ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife

Book One, Part One, Chapter 30: An Overload

I’m pacing the hospital’s waiting room. I stop to look out its one window. It’s raining, reflections of lamplight in the puddles.

Finally, an older nurse enters. “Your husband’s had a myocardial infarction.”

“A what?”

“A heart attack. We’re taking him to the intensive-care unit. You’ll be able to see him for a few minutes every hour.”

What? I can’t see Ernie when I want to? He’s off-limits to me? He’s never been off-limits to me.

I stay all night in the visitor’s lounge, in an orange plastic chair, visiting Ernie when I can. When daylight comes, I borrow a few quarters from a nurse to ride the bus home. I’m numb inside.

Ernie isn’t with me. He’s in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack. He’ll be home soon. I have to clean the apartment. It has to be clean and welcoming when he comes home.

In three days, he’s home.

“Everything looks so organized,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I have to watch the fat content in my food,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And get more exercise. We’ll walk to Central Park at least three times a week.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be all right. Just too much stress lately.”

“Yes.”

“Stress is no good.”

“Yes. I mean, no.”

“Have to watch the stress.”

“Yes.”

Ernie stretches out on the sofa, and I bring him a cup of tea.

What is stress? I don’t know what stress is. I don’t know what it feels like. I’m a butterfly. I don’t feed on stress. I don’t pick it up. I fly away.