Oates, Joyce Carol (b. 1938)

A Widow's Story [from The New Yorker]

December 13, 2010

"Like butterflies with frayed wings, thoughts fly at me in random and rapid succession."

I am not able to acknowledge the terror I feel, or the helplessness--such frustration as I enter Princeton Borough and the speed limit drops to twenty-five miles an hour. Here, I must wait for a very long time--how long, how long! a nightmare of lost time!--for the light to change at the intersection of Hodge Road and Route 206. At last the light changes and I drive the several blocks to the hospital, past darkened houses. I run to the front door of the hospital, which, of course, is locked, the interior semi-darkened. I run to the E.R. entrance, around the corner, I plead with a security guard to let me in. I identify myself as the wife of a man "in critical condition" in the Telemetry Unit. The guard listens to me politely but can't let me inside before making a call. This takes some time--precious seconds, minutes. Like butterflies with frayed wings, thoughts fly at me in random and rapid succession. He is still alive. It's all right. He is waiting for me. I will see him. He is still alive. Finally, I can enter. My panicked heart clenches like a fist as I take the elevator to the fifth floor. In Telemetry, there is no one around except at the nurses' station. In my distraction I don't see any nurses I know. By the way these women regard me, with impassive faces, they must know why I am here, at this time of night, when no visitors are allowed. And now, at the far end of the corridor, outside my husband's room, I see something that terrifies me--five or six figures, medical workers, standing quietly outside the open door. As I approach, one of them steps forward--a very young-looking woman, who is a stranger to me. Silently she points into the room and, in that instant, I know--I know that, for all my frantic rush, I have come too late; for all my waiting like a programmed robot for the light to change, I have come too late. In a trance I enter the room--the room I left only a few hours before in utter naïveté, kissing my husband good night.
(p. 77)

Animals::Insects::Butterflies

Reading

Joyce Carol Oates, "A Widow's Story" The New Yorker December 13, 2010.

12/30/2010