Parsons table—did I throw them away?—(teeming with E. coli bacteria?)—I am uneasy at seeing our friends, and Ray not with me—they will feel so very sorry for me—it will cost them emotion, to feel sorry for me—the practical idea comes to me to set books out on a coffee table—the books I’d brought back home from the hospital. These are Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s Infidel, Paul Krugman’s The Great Unraveling, the bound galleys of Richard A. Clarke’s Your Government Failed You which our friend Dan Halpern is publishing.
These books—on the coffee table—we can talk about them—is that a good idea?
Also, the book on the cultural history of boxing which I’ve been reading to review. Which I’ve been working on this past week in the interstices of the vigil. Returning home from the hospital and trying to write for an hour or two before going to bed and trying to sleep. As if I must allow my friends to know Joyce is all right, Joyce is working even now. Don’t worry about Joyce!
I am not thinking clearly. But I am thinking. I am trying to think.
Our friends arrive shortly after 2 A.M., in one car. Susan and Ron, Jeanne and Dan and their fourteen-year-old daughter Lily whom Ray and I have known since her birth. When they step inside, and embrace me—it’s as if I have stepped into a violent surf.
Though our friends remain with me until 4 A.M. most of what we said to one another has vanished from my memory. Our friends will tell me that I behaved calmly and yet it was clear that I was in a state of shock. I can remember Jeanne on the phone, in the kitchen, making calls to funeral homes. I can remember my astonishment that a funeral home might be open at such an hour of the night. I can remember explaining to my friends how Ray died—why Ray died—the secondary infection, the fact that his blood pressure plummeted, his heartbeat accelerated—these gruesome words which I have memorized and which even now, at any hour of the day, along with my final vision of Ray in the hospital bed, run through my mind like flashes of heat lightning.
My friends are extraordinary, I think. To come to me so quickly in the middle of the night as they’ve done.
For the widow inhabits a tale not of her own telling. The widow inhabits a nightmare-tale and yet it is likely that the widow inhabits a benign fairy tale out of the Brothers Grimm in which friends come forward to help. We loved Ray, and we love you.
Let us help you. Ray would want this.
February 18, 2008, 9:26 A.M.
To Elaine Pagels
I was about to write to you to say that quite suddenly Ray passed away last night at about 1 A.M.
I am too exhausted now to speak but Jeannie is coming to go with me to a Pennington funeral home to make arrangements.
I have been thinking of you as a young—very young—widow and mother. I have seen in you the transcendence of this unspeakable wound and yet the shadow of it, which can never be forgotten.
Much love,
Joyce
February 18, 2008.
To Mary Morris
Ray died at 1 A.M. this morning in the medical center of a terrible pneumonia. I am utterly dazed and will get back to you [regarding an interview for the Italian Storie] some other time.
Much love,
Joyce
February 19, 2008.
To Richard Ford
Thanks, Richard. Much of my trouble—“trouble”?—is physical/ emotional—I just feel exhausted, groggy around people and want to crawl away somewhere and sleep.
But I know that you are right. I am trying.
Love,
Joyce
February 19, 2008.
To Sandra Gilbert
I was thinking of you, and your wonderful lost husband . . . It was something similar—though not a “wrongful death” I’m sure—Ray had been hospitalized for pneumonia—an e-coli infection which is one of the worst—and was definitely “improving” day by day—due to be released to rehab soon—then suddenly, I had a call at 12:30 A.M. to come quickly to the hospital—where he had just been pronounced dead. A secondary infection had caused cardiopulmonary arrest, and he was gone.
It is just utterly unbelievable. I feel so completely alone.
Though surrounded by the most wonderful friends.
Thank you for writing. Much love,
Joyce
February 19, 2008.
To Gary Mailman
I have here the document “Last Will & Testament” of Raymond Smith . . . What does one do with the will, as a document? Do I present it somewhere? I’ve been told that I have to take “death certificates” to something called a surrogate court (?) in Trenton soon. Jeanne Halpern has offered to accompany me which is astonishingly wonderful of her.
How grateful we are that you came through your hospital siege. . . . I truly did think that Ray was, too. Even after death he looked not ill at all, quite handsome, his face unlined and peaceful. In the hospital room, all the staff had left, and he was alone in the bed without the IV fluids and the oxygen mask, and the beautiful vase of flowers that you and Emily had sent was on a table just beside him. It is the most haunting memory I will ever have.
Any [legal] advice you can give will be so much appreciated,
Joyce
February 19, 2008.
To Gloria Vanderbilt
[Ray] passed away at 1 A.M. of February 18—just yesterday!
It is so hard to comprehend.
I will write to you later. I would love to see you. I am inundated with tasks to be done—like a zombie plodding through the interminable day—yesterday was a nightmare that went on—and on—and on. There does not seem to be much purpose to my life now except these meaningless but necessary tasks (like speaking with a funeral director, buying a cemetery plot, looking for the Last Will & Testament.)
But you are a solace just by existing, vividly in my thoughts if not here before me.
Much love,
Joyce
February 19, 2008.
To Eleanor Bergstein
Eleanor, I am not good on the phone right now. I am overwhelmed and stunned and trying to keep sane by doing a multiplicity—an infinity—of small necessary tasks. Ray died only yesterday morning—so much has happened since then, it seems unbelievable.
I know that you lost your mother and father long ago. What a raw terrible wound that must have been. Losing a spouse of 47 years is like losing a part of yourself—the most valuable part. What is left behind seems so depleted, broken.
Thank you so much for your love and your friendship.
Joyce
February 20, 2008.
To Dan Halpern
There are bouts of utter loneliness and a sense of purposelessness. But I had a lovely evening with Ron and Susan, though it was strange that Ray wasn’t there, and Jeanne called this morning, and tomorrow I will be at your house with Emily & Gary & (evidently) Gloria.
Jeanne and Gary are giving me helpful advice re. a lawyer and the “probate” about which I know nothing.
This house is so lonely! It’s almost unbearable. But I will bear it . . .
I am so grateful for your and Jeanne’s friendship and for other friends who have been so supportive.
Much