Carol Ross Joynt - Innocent Spouse: A Memoir

Copyright 2011 by Carol Joynt Media LLC

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

www.crownpublishing.com

CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Joynt, Carol Ross.

Innocent spouse: a memoir / Carol Ross Joynt.

p. cm.

1. Joynt, Carol Ross. 2. Women journalistsUnited StatesBiography. 3. JournalistsUnited StatesBiography. 4. BusinesswomenWashington (D.C.)Biography. 5. Nathans (Washington, D.C.). 6. Joynt, Carol RossMarriage. 7. Joynt, Howard, III. 8. HusbandsDeathCase studies. 9. Husband and wifeTaxationUnited StatesCase studies. 10. Washington (D.C.)Biography. I. Title.

CT275.J926A3 2011

975.3092dc22

[B] 2010045602

eISBN: 978-0-307-59212-5

Jacket design by Erin Schell

Jacket photography: courtesy of the author (wedding photograph);

Broken Flower by Diane Wesson Special Photographers Archive/Bridgeman Art Library; Bridgeman Art Library (background)

v3.1

For Spencer

I thought I was your guide, but as it turned out,

you were my guide, too.

W E WERE STUCK in heavy Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic on M Street, the main thoroughfare in Georgetown. It was January. Everyone was headed home at the same time. I slammed the horn at the slowpoke ahead of me every time he cost me another yellow light. I wasnt panicked, but I was frustrated. We needed to go, not sit at a light. From the backseat my husband, Howard, groaned at every stop, start, lane change, and pothole. He was on his back, gasping for breath, and braced himself with his arms.

We did not talk except for my repeated question, How are you? And his faint repeated answer, Every time you hit a pothole its a stabbing pain. I listened to the all-news radio station to make sure my route was clear. The announcers voices droned through news updates, commercial breaks, two-minute interviews, and weather. In a way it was so utterly ordinarythe car, the traffic, the potholes, the radio. We might have been on our way to the supermarket. Except we werent. We were headed to the emergency room at Sibley Hospital, and I was focused like a laser on the road.

When we pulled into the drive I stopped at the door and jumped out. Im gonna get a nurse. Ill be right back. My voice was urgent but calm. Calm enough, anyway. I ran inside, through the lobby and to the desk. I need a nurse! My husbands in the car. He can barely breathe.

The nurse opened the back door, did a quick survey of Howard, and asked, Can you walk in or do you need a wheelchair? He said he could walk. We both helped him out of the car. At six foot three he would have towered over us but he was hunched over in pain. His face was pale. His usually slicked-back silver hair was in disarray. His trousers and sweater were loose.

The nurse bolstered Howard with her shoulder under his arm. Their pace was slow, careful. I left him with her. By the time I parked, gave the admissions clerk the necessary insurance information, and found Howard in the warren of examining rooms, there was an oxygen mask over his face, an IV in his arm, and a young doctor and two nurses hovering over him. His eyes locked with mine. I saw fear. My gut tightened.

Your husband has bad pneumonia, the doctor said, shoving an X-ray into a wall-mounted light box. His tone was anxious, even a little frazzled. He pointed at the black-and-white picture of my husbands lungs, one quite obviously cloudy and white. One lung is fully compromised, he said, pointing to the film like a teacher lecturing a class. We cant let it spread to the other. Were sending him up to the ICU. We have work to do.

Id brought in a time bomb, but I consoled myself that Howard could talk and his eyes were open. Heck, I thought, people survive pneumonia all the time. Pneumonia is fixable. Maybe hell be in the hospital a couple of days. Hell learn his lesson about avoiding the doctor until too late.

The medical team disappeared through the drawn white curtain. We were alone. Howard asked for water. Evian, please.

How sick can he be if hes picky about the water? I stood as close to him as possible, careful not to disturb the tubes and wires. Ill get some bottled water later. D.C. water will do for now, I said. This looks like a close call. Thank God I didnt stay longer in New York. Not that it matters now, but Ill never understand why you told me youd seen Dr. Goldstein. He didnt respond but slowly closed his eyes. He didnt want to hear about it. So I made upbeat small talk. Even though it was loud and crowded in the emergency room, and the curtain was regularly pulled back and closed again by busy nurses and technicians, the moment felt oddly intimate, personal, another experience in our journey together. He was scared and I was there to help take care of him, to calm his fear.

I found a wall phone outside Howards treatment bay. My first call was to Howards sister, Martha, in New Castle, Delaware. Im at Sibley. Howard has bad pneumonia. Thats all I know. Theyre sending him to the ICU.

She didnt ask any questions. Im on my way. Itll probably be three hours.

I called my office at CNNs Larry King Live, and talked to the executive producer. Youre not gonna believe this. Im at Sibley. Howard has bad pneumonia. I found him flat on his back in bed when I got home from New York.

She was alarmed. What can we do?

I dont know, I said. Ill get back to you.

I made the same call to Nathans, Howards restaurant in Georgetown. What can I do? the manager asked.

I dont know. Stand by. Ill get back to you.

My last call was the toughest. Home. As we were leaving for the hospital, Howard had paused only long enough to poke his head in on our smiling five-year-old son, playing on the floor of his room with the babysitter. Ill be back, big guy, he said. I gave the babysitter the update and asked to speak to Spencer.

There was something about that little voice at the other end of the line that underscored my altered reality. Spencer seemed so far removed from the drama involving his parents, but it would soon become his drama, too. Blessedly, I suppose, he was too young to understand where I was, what had happened, and what it meant, and therefore at this point it could not scare him. Im at the hospital with Daddy, I said. There are lots of nice doctors and nurses.

Mommy, are the doctors going to fix him? He knew Howard was not well. After all, for the four days I was away Howard had been home in bed.

Yes, sweetie. The doctors are going to make him all better. You should have your dinner and get ready for bed, and Ill be there as soon as possible.

Okay, Mommy. Can I talk to Daddy?

Soon, but not right now. Hes taking a nap. Thats how they fix him.

Okay, Mommy.

Howard was whisked up to the ICU. Bright lights flooded the room. There were two windows, one with the blinds shut, the other facing the nursing station. There was a lot of equipment, most of it hooked up to him. One of the machines beeped constantly, flashing numbers. He had an IV, possibly two. He was in a gown, under white sheets, propped up by pillows. Was I afraid? No, not then. Not yet. Howard was awake, after all. He talked to me through his oxygen mask. I wet washcloths with cold water, squeezed them out, and pressed them against his forehead. There were lots of people fussing with him. Something was being done. I said to myself, This is bad for him but routine for them. Hell be here a couple nights and then home.