Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
I would be here, in Dr. H
_
’s office. For my appointment was for this time. And Ray would be elsewhere. Probably at home. And I would return home, and Ray would ask me how the exam went, what did Dr. H
_
say, and I would tell him—“Same as last time. Nothing has changed.”
I can’t think this! Don’t dare think this.
I will begin to break down, I will begin to grow faint, sick, this is not a line of thought that is productive, not now. Not now. Dr. H
_
is asking if I’d had Ray “autopsied” and I say no—no no!—the bizarre word
autopsied
strikes me—
no I did not have Ray autopsied
—maybe it was a mistake, but no I did not. Dr. H
_
says, “Ray was getting better all week, he was getting better all week, when I saw him he was looking really . . .” Dr. H
_
’s voice trails off. I hear myself say with sudden sharpness, “If I were a doctor, I would feel very discouraged about now.”
This is not a way in which I have ever spoken to any doctor, I must say here, for the record. And this sharpness in my voice—this is a surprise to me, as to Dr. H
_
.
The young woman medical student is staring at me, startled. Never has she heard any patient speak critically of any doctor, to the doctor’s face. This is a tense moment!
For suddenly I am angry. My voice rises in accusation. “Ray shouldn’t have died! He was left to die. They could have done more for him. This ‘secondary infection’—how did that happen? From someone’s
hands
? Did someone forget to wash
his hands
? They could have done more—sooner—there never seemed to be any actual
doctor
around when I was there—they didn’t even call me until it was too late . . .”
How futile, how pathetic, these words—tumbling from me—why should it matter in the slightest when they’d called me, set beside the profound and irrevocable fact of my husband’s death?
Another time Dr. H
_
mentions
autopsy.
Is this a rebuke? I think it must be.
Yes of course. If I had wanted to know why Ray died, more exactly, I should have requested an autopsy.
Except of course
I could not request an autopsy.
Now, Ray’s remains have been cremated. Now, it’s too late.
This bizarre conversation! I am thinking
How can we be saying such things about Ray!—as if Ray was just a body.
“Well—I didn’t. I didn’t. At the time, I—didn’t.”
I am not speaking coherently. Of all things I dread breaking down in a public place—this office is a semi-public place—and now I am not speaking coherently and tears are welling dangerously in my eyes.
My face feels as if it is about to shatter. My mouth is stiffening in that terrible helpless way that prefigures crying.
Would I have wanted to instigate a “wrongful death” suit against the medical center? A malpractice suit? Even if one were justified, would I have wanted it?
Not revenge, still less financial compensation, is what I want. What I want is my husband returned to me . . .
That is all that I want! And that is all that I can’t have.
And now, Dr. H
_
says the unforgivable thing.
Why, for what reason I can’t grasp, except he, too, isn’t speaking very coherently, Dr. H
_
says, “Maybe—Ray was just tired. Maybe he gave up . . .” Again Dr. H
_
’s voice trails off, maddeningly.
Now, I am really angry. For this isn’t right! This is so very wrong.
How can Dr. H
_
make such an accusation of his own patient, who’d liked him so much? Who’d trusted him? I want to run out of the room, I am so shocked, upset.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know the first thing about my husband and I think that I will go now. Good-bye!”
In my hand, the prescription for Ambien.
Three refills.
In the car driving on Harrison Street amid late-afternoon traffic I am borne aloft by fury like a balloon buffeted in the wind and yet—soon—of course, soon—the fury-balloon begins to deflate. Gripping the steering wheel I begin to cry—it’s impossible not to cry—I am protesting—I am protesting to Dr. H
_
—“Ray didn’t give up!—he may have been tired—of course—after a week’s hospitalization—but he didn’t give up. He was looking forward to coming home, he loved his home, he was
happy
at the prospect of coming home, of course he didn’t want to—die. . . .”
Since the first days of Ray’s hospitalization, I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself. Sometimes, screaming to myself.
I’ve fallen into the habit of stereotypical melodramatic gestures—gripping the steering wheel as if it were a neck to be strangled, and shaking it; striking surfaces with my fist, that rebounds harmlessly from the surface, bruised.
This is the way of madness—is it? Such out-of-control behavior? Instead of addressing oneself silently—stoically—one mutters, rages aloud like King Lear on the heath.
Except unlike King Lear on the heath, one lacks the Shakespearean touch.
It is outrageous to me, unconscionable—obscene—that Dr. H
_
should have said what he’d said about Ray. I would recall later—this scene, I have replayed dozens of times—I can replay it precisely frame by frame
now
—how Dr. H
_
had seemed to be blundering, groping for words. For an
explanation
. As if he had no idea what he was saying, and to whom; as if he hadn’t exactly meant what he’d said, and yet . . . I will never forget these words.
Maybe—Ray was tired. Maybe he gave up.
And so, Ray’s death was
his own fault
?
How crushed, how hurt, how appalled Ray would be, to hear this. In Dr. H
_
’s words.
And this, too, it seems to me, is insufferable, unbearable; how the dead are muted. How the dead are silent. All things—any idiotic, cruel and ignorant things—can be said of the dead but the dead can’t reply—can’t defend themselves.
In my agitation, I must take care to drive carefully. At the start of Ray’s hospitalization I told myself
Drive at the speed limit
,
or lower. Never more!
On the way home I must stop at a food store. I am that frantic woman hurrying along the aisles. How cold the store is! In the frozen food aisles steam wafts upward like departing wraiths. I am shivering violently inside my red down coat which is the coat I was wearing when the speeding car struck us—when we might have died, at the intersection of Elm Road and Rosedale a year ago. I am thinking how lucky we were, and how in the aftermath of that accident we carried ourselves with care, for weeks, wincing with pain.
I am thinking that I would give anything to have that time back, those six weeks of excruciating muscle-pain in my chest. When I would beg Ray, breathless—
Don’t make me laugh. Oh it hurts so!
Am I murmuring to myself? In the food store? Am I—laughing? Pressing my hand against my chest, as if in pain?
I think that my face must be contorted. Possibly, smudged with tears. Can’t bring myself to make eye contact with anyone for fear that they are staring openly at me.
That distraught woman—what’s wrong with her?
That distraught woman—who is she? Looks familiar.
In the parking lot, an icy rain. The shopping bags are wet, the bottom of one of the bags tears open, a cottage cheese container falls onto the pavement, cans of cat food, I am squatting in the rain, in my red down coat, I am desperate snatching up things to put into another bag, quickly before someone sees me and offers to help. No one—no one!—is more vulnerable than when the bottom of her—his—shopping bag tears open, and the pathetic food-items she, or he, has purchased are exposed, on wet pavement. Here is an ontological fact: since the morning I drove Ray to the ER, since the hour when I began, at first unknowingly, to be
a woman alone
, a kind of crude cruel serio-comic monstrousness has been loosed into my life. Think Monty Python in endless skits adapted from William Burroughs. Think Ionesco’s “Theater of the Absurd” in which the widow—that is, this widow—has been cast as the lead. It does no good to be angry, as it does no good to be devastated; crying is as reasonable a response as any other, and as futile. My heart is filled with rage, however—at Dr. H
_
. Never will I forgive Dr. H
_
who said such terrible things about my helpless husband, though I know that, whoever may have contributed to my husband’s death, it was not Dr. H
_
.
Struggling to position the grocery bags in the car, in the backseat, in such ways that they won’t topple over spilling things onto the floor, I am forced to acknowledge that it is really myself I will never forgive for all that I have failed to do, to save my husband. It is really myself whom I hate, and condemn.
From a short distance—if I shut my eyes, I can see it clearly—the lizard-like creature is regarding me, its flailing prey, that cannot escape; I see now that it’s a living thing, an actual stone-colored reptile of the size of a large bullfrog, with remarkable eyes, hypnotic eyes fixed upon me.
You are finished. You are dead and done for
,
why don’t you just give up.
At the University it is my task to impersonate “Joyce Carol Oates.”
Strictly speaking, I am not impersonating this individual since “Joyce Carol Oates” doesn’t exist, except as an author-identification. On the spines of books shelved in certain libraries and bookstores you will see OATES but this is a descriptive term, this is not a noun.
This is not a person. This is not a life.
A writing-life is not a
life.
It is not invariably the case that a teacher is also a writer, and that, as a teacher, she has been hired to impersonate the writer. But it is the case with me here in Princeton, as it had not been, for instance, in Detroit, where my identification was “Joyce Smith”—“Mrs. Smith.”
In the lives of teachers there are
teaching-days
,
teaching-hours
like islands, or oases, amid turbulent seas.
In the immediate days following Ray’s death, I did not teach. It was suggested by some colleagues that I take more time off, even the entire semester, but I was eager to return to my fiction workshops the following week, on February 27, in time to attend a joint reading that evening by Honor Moore and Mary Karr in our creative writing reading series.
This “Oates”—this quasi-public self—is scarcely visible to me, as a mirror-reflection, seen up close, is scarcely visible to the viewer. “Oates” is an island, an oasis, to which on this agitated morning I can row, as in an uncertain little skiff, with an unwieldy paddle—the way is arduous not because the water is deep but because the water is shallow and weedy and the bottom of the skiff is endangered by rocks beneath. And yet—once I have rowed to this island, this oasis, this core of calm amid the chaos of my life—once I arrive at the University, check my mail and ascend to the second floor of 185 Nassau where I’ve had an office since fall 1978—once I am “Joyce Carol Oates” in the eyes of my colleagues and my students—a shivery sort of elation enters my veins. I feel not just confidence but
certainty
—that I am in the right place, and this is the right time. The anxiety, the despair, the anger I’ve been feeling—that has so transformed my life—immediately fades, as shadows on a wall are dispelled in sunshine.
Always I have felt this way about teaching but more strongly, because more desperately, after Ray’s death.
So long as, with reasonable success, I can impersonate “Joyce Carol Oates,” it is not the case that I am
dead and done for—
yet.
Now for the first time in what I’ve grown to think of as my “posthumous life”—my life after Ray—I am feeling almost hopeful, happy. Thinking
Maybe life is navigable. Maybe this will work.
Then I recall—hope was the predominant emotion I had felt—we had both felt—during the long week of Ray’s hospitalization.
Hope, in retrospect, is so often a cruel joke.
Hope is the thing with feathers
Emily Dickinson so boldly said. The thing that is ungainly, vulnerable, embarrassing. But there it is.
For some of us, what can hope
mean
? The worst has happened, the spouse has died, the story is ended. And yet—the story is not ended, clearly.
Hope can be outlived. Hope can become tarnished.
Yet, I am hopeful about teaching. Each semester I am hopeful and each semester I become deeply involved with my writing students and each semester has turned out well—in fact, very well—since I first began teaching at Princeton. But now, I am thinking that I will focus even more intensely on my students. I have just twenty-two students this semester— two workshops and two seniors whom I am directing in “creative” theses.
Devote myself to my students, my teaching. This is something that I can do, that is of value.
For writing—
being a writer
—always seems to the writer to be of dubious value.
Being a writer
is like being one of those riskily overbred pedigree dogs—a French bulldog, for instance—poorly suited for survival despite their very special attributes.
Being a writer
is in defiance of Darwin’s observation that the more highly specialized a species, the more likelihood of extinction.
Teaching—even the teaching of writing—is altogether different. Teaching is an act of communication, sympathy—a reaching-out—a wish to share knowledge, skills; a rapport with others, who are students; a way of allowing others into the solitariness of one’s soul.
Gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche—
so Chaucer says of his young scholar in the
Canterbury Tales.
When teachers feel good about teaching, this is how we feel.
And so, in this afternoon’s “advanced fiction” workshop, in an upstairs, lounge-like room in 185 Nassau, the University’s arts building, I am greatly relieved to be teaching! To be back in the presence of undergraduates who know nothing of my private life. For two lively and absorbing hours I am able to forget the radically altered circumstances of this life—none of my students could guess, I am certain, that “Professor Oates” is a sort of raw bleeding stump whose brain, outside the perimeters of the workshop, is in thrall to chaos.
Along with prose pieces by several students we discuss, in detail, rending our way through the story line by line as if it were poetry, that early masterpiece of Ernest Hemingway—“Indian Camp.” Four pages long, written when the author was only a few years older than these Princeton undergraduates, the stark and seemingly autobiographical “Indian Camp” never fails to make a strong impression on them.
How strange it is, how strangely comforting, to read great works of literature throughout our lives, at greatly different phases of our lives—my first reading of “Indian Camp” was in high school, when I was fifteen, and younger than the author; each subsequent reading has been revelatory in different ways; now this afternoon, in this new phase of my life, when it seems to me self-evident that my life is over, I am struck anew by the precision of Hemingway’s prose, exquisite as the workings of a clock. I am thinking how, of all classic American writers, Hemingway is the one who writes exclusively of death, in its manifold forms;
the perfect man of action is the suicide
, William Carlos Williams once observed, and surely this was true of Hemingway. In a typical Hemingway story foregrounds as well as backgrounds are purposefully blurred, like the contours of his characters’ faces, and their pasts, as in those dreams of terrible simplicity in which stark revelation is the point, and there is no time for digressing.
At an Indian camp in Northern Michigan to which Nick Adams’s father, a doctor, has been summoned to help with a difficult childbirth, an Indian commits suicide by slashing his throat while lying in the lower bunk of a bunk bed, even as his wife gives birth to their child in the upper bunk. Hemingway’s young Nick Adams is a witness to the horror—before his father can usher him from the scene, Nick has seen him examining the Indian’s wound by “tipping” the Indian’s head back.
Later, rowing back home from the Indian camp, Nick asks his father why the Indian killed himself and his father says, “I don’t know, Nick. He couldn’t stand things, I guess.”
No theory of suicide, no philosophical discourses on the subject are quite so revelatory as these words.
Couldn’t stand things
,
I guess.
How poignant it is to consider that Hemingway would kill himself several decades later, with a shotgun, at the age of sixty-one.
Suicide, a taboo-subject. In 1925, when “Indian Camp” was first published, in Hemingway’s first book
In Our Time
, how much more of a taboo-subject than now.
Suicide is an issue that fascinates undergraduates. Suicide is the subject of a good number of their stories. Sometimes, the suicidal element so saturates the story, it’s difficult to discuss the story as a text without considering frankly the subject, and its meaning to the writer.
Not that most of these young writers would “consider” suicide—I’m sure—but all of them know someone who has killed himself.
Sometimes, these suicides have been friends of theirs, contemporaries from high school or college.
These personal issues, I am not likely to bring into workshop discussions, as I never discuss anything personal about myself, or even my writing. Though I came of age in the 1960s when the borderline between “teacher” and “student” became perilously porous, I am not that kind of teacher.
My intention as a teacher is to refine my own personality out of existence, or nearly—my own “self” is never a factor in my teaching, still less my career; I like to think that most of my students haven’t read my writing.
(Visiting writers/instructors at Princeton—I’m thinking of Peter Carey, for instance—and seeing the look of quizzical hurt on Peter’s face—are invariably astonished/crestfallen to discover that their students are not exactly familiar with their
oeuvres
—but I’m more likely to feel relief.)
It isn’t an exaggeration to say that, this semester of Ray’s death, my students will be my lifeline. Teaching will be my lifeline.
Along with my friends, a small circle of friends—this will “keep me going.” I am sure that my students have no idea of the circumstances of my life, and that they are not curious about it; nor will I ever hint to them what I am feeling, at any time; how I dread the conclusion of the teaching-day, and the return to my diminished life.
It’s a matter of pride to me, that, this afternoon in the workshop, I was no different, or seemed no different, than ever in the past. In my exchanges with my students, I have given them no reason to suspect that anything is amiss in my life.
In the doorway of my office stand two of my writing students from last semester. One of them, who’d been a soldier in the Israeli army, slightly older than most Princeton undergraduates, says awkwardly, “Professor Oates? We heard about your husband and want to say how sorry we are. . . . If there’s anything we can do . . .”
I am utterly surprised—I had not expected this. Quickly I tell the young men that I’m fine, it’s very kind of them but I am fine . . .
When they leave, I shut my office door. I am shaking, I am so deeply moved. But mostly shocked. Thinking
They must have known all along today. They must all know.