And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (3 page)

Three days before Christmas I was balancing several writing deadlines, as often happened at the end of the month, the end of the semester, or the end of the year. All three factors were simultaneously upon me, and like a madwoman I was typing, editing, revising, and rewriting other people’s words. I sat at a Starbucks table, my fingers clicking on the keyboard, one foot resting in the chair across from me, and writing manuals spread on the table space around my laptop.

Robb’s parents had arrived in town that morning, and we would meet for dinner that evening, so I had a number of hours to write as fast as I could. I had set aside holiday cheer, except for the faithful red label of my Starbucks cup, and I wrapped my mind around Kate Turabian’s rules for annotated footnotes of a secondary reference. I’m pretty sure if Kate Turabian were alive, we would not be friends. She was one finicky gal.

My phone buzzed—incoming message.

R:
Can’t stop shaking. Sinus cavities ache.

I glanced at Robb’s text and sent off a quick reply with my text-savvy thumbs. An average of more than fifteen hundred texts a month builds a speedy wpm ratio. And also carpal tunnel syndrome.

T:
Bummer, love. Need me to come home?

R:
No. Just wanted you to know. I think I’m sick. Fever.

I frowned sympathetically at the screen of my phone.
Well, that’s unfortunate,
I thought.
Nobody wants to be sick at Christmas.
My mind wandered vaguely to the ramifications of a sick husband during the holidays, but I didn’t linger there long. I had work to do. He told me he was fine and I didn’t need to come home, and I reasoned that if I finished my deadlines now, I could take better care of him when I got home.

An hour later I packed up my computer and my books, put on my scarf and mittens, and headed home. I flipped on the local radio station that had played a loop of holiday favorites for six solid weeks. The announcers were between songs, debating the weather. With two days left for varying temperature and precipitation, would our Christmas be white? December had been unseasonably warm, and their sources voted no. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, driving the four miles home.
Give me some music. C’mon. You can squeeze a quick carol into this commute.

Finally they launched into “another fifty minutes of uninterrupted holiday favorites” just as I pulled into the garage. I schlepped all my stuff into the house and unloaded on the kitchen island. As I mindlessly looped my car keys on the hook by the door, I noticed the
otherwise spotless kitchen. Robb and his mom planned a lasagna bakeoff for the Christmas feast, and he had made his famous, secret-recipe marinara that morning. The scents of basil, oregano, tomatoes, and bay leaves wafted through the house. Oh, how nice to have my husband home for the week. He was far better at housekeeping than I.

“Hellooo, boys,” I sang to the three of them.

Tucker and Tyler ran into the kitchen, cheering my name with delight. Every homecoming should be so sweet. I rounded the corner into the living room, expecting to see football on the TV and the slightly, uncomfortably ill Robb relaxing in his recliner with a bottle of Gatorade. However, instead of football there was an animated Rudolph, snacks strewn on the floor where the children had sprawled, and my husband under a pile of blankets, shaking uncontrollably. Things looked a little worse than I expected. Several remote controls lay on top of Robb’s blankets, and I saw Tucker’s small stool next to the bookcase. How helpful he had been to retrieve all those remotes when his daddy couldn’t get up from his chair.

I came to Robb’s side. “Hey, babe,” I whispered. I leaned close, unlooping my scarf from around my neck. I kissed his forehead, assessing a fever against my face. He didn’t have a fever. He had no runny nose, no cough. No nothing. Just these awful, horrible shakes. I touched the trembling lump that was his hand, bundled under the blankets. His body writhed under my hands.

“I need you. I needed you to come home. I can’t do this by myself.” His teeth chattered.

“I’m here, love. I’m here now.” And why didn’t I come sooner? “I’m here now.”

Standing and watching closely, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed his dad. I intended to tell him that we needed to tweak the evening plans, that Robb surely couldn’t come, that I should probably stay with him.
Probably,
I was going to say. Still optimistic, still holding loosely to the party plans. More than anybody else, Robb loved Christmas. Surely he wouldn’t want to miss it. Probably a good dose of ibuprofen could kick this thing and all our Christmas plans could still come together. Probably.

But my voice sounded different than I meant it to; I betrayed my own optimism. The truth was, I had never seen Robb like this before. He was in some kind of horrible shock.

“You need to take him to the ER. I’ll meet you there,” his dad said. “I’m on my way.” Brief and urgent, he knew what I needed to do.

To the ER.

I sprang into action. I called my mom, gave her a quick and simple update, asking her to come and watch the boys. “Something’s up. I need your help.” She arrived moments later while the children were still firmly planted in front of Rudolph. The boys barely glanced my way as I kissed them good-bye on the heels of our hello; such a wonder, the distraction of the TV.

Robb and I worked as a team to mobilize his trembling body, keeping a trash can close since every move brought a wave of nausea. He could barely stand. I surrounded him as he walked, kidding myself that I could keep him from falling if gravity took hold. In college Robb had played trombone in the Ohio State marching band, but my husband could have been a linebacker for the football team. He was a solid, gentle giant.

With Robb safely in the passenger’s seat, I could pick up my pace. I zipped through the neighborhood, praying for green lights and no pedestrians. Robb begged me to go quickly. “Please hurry, please hurry,” he said, holding the empty trash can in his lap.

As we arrived at the ER entrance, I opened my car door even before I had turned off the ignition. I left my car in the yellow no-parking zone, daring the policemen in my mind. Together we staggered into the waiting area, and I got him seated in the first chair. I approached the counter, asking for help. “Please, my husband is very, very ill.”

“Yes, ma’am, please sign him in here. We’ll need your ID and insurance card.” She handed me a clipboard with seemingly triplicate copies to sign and initial. I remembered when I was in false labor with Tuck, which felt anything but false. I had leaned on a similar counter, gasping with the strangling grip of contractions, and still they had handed us the pile of paperwork. Always the paperwork.

Robb’s dad came in the automatic doors with a gust of December air. Relief swept over me as I saw the softer, grayer version of the man I’d married. Help had arrived, although it felt so strange for our holiday reunion to happen in a hospital waiting room. I stood to hug him, comforted already by his strong, confident presence. He sat down next to Robb. “Hey, bud,” putting his hand on his shoulder. “Not doing so good, are ya?”

“Hey, Dad. This isn’t good.” I could hear the relief in Robb’s voice. There’s nothing like a dad.

“I know, Son. We’ll get you up and running again.” Three pats on the back, the signature trademark for the men in his family. They bantered in their usual way about football scores, and Robb referred
to the friendly competition of the lasagnas, a Christmas Day battle to decide once and for all whose lasagna was better: Robb’s or his mom’s. Robb weakly pointed in my direction and raised his eyebrows. “You better vote for me.”

“I will if yours is the best,” I teased him.

A nurse approached with a wheelchair. “Mr. Williford?”

“Yes. Yes, please.” He responded to his name with a plea for wellness. He moved unsteadily to the wheelchair and then to the gurney in the exam room, our hands steadying him from all sides. The nurse began that familiar choreography of triage: the blood-pressure cuff, the stethoscope, the thermometer. My father-in-law and I stood by, carefully watching.

With his head on the pillow, Robb rattled off his medical history as if he were reading a grocery list. Free of concern. “Oh, where do you want me to start?” he quipped. “Let’s see. Tonsils and adenoids removed when I was a kid, spleen removed after a sledding accident when I was in high school, a couple of bowel obstructions after my intestines were manhandled in that surgery, three surgeries on the left knee, and I have sleep apnea and high cholesterol. But I’m working on that last one.”

Well, look at him,
I thought.
So lucid, so clear. Even cracking jokes. He’ll be okay. We’ll be all right.

They ran tests, drew blood, and studied his symptoms under the umbrella of his history. We waited for answers, but they gave us few. His vitals were fine. Pulse ox: fine. Heart rate: fine. Breath sounds: fine. A quick nose swab confirmed influenza type A, the only name for the dark cloud above us. The doctor said, “Well, I’m sorry to tell
you, your holidays won’t be much fun. Robb, the worst of this will last about four days, and the whole virus takes ten to fourteen days to run its course. You won’t die, but you’ll feel like you’re going to.”

Oh, those ten words.

They sent us home with instructions and prescriptions. He was highly at risk, highly contagious, and strictly quarantined. “Lock him in the bedroom, let nobody near him, and ride out the storm. He’ll be better by New Year’s. Promise. The absence of his spleen puts him at greater risk for complications, so keep a close eye on him. If he seems worse, bring him back, and if he has any trouble breathing, call 911. But really, he should be fine.”

And they dismissed us with a “Merry Christmas.” His dad took him home while I went to the grocery store to fill the prescriptions and stock up on comfort foods and Gatorade.

Influenza. The flu. Quarantine. Isn’t that so 1800s? Isn’t there something they can do to get him better by Christmas?
I cried in the pharmacy department, amid the cold and flu meds. I’m a party girl, and we had big plans for a big holiday. Cancellations fell into place, plans fell to the floor, and my heart fell with disappointment. I suddenly came face to face with the core of traditions. The meaning of Christmas runs deep and immutable, but it manifests itself in the traditions of a family. When you take those away—well, for better or worse, traditions and meaning are closely wed. I cried over the confusion of it all.

I got home to find him just where we had planned: safely in our bed, snuggled on his side. He lay perfectly still in the dim room, resting
in the glow from the football game on TV. I came beside him to give him some meds. He wouldn’t let his fingers touch mine.

“No, no, baby girl. Stay away—you can’t get this. It’s the worst pain of my life … I can’t explain how horrible it is. Please sleep downstairs. I’ll call you if I need you.” His last living act toward me: protection.

Let me tell you this little secret: twelve years ago, when we first wrapped our hearts around this consuming love we fell hard into, we established an I-love-you code. Three hand squeezes: I. Love. You. Two hand squeezes: You. Too. Way back then I remember thinking,
This may come in handy if ever he cannot speak. I can still tell him. Somehow I’ll still tell him.

I checked on him throughout the evening, with more meds and water, but he never, ever opened his eyes. Once, as he sensed me near him, he weakly lifted his right hand and patted the bed three times: I. Love. You.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I love you too, baby. I always will,” I whispered in the dark stillness of our bedroom. “You’ll call me if you need me?”

“Yes,” he promised, in a nearly inaudible whisper.

“Sleep well, my love.”

I closed the bedroom door as if it were made of glass. I visited the boys’ bedroom one more time. They were so peacefully asleep. I gathered a fleece blanket and pillow from the closet for my night on the couch, and I cozied up beside the twinkling Christmas lights, taking in the sight of the four stockings on the mantel and my favorite ornaments
on the tree. I placed my phone on the coffee table beside me, within arm’s reach. I prayed us both to sleep.

Close to five in the morning, I woke to the familiar country song that was Robb’s caller ID ringtone. I bolted upright and raced up the stairs, skipping them three at a time as I answered the phone. “Hello? Babe?”

“I … I need you.” He spoke in a breathless, panicked whisper.

I burst through the bedroom door and found him sitting upright on the side of the bed. “I can’t … I can’t … I can’t … slow down. I can’t slow down … my … breathing … I can’t …”

The doctor’s voice flashed like lightning in my mind:
“If he has any trouble breathing, call 911. But really, he should be fine.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God. I’ll call 911. I’m calling 911, baby. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I speed dialed my mom. “Mom. I’m calling 911. Come for the boys. Fast.”

I dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“My husband. My husband. He has influenza A, and he cannot breathe. Please send help. Please send help. Please help me.”

My mind flooded with a million details in stride with the acute panic. Time crawled as my mind raced.

“Please help me. Please help us.”

I need to get dressed.

Hospitals are cold.

Choose layers.

Long sleeves and short sleeves, one on top of the other.

“Please help us.”

Not those socks—they have a hole in the toe.

We could be at the hospital for a long time.

Choose the black yoga pants.

“Of course, ma’am. What is your address?”

There was a pounding thud as he fell off the bed, onto the floor. The sound still echoes in my mind, like two hundred potatoes crashing to the ground. In an instant I was at his side, half-dressed in the yoga pants and a bra. I screamed to him, to her, to God. “Please! Please help me! He’s not conscious! Please help me now!”

“Ma’am, please stop shouting. Please listen to me.” Her voice was calm and firm.