me. His eyes were wide open, directed at the ceiling. Lenny attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.