A Season in Hell

by Marilyn French

  One day, feeling improved, I gave my situation some thought. So far, the tumor had not returned. I had finished chemotherapy and radiation, and although I felt terrible, chances were I would feel better eventually. Surely I would be better in a month, I thought. I decided to concentrate on getting better. I made a decision to get better. For the first time in months, I sat down at my desk and picked up the telephone. I called my travel agent and asked her to make reservations at a luxury hotel in Key West for early January: I would take the children down there for a lovely rest and some sun. They deserved a treat after their ordeal. Then I called to arrange for my car to be transported to Florida for the season.

  I noted these arrangements in my calendar. They are the only marks for the month. Apart from that one day, I was too ill to keep records, too ill even to think of writing anything down. There were days when I did not even get out of bed, something I had avoided all during chemotherapy, although I was told that some people take to their beds during treatment. I had always gotten up, dressed, even put on eye makeup. I had sat at dinner tables, whether or not I could eat.

  No more. I still dressed, but I did little else. I rarely bothered to put on my wig; I’d grown used to my bald head. Unable to eat, I had no reason to sit at a table. I didn’t read or watch television. I did listen to music and the radio, especially Performance Today on WNYC. I slept and simply lay there, in bed or on my couch, empty of head and heart. I was supposed to speak at a conference at Hofstra University in November or December, and at the 92nd Street Y in December, but I had to cancel both. The only times I left the house were when Urgent Care demanded I come in because of my fever.

  Between December 4 (the day I was released after my last chemo course) and December 10 or 11, I was in and out of Urgent Care and Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital several times, with fever and low white cell counts. On about the twelfth of the month, the doctors said I had to stay in the hospital until they got the fever down. Sepsis, manifested by fever, frequently kills chemotherapy patients, who lack enough white cells to fight infection.

  I saw a host of doctors in this period; most were infectious disease specialists trying to find medications for stubborn problems like mine. (This specialty seems to attract especially pleasant people.) They tried one antibiotic after another, but none seemed to work for more than a day or two. The fever went up and down, but it never went away.

  In all this time, my primary oncologist did not visit me. I had not seen him since my outpatient appointment on November 10. I do not know if he was even aware I was sick. He rarely made hospital rounds, because he was often away during his supposed month on duty. He traveled a great deal, giving speeches at medical conferences, no doubt pertaining to his work on a cancer cure. I would have liked to see him, because I felt I needed to consult someone who had a larger view of my illness than simply my fever, someone who could evaluate my overall condition. I did not know who else to turn to.

  My biggest problem in this period was starvation. I could not eat and could drink only water, weak tea, apple juice, and aloe vera. But I was being hydrated through my IV line. When I was home, I could occasionally get some soup down (my kids and my friends made soups for me, out of thoughtfulness and love), and I drank the vegetable juices the kids prepared. And while the kids brought me food I could keep in the hospital refrigerator and heat in the microwave of the floor kitchen, I lacked the energy to do so. Even if I got something down, it wasn’t enough. I had lost about thirty pounds and smilingly told the doctors I was starving; they smiled back. Jamie bought me a pin to attach to my velour tops; it said, in great big letters, I WANT FOOD! But no one suggested that I be fed through my IV line; nor did I suggest it. I was waiting for the doctors to do so. My weakness seems to have affected my brain. Maybe the doctors weren’t aware that my esophagus was ulcerated from radiation. No one was watching over my whole person. Not even me.

  When the fever dipped, I would feel instantly better and immediately imagine that I would continue to feel better, that I was on my way to recovery. In such a state, I determined to attend the coven’s equinox celebration and had Isabelle bring me a black velvet pantsuit, black heels, and jewelry. I cajoled the doctors into giving me permission to leave the hospital that evening, and the nice guy who finally gave it said, “Okay, if you want to. But I wouldn’t think you’d be able to.” He was right. As the time to dress approached, I realized that I could not even face getting up and putting on my fancy clothes, much less going outside in the cold weather, walking to First Avenue, and hailing a cab.

  But when I thought about Christmas, I determined that nothing would stop me. Since they were born, nearly forty years before, I had never not been with my children on Christmas Eve. I was not going to spend Christmas in a hospital bed, I insisted. Again I spoke to the doctors, who were leery—“You’re not ready to go home”—but bending. “Well,” one said, “you’d have to have home nurses to keep the IV going, and home nurses are not always great. But the chances are you wouldn’t get great care in the hospital, either, over Christmas.” If they could find home nurses for me, they said finally, I could go home. They did. I called the kids in triumph.

  The antibiotic they were giving me wasn’t working, and they decided to switch to Ceftazidime, one of the cephalosporins connected to the penicillin family. They may have given me a dose or two before I left the hospital—I’m not sure—but the day I was to leave, I felt terrific, relatively speaking. I had some energy and was in high spirits. Packed and ready to leave, I was waiting for Isabelle to arrive when my friend Ann Jones came to visit me. She was back from one of her adventurous jaunts across the world, and we were both feeling high. She offered to teach me an exercise that would help me regain my muscle strength without putting too much of a strain on my weakened body, so we went upstairs to the penthouse lounge, which was always empty and had a broad carpeted floor. Briefly disconnected from the IV, I felt as coltish as an emancipated slave. I did the exercise with no trouble and had energy left over. Then I went home to celebrate Christmas.

  My spirits fell almost instantly on getting home. The kids had not had time to decorate, and not expecting me, Isabelle had not bought flowers. The apartment looked dreary (although it was cleaned twice a week) and unlived-in. I felt suddenly very bad. My energy had drained as swiftly and unexpectedly as a tornado arrives, and I sat on the couch in my study, feeling glum. One of the nurses arrived—a man. The one male nurse who had tended me at S-K was the only nasty, peremptory nurse I ever encountered there, so I viewed this man with wariness. Though he was pleasant, he had a funny odor, which I quickly realized was urine. I could not bear to have him near me and kept protesting to the children, “He smells of urine!” They said he didn’t; they said I was imagining it. But years later, when we were talking about him, Jamie agreed: he smelled of urine. By then, I wasn’t sure whether this was because he did smell of urine and they had been denying it, or she was remembering my perception rather than her own. In any case, I smelled it, and it was disgusting. He hung the bags on a pole and connected the IV to my arm, just as in the hospital but without the blue box that controlled the flow. As I sat there with the antibiotic dripping into my vein, I felt truly ill. My eyes would not focus, and light hurt them. Any light source blurred into a halo, and whenever I tried to focus on anything, my head would ache.

  I may have eaten something—who knows? Soup, perhaps. But I felt worse and worse. When the nurse prepared me for bed, replacing an empty antibiotic bag with a new one, I said, “I think I’m allergic to this antibiotic. It makes me feel awful.” He said nothing, and I presumed he dismissed my remark.

  Nowadays, of course, I would jump up and down and scream, “Stop this IV! Call the doctor and tell him I’m allergic to it!” But that is hindsight.

  When I was a child, my family celebrated Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, which was an anticlimax. Our family used to join my mother’s sister’s family for the major celebration of the year, and one of my uncles would arri
ve on the stroke of midnight wearing a Santa Claus outfit and carrying a pillowcase filled with gifts. We continued this practice in our adulthood, my sister and I with our children, my father playing Santa Claus. Nowadays we dressed up on Christmas Eve, had a celebratory feast, often with friends, and afterward exchanged gifts. That year of 1992, I have some memory of our small family sitting in the living room, probably dressed up; I don’t recall food. I don’t know whether I had gifts for the children. But I do remember Jamie’s gift to me.

  When I planned the gardens for my Berkshire house, I put a weeping beech tree on the lawn in front of the woods that line the property. I envisioned that in years to come (after I was dead), the tree would spread across the grassy plain like a huge glowing umbrella. The tree grew very slowly, however, and five years later, it suddenly died. My gardener had the soil tested, and we hypothesized about problems with the site, but after she took the root to the local gardening center (in the Berkshire Mountains, there are still people who know about plants), she said it was the chance of the graft—weeping beeches are not a natural form but a hybrid. She urged me to try again.

  I refused. I had been too disappointed by the first failure of a tree I had such dreams for: I felt the tree and the site were unlucky. But she continued to urge it, and a year later, I finally gave in. The second weeping beech lasted no more than two years. Now, despite the gardener’s urgings, I was adamant. The spot remained an empty hole in the middle of the lawn.

  Jamie had ordered, not a weeping beech, but a chestnut tree. She remembered how much I had loved the row of chestnuts that lined the avenue leading to a house we’d lived in years before—especially when they bloomed in the spring. She suggested that we put the new tree in a spot to the right and rear of where the weeping beech had been. It would be planted in spring.

  “You think I’m going to live to see it flower?” I asked, smiling and wiping away tears.

  “You will,” she promised.

  It flowered this year.

  The next day was Christmas, and people came: my father, my sister and Fred, as well as the kids. Other people stopped in, I can’t remember who, though I know Rosita and Beth were there for a while. The kids had made a dinner and served it buffet style, I think. I could not eat, although I remember them bringing me a plate. I could barely sit in the chair. Everyone hurt my eyes, and talking was truly painful. I was so uncomfortable, I wanted to cry. But I must not have seemed too sick, because Beth told me recently that they thought I was angry with my family, my father and sister, that I sounded angry when I spoke. I remembered, then, hearing the irritation in my voice. Indeed, I was irritated, but with my condition, not with any person. Interesting that I took it out on my father and sister, the ones who had known me when I was little.

  I can’t say whether it was that night or the next that things got so bad. Nor can I tell you what was wrong, precisely, except that my body was miserably uncomfortable with itself and could not be eased. I may have called the doctor; or perhaps one of the children did. Perhaps it was at this time that they prescribed morphine, which I took through the IV and which made me sick. I cannot remember anything except the misery of being inside my body. This sensation grew particularly strong as I was going to bed. I asked the nurse to move my limbs to make me more comfortable, and he did, but he wasn’t able to help me and grew annoyed with my demands. So after he’d given me a strong sleeping medication, I told him to ask my son to come upstairs. I asked Rob to move my legs one way and another, and he did, sweetly. Nothing seemed to help.

  I looked up at him. “I’ve never felt so bad in my whole life,” I said. He doesn’t remember that, but it’s the last thing I remember.

  OUT OF TIME

  SWIMMING UP THROUGH THE velvety dark, I heard them. Their voices sounded joyous, and I was overjoyed to hear them.

  “Hi, kids,” I said.

  I couldn’t see them, but I could hear the three of them clamoring, “Hi, Mom,” “Hi, Mara,” talking excitedly. I know I was smiling.

  “Are you having a party?”

  “Party?”

  “No, no party.”

  “Why do you think … ?”

  “Why does she think … ?”

  “You sound so happy. How come you’re so happy? It sounds as if you’re having a party.” There was so much noise, so many people, the kids were so bubbly. Who was there? Where were we? Were all those people in my house? Everyone sounded in high spirits. “Who are all the people?”

  Rob answered. “Oh, they’re just technicians and nurses, you know.” I didn’t know; it made no sense to me. I heard music.

  “There’s music,” I argued.

  “It’s just the TV,” he explained.

  TV? In my house? When there were people visiting? That didn’t sound right. I was too tired to press it, but I knew something must be going on that they were not telling me about. They were too happy for it to be just an ordinary day. Jamie sounded happy in a particular way.

  “And Jamie’s in love,” I said. I could hear it in her voice.

  “I don’t believe it!” she cried loudly, and stomped off. I smiled.

  I was being pulled up out of the darkness by noise, a metallic clamor. I pushed it away, but it was too intrusive and drove itself into my consciousness. I listened.

  TV! I gasped silently. Men’s voices oppressively shrieking, shouting, exhorting, harsh on my ears, cajoling, harassing, urging, arguing, pressuring, insisting, watch this program, buy this product, great buy, bargain, go to wonderland, do that!!!!! I couldn’t stand it. I don’t want to be in this world, I thought, pushing for the depths again, diving as hard as I could. The voices followed me for a while. It was a long time before I could blot them out, escape to the other world, where there was no TV. With relief, I regained the velvety underwater silence.

  I could see, but only a little. My vision was blurry, but it looked like Gloria standing in front of me.

  “Marilyn,” she said softly, “there are an awful lot of people here. Would you prefer that we keep them outside and just let them in one by one?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I said. I didn’t think outside where or wonder why so many people were there, wherever there was. Somehow, I knew I was in a hospital. But in truth I didn’t want to see anyone. I couldn’t see well. I would have to converse if there were people, and it hurt me to talk. There was something in my throat. And when I talked, saliva came pouring out of the corner of my mouth. I didn’t want anyone to see that: I’d be embarrassed. And I was too tired to talk to people. But I didn’t want to say that to Gloria; it sounded rude. I couldn’t imagine her saying a thing like that; she wouldn’t understand. I didn’t want her to see the saliva, either. But she was gone.

  No one came. I could go back to sleep. Thank heavens.

  A number of people were standing in my room. I knew them all—there were the kids, there was the coven, and over there, my sister and my father. Others, too … who? A head poked around the corner and peered in. It was Beth Sapery. People turned and looked at her. I wasn’t sure anyone knew her. I couldn’t recall whether the kids had met her. I was afraid she did not know anyone and would feel strange. She stepped into the room, looking a bit uneasy. I raised my head a little. “Hi, Beth. Come in,” I said, trying to inform the others that she was a friend, so they would welcome her. Then I lay back down and rested. I was so tired.

  Note dated 1/11/93, in Rob’s handwriting:

  Girl Gang visited: recognized all and conversed.

  Bella Abzug visited: recognized and conversed.

  LeAnne visited: recognized and conversed.

  Charlotte & Miranda

  Ann Jones

  Regula (an old acquaintance who worked with Charlotte)

  Note dated 1/12/93, in Rob’s handwriting: Didn’t remember anyone who visited yesterday.

  Introducing Dr. Minsky (radiologist): “He’s the one who tried to kill me. He’s nice despite what he does.”

  Thought [Dr.] Renny Griffith was Daniel.<
br />
  “Good morning!”

  “Ummm.”

  “How are we this morning?”

  “Ummm.”

  “So, do you know where you are?”

  Silence.

  “Do you know what year it is?”

  “1945.”

  Note dated 1/13/93, in Jamie’s handwriting:

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yonkers.”

  “No. You’re in New York. Do you know what building this is?”

  “The Science Capital of the World.”

  “Do you know what year it is?”

  “1963.”

  “Good morning!”

  “Morning.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what year it is?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, what year is it?”

  “I’m not going to tell you!”

  Subdued laughter, not mine.

  “Do you know who the President is?”

  “Of course. Clinton.” Spoken with hauteur.

  Barbara M. leaped into the air, her arm raised in a cheering salute. “Yay!” she cried.

  It was then that I understood something was wrong.

  Recollections of Carol Jenkins:

  “Carol! Today I saw my own mind for the first time!”

  “Guess who I saw when I was dead! The editor of the James Joyce Quarterly. John!” I went on about this John.

  Joint recollection of the coven:

  CAROL: “We did a ceremony around your bed. We had the usual equipment—feathers, wands, beads….”

  ESTHER: “They didn’t want us in there. They frowned at us, and I was afraid they’d throw us out.”

  GLORIA: “No, it was just that patients were not supposed to have more than one guest at a time.”

  ESTHER: “Two, I think.”

  GLORIA: “But we went in anyway. We just went in. But I was worried about the man in the next bed. I thought if he suddenly woke up and saw us hovering over you with all our stuff, he might have a heart attack.” Later, GLORIA: “We were always convinced you would recover. We knew it. Because you were always you. You were always present, you were there. Other people I’ve seen in comas were absent.”