The Second Meltdown

Sometimes I write “I’ll tell you all about it in my next post” and then I forget. This time I remembered.

Patrick was in the hospital for 38 days. He spent 15 of those days in the ICU, 9 of them on a respirator. When he got demoted to the cardiovascular surgery unit, we were ecstatic. Little did we know the nightmare that awaited.

There was the roommate who smoked e-cigarettes and watched car racing on the TV (the subject of my first battle with the nurses). His cell phone ring tone sounded like the charge of the light brigade.

There was the night nurse who complained, “What? Again?” whenever she was asked to bring the bedpan.

There was the doctor who ordered me out of the room, in front of an entourage of medical interns, when I made a special effort to arrive before visiting hours so that I could get, first-hand, an update on my husband’s medical condition when the doctor made her rounds. (The cause of the first meltdown.)

There was the doctor who said, “We don’t do rehab in the hospital because we don’t have a physical therapist; I know it’s bizarre.”

There was the absence of even the most basic physical therapy equipment, such as one of those cheap plastic devices for clearing your lungs after surgery. Such as a walker. Such as a wheelchair with foot supports and arm rests.

And then there was the moment that I said I would write about, the one that precipitated the second meltdown.

I was in the waiting room, only partially recovered from the first meltdown, when my sister-in-law arrived with a lawyer in tow. The lawyer’s job was to get Patrick and me to sign a bunch of papers giving Helene power of attorney for an event that was looming: the closing of the sale of their mother’s apartment, the one where Patrick and Tom and I have been living. Helene would also have power of attorney for the buying of the new flat, the one where we would be living after the first flat was sold to a retired diplomat from Nice. Giving my sister-in-law POA was judged by all to be a good move because my comprehension in French of legal matters is roughly that of a four-year-old.

We all trooped down the corridor to Patrick’s bedside. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, dressed in his hospital shift. For the occasion, he had donned a pair of navy blue undies. He had not shaved, nor had he been shaved, in over a month. He looked like the survivor of a mining accident.

The nurses’ station was just across the hall. The lawyer approached it and asked if there was a table we could use. “Don’t ask them for anything,” I said. “It’s futile.” I was thinking of the bedpan. Not to mention the walker, the wheelchair, and the breathing device.

I wheeled Patrick to the lobby, followed by the lawyer and Helene. The lawyer began explaining what we were about to sign. After a few minutes, Patrick needed to lie down. We went back to his room. I helped him into bed.

For days, I had suspected that he was losing the will to live. No, I was sure. This is why I had come to see the doctor. The doctor who refused to speak with me.

The lawyer talked on and on. I tried to listen and understand, but I was exhausted and extremely worried—scared, in fact—and not in the mood to sign legal documents in French.

The lawyer turned to me. It seemed there were a lot of details in the document that he wanted to make sure I understood. Important details, since the document concerned the “residence conjugale.” The place I was meant to live, presumably for the rest of my life.

Suddenly, everything got very complicated. I had to make a choice: Would our marriage contract be subject to Tanzanian law, American law, or French law?

The lawyer began to explain the substantial differences in U.S. and French property law governing married couples. He admitted that he didn’t know much, or indeed anything, about Tanzanian law. I made a quick assumption that Tanzanian law wouldn’t be all that favorable to me, the wife, in my present or future circumstances. Under Tanzanian law, I might be married off straight away to some other family member should I suddenly become a widow.

In other words, the choice I was suddenly being asked to make concerned the death of a spouse. My spouse.

The lawyer went on and on, explaining the differences between French and American law regarding marital property rights. His explanation was half in English and half in French. The English part was, for me, barely more intelligible than the French. I really had no idea what he was saying.

I looked from the lawyer, to the sheaf of papers he was holding, to my husband, who was lying on his back with his eyes closed. And then I burst into tears.

The poor lawyer became extremely flustered. He was young and very clean, very correct. He offered to leave and come back another time. I wiped my tears, straightened my spine, and said, “That will not be necessary. I will pull myself together.” And I did.

Patrick's eyes were now open, but he was too tired to react to the hubbub. He hadn’t slept much for days, he could barely eat (“Everything tastes like cardboard”) and he couldn’t stand on his own. One night, when the mean night nurse was on duty, he tried to get to the toilet by himself, but his legs wouldn’t hold him and he ended up on the floor. He had to crawl back to bed. No wonder he thought he would be better off dead.

“What should I do, darling?” I asked.

“Just sign it,” he said.

And our business was finished.

Later that day, I asked him: “Do you know why I was crying?”

“Oh, yes.”

“He was talking about what would happen to me if you die.”

“I know.”

“And do you think I made my point with that awful doctor, despite my poor French?”

“You made your point. You were very clear.”

“I slammed the door.”

“You spoke for both of us.”

“I was good, wasn’t I?”

“You were good.”

Today, March 24, is Tom’s birthday. He is coming from Paris to see us; we will gather at the rehab center down the hill from our new flat, where Patrick is temporarily living. We have all been through hell since January 27, and the next few weeks are going to be difficult. Tom has to open a new restaurant on Wednesday, a restaurant that is not ready to open. I have to supervise the renovations on our new flat, and I am nowhere near ready for that type of chaos, mentally or physically. Patrick has to gain enough strength to climb the 16 stairs to our new front door. The day he climbs those 16 stairs, I am going to shower him with confetti. I’m going to stand at the top of the stairs with a glass of IPA in one hand and a plate of oysters in the other. Above our front door will be the little sign that reads “Texier Household, est. 1999,” given to us as a wedding present, if I can figure out which packing carton I put it in. The flat has three bedrooms, a big living room, a small balcony, and a good-sized kitchen with a breakfast nook. It has good natural light all day long. It is steps away from a forest with woodland trails, one of which runs along the Seine. It is across the street from an auto school, where I can get my French driving permit, and a halal butcher shop and a good boulangerie, and a Turkish joint that sells kebabs. There’s even a lab where Patrick can get his blood tested. It is the first home that he has ever owned, and I want his homecoming to be nice.

Above: Patrick at the rehab center, talking on the phone with Helene.