{"product_id":"the-widowers-notebook-isbn-9780143132493","title":"The Widower's Notebook","description":"\u003cb\u003eWritten with unexpected humor and great warmth, \u003ci\u003eThe Widower's Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e is a portrait of a marriage, an account of the complexities of finding oneself single again after losing your spouse, and a story of the enduring power of familial love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is deeply moving ... beautifully written and modulated, with a dollop of droll, black humor. It is such an achievement, like running uphill against a strong wind.\"--Joyce Carol Oates\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a summer day in New York Jonathan Santlofer discovers his wife, Joy, gasping for breath on their living room couch. After a frenzied 911 call, an ambulance race across Manhattan, and hours pacing in a hospital waiting room, a doctor finally delivers the fateful news. Consumed by grief, Jonathan desperately tries to pursue life as he always had--writing, social engagements, and working on his art--but finds it nearly impossible to admit his deep feelings of loss to anyone, not even his to beloved daughter, Doria, or to himself. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Jonathan grieves and heals, he tries to unravel what happened to Joy, a journey that will take him nearly two years.\"Wrenching, heartbreaking, intense and emotional - but valuable, too: we're all approaching the age where this will happen to us - or to others because of us - and understanding that it can be dealt with is consoling.  I don't know how Santlofer found the fortitude to write this, but I'm deeply grateful he did. I think the world is a better place with this book in it.\"—\u003cb\u003eLee Child\u003c\/b\u003e, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Widower’s Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e, Jonathan Santlofer’s searingly truthful chronicle of mortality, is, among its wonders, a book about the preciousness of life and love, rendered all the more heart-wrenching, and all the more vital, by a loss almost beyond imagining. It’s a true tragic beauty.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eMichael Cunningham\u003c\/b\u003e, Pulitzer Prize winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Hours\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Widower’s Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e is a searing rendition of the complex relationship between men and grief—an intense despair that is too often starved for words.  This chronicle of devastation is itself devastating, a deeply powerful and unflinchingly honest report of how painfully and strangely life continues in the wake of a sudden, tragic death.”—\u003cb\u003eAndrew Solomon\u003c\/b\u003e, National Book Award winner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\"The Widower’s Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e is an intimate, honest, heart-wrenching, and at times even funny account of grieving as well as the memoir of long, satisfying, loving marriage. This is an important and welcome addition to the literature of loss and grief from the male point of view. I will be giving this \u003ci\u003eNotebook \u003c\/i\u003eto friends reeling from loss but also to old and new couples who need models of how to weather the many little deaths and losses that occur as they journey a life together. Santlofer has given us a brave, beautiful gift, heartfelt and invaluable.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJulia Alvarez\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHow the García Girls Lost Their Accents \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSaving the World\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWidower\u003c\/i\u003e is stunning, harrowing, un-put-down-able… Jonathan Santlofer finds language that is immediate and intimate for the irreconcilable trauma of loss. Without pause he captures the shattered time that is grief—this book is fearless, brave for its humanity, honesty, love. Santlofer brings the reader into his heart, sharing all the things that one feels but dares not say aloud, all that one wants to know but can’t ask of themselves, of those around them, of their lost loved one.”—\u003cb\u003eA.M. Homes\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eMay We Be Forgiven\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As an extended meditation - not on grief but on grieving - it is direct, unadorned and humane. It is, as well, a rare thing, a portrait of a happy marriage.\"—\u003cb\u003ePaul Theroux\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jonathan Santlofer's book is a miraculous act of seeing, in words and in drawings — of reconstituting, in a work of art, what his wife Joy was like and what their marriage was like and what the loss has been. A riveting memoir of grief, and an indelible portrait of a long and deeply good marriage.\" —\u003cb\u003eJoan Wickersham\u003c\/b\u003e, National Book Award finalist and author of \u003ci\u003eThe Suicide Index\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A brave book! A truthful and poignant account of an unexpected death filled with wisdom about life and a man's struggle to be allowed to grieve.\"—\u003cb\u003eSheila Kohler\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eOnce We Were Sisters\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Jonathan Santlofer, with painful honesty, renders real grief in all its sprawl and inconsolable intensity.”—\u003cb\u003eEdmund White\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Boy’s Own Story\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jonathan Santlofer’s stunning \u003ci\u003eThe Widower’s Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e raises all the blinds on immense and sudden loss, bringing light to all its dark corners. In so doing, he offers a deeply moving, often funny, always big-hearted portrait—not just of grief but of a long and rich marriage brought to vivid life, and of a mighty father-and-daughter relationship both tested and enduring. A true gift.\"—\u003cb\u003eMegan Abbott\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eYou Will Know Me\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJonathan Santlofer\u003c\/b\u003e is a writer and artist. His debut novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Death Artist\u003c\/i\u003e, was an international bestseller, translated into seventeen languages, and is currently in development for screen adaptation. His fourth novel, \u003ci\u003eAnatomy of Fear\u003c\/i\u003e, won the Nero Award for best novel of 2009. His short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies. He is also the creator and editor of several anthologies including\u003ci\u003e It Occurs to Me That I Am America\u003c\/i\u003e, a collection of original stories and art. His paintings and drawings are included in many public and private collections. He lives in New York City.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nothing Out of the Ordinary\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Joy went into the hospital on a Thursday morning in mid-August, a      torn ligament or tendon of the knee, a torn meniscus to be      specific. Outpatient surgery. No big deal, that's what the doctor      said. She had torn it walking up (or was it down?) a flight of      stairs at the Museum of Modern Art, and limped around for weeks      until finally making the decision to have surgery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The night before we binge-watched Episodes, the Matt LeBlanc TV      series. It had become a favorite, and we loved watching and      rewatching it when either one of us was in a bad mood or feeling      anxious, and Joy was anxious, though I kept reassuring her      everything would be okay. Why wouldn't it be?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm sure Joy went to sleep before I did; she always did. I stayed      up with Andrew Solomon's Far from the Tree, which I had been      reading all summer, and did that night, until at least midnight,      possibly later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't remember anything specific or dramatic about the next      morning, only being at the hospital, squeezing Joy's hand before      she was led away to surgery, then settling into the waiting room.      I don't remember what I did or what I read, so many of the mundane      everyday things have been excised from my memory to make room for      the awful ones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When the surgery was finished we met up in recovery. Joy looked      fine. Her doctor (whom I had not met before) breezed in for a      minute, didn't say much, and seemed in a hurry to go. He had the      cocky arrogance of an aging jock, and I didn't like him. I helped      Joy dress and we took a cab home. We had already rented the      prescribed ice machine (from the same doctor's office) that      encased her leg under a thick canvas wrap that bulged and bloated      with icy water pumped through the machine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The rest of the day was normal other than the fact that Joy was      mostly on the couch, leg up, ice machine doing its thing. She      walked to and from the bathroom, from bedroom to living room, a      good distance in the Flower Market loft we'd bought together more      than thirty years ago, and she did this many times because she'd      been told to walk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For a while, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 911\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is late morning of the following day. Joy is on the living room      couch and has been all morning, reading Wolf Hall, or going over      notes for Food City, the epic book on the history of New York food      she is writing, when she complains of her leg feeling \"odd and      twitchy\" and I notice that her face is flushed. I put my hand      against her cheek. She feels warm. I ask her if she thinks she has      a fever and she says she isn't sure but doesn't feel \"quite      right.\" I suggest she call the doctor, and she does. She tells the      nurse or receptionist her symptoms-flushed face, possible fever,      odd twitchy feeling in her leg-and says that she is feeling      \"congested,\" having some difficulty breathing. There is some      conversation back and forth, no more than a couple of minutes, if      that. When she hangs up, she says she's been told to wait until      her follow-up appointment on Tuesday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is a Friday in mid-August.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's a long time to wait,\" I say, and ask again if she feels      okay. She says not really, but the doctor's office does not appear      worried, so she isn't either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No one wants to be bothered on a summer weekend,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have a few errands to run, some food, computer paper, more ice      for the machine. I tell Joy I will be back in an hour, and I am.      Joy is still on the couch, reading. I refill the ice machine. Her      leg, she says, is feeling \"very twitchy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I suggest we take the ice pack off and have a look, but she      doesn't think it's a good idea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Do we talk about anything else? Dinner, I think. But I can't      remember. After more than forty years of marriage we communicate      without a lot of talk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When we were first together we talked nonstop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We'd met as undergrad art students at Boston University. I was a      painting major; Joy, the more practical one, studying art      education. A blind date neither one of us wanted-a friend of hers      knew a friend of mine. I remember going to pick her up at her      dorm, watching her come out of the elevator and walk toward me in      her beige mini-jumper, dark tights that showed off her legs,      waist-long auburn hair, adorable pug nose and freckles. Irish, I      thought (though it turned out she was Jewish). On the MTA trolley      we talked easily and she smiled a lot and I noticed her perfect      teeth (braces, I later learned), then her beautiful hands, long      tapered fingers and surprisingly long nails, unlike other art      school girls whose nails were usually cut short and crusted with      paint, like mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am in my studio at the back of the loft, too far away to hear if      Joy calls-down a long hallway, past the kitchen, two bedrooms, two      bathrooms, and JoyÕs office, plus my studio walls are      soundproof-but she has her cell phone in case she needs me, and I      can be by her side in less than a minute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the studio, I get to work on a book I have been trying to      finish about a cop who loses his family in a random shooting, a      novel with a loose association to Crime and Punishment, which I      had recently reread, and had become obsessed with. My novel was      unresolved, though Joy, always my first and best reader, liked it,      and encouraged me to keep going. I remember thinking that I had      gotten something wrong, something very basic to the story, that      the villain, a hit man at the end of his days, should be the      stand-in for Raskolnikov, not my hero cop, which is the way I had      written it. It seemed like a revelation and I made notes on how I      might rewrite it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Normally, Joy would be right next door in her office, also      soundproof, though we shared a wall. We had been working at home      together for the past decade. Though there were times I found the      togetherness a bit much, there was comfort in it too, like having      an artist's colony of two. In grandiose moments I could imagine we      were Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman or Joan Didion and John      Gregory Dunne.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My Raskolnikov notes did not take long. I couldn't have been in my      studio for more than a half hour before going back to check on      Joy, though she had not called.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Halfway down the hall I see her face is pale and she is reaching      out to me. In my head I hear her say, Where have you been? but I      donÕt think she says anything, her ability to speak already      reduced to a croak, her eyes wide with a look I have never seen      before: something between terror and pleading. I rush to her side      and get my arms around her. She is gasping for breath and I tell      her to breathe slowly as I fumble with my cell phone-or was it      hers?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the time I speak to the 911 operator until the firemen and      paramedics arrive seems like hours though it is only a matter of      minutes. The whole time I'm cradling Joy in my arms, telling her      to breathe slowly, her eyes open wide and she grips my hand      tightly as I repeat, \"Hold on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then there are sirens outside and the buzzer is sounding, but how      do I answer the bell? I can't move her, can't leave her, her      breathing is labored-the buzzer is shrieking-I'm talking to her,      relax, breathe, relax, breathe, but how to take the ten, twelve      necessary steps to the elevator, to press the button to let the      firemen in, but then I'm doing it, leaning Joy upright against the      couch, her head lolls to the side and I try to right her but      can't, the buzzer is shrieking again and I'm up now, sprinting      across the room, pressing the buzzer that releases the building's      front door, and I see them in the security camera-firemen in full      gear-in the lobby, then crowding into the elevator, and when I      hear the elevator engage I dash back to Joy, who is close to      tumbling over and I am just getting my arms around her, gently      pulling her toward me, when the elevator doors open and the      firemen burst into the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Invisible Man\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everything is moving fast, firemen and paramedics in overdrive.      Someone has tugged me away, my heart beating wildly, head light as      if filled with helium, and I watch, a helpless man observing from      the sidelines, though I see it in detail, every second of it      becoming etched in my mind's eye, an endless movie loop, which      later will become readily accessible at the flip of a synaptic      switch, never something I do voluntarily but always with me and      playing too often.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is little talk other than the directions spoken quietly but      urgently from one paramedic to another, over and under the      pounding thoughts in my head: This can't be happening-they are      saving her-they are losing her-she will be okay-she is dying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I cannot say how long any of this goes on. The action is only a      few feet in front of me, yet distant and far away as if I am      watching through the wrong end of a telescope, in high definition      one moment, blurred and indistinct the next, intensely real and      unreal, all of it spiraling out of control just beyond my reach.      My body is tingling though disconnected; I can't locate any      feelings other than helplessness and panic, though I am trying      hard not to show it, to act normal. Several times I ask what I can      do, how I can help, but if there are any answers I no longer      remember them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am the invisible man, there and not there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first paramedic team is replaced by a second, a woman, who      seems more like a doctor, the others following her lead like      Kabuki stagehands, in silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Finally, someone asks me a question: Is there another elevator,      because the stretcher will not fit into the passenger elevator. I      tell them there is a freight elevator and they ask me to get it      and I am thankful to do something. I race down the stairs, six      flights to the basement, then into the freight elevator, a dark,      old device from the 1920s, where I flip the on switch and check      the connections, things I have done countless times in the thirty      years I have lived in the building, but cannot get it to work.      Over and over I am flipping switches and checking contacts,      sweating and cursing and crying without knowing it until I taste      tears on my lips. After a dozen more frantic attempts I give up      and race up the basement stairs, cursing the machine and myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the lobby, a neighbor I hardly know, a fairly new tenant, asks      what's going on. There are fire engines and an ambulance in front      of the building, their beacons streaking beams of startling red      light through the glass doors and across the lobby, and the      firemen have stopped the passenger elevator on my floor, so no one      can use it. I can't imagine what I look like or how I am acting,      but I must say something that makes sense, something about my wife      being ill and that I can't get the freight elevator to work,      before I race back up the five flights to tell the firemen and      paramedics that the freight elevator isn't working at precisely      the moment the new neighbor brings it to a stop on my floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back in the loft I take in the scene as if for the first time: a      swarm of paramedics and firemen in the living room and my wife on      the floor, oxygen mask over her face. They lift her onto a gurney,      which they carry into the stairwell, then into the freight      elevator. I follow the other firemen and paramedics, all of us      crowded into the passenger elevator, no one speaking,      walkie-talkie devices chirping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Outside, the world has gone surreal, the streets and buildings,      stores and pedestrians dissolving, everything a vague painted      backdrop behind the high-definition foreground action-my wife,      unconscious on a stretcher, ambulance doors opening, paramedics      lifting her in. I can't say if the day is hot or cool, if the sky      is clear or cloudy. Street noise alternates between distant and      deafening, sirens far away and muted one minute, shrieking the      next. I try to get into the ambulance. I think I am shouting that      I must stay with my wife when someone stops me and explains that      it's more important for the emergency crew to be with her, once      again the superfluous man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stand in the middle of the street, watching myself: lost,      shrinking, weightless, and porous, as if I could blow away. Then      someone has me by the shoulders and directs me into a car with the      fire chief. I think it's the fire chief; I'm still not sure. So      many factual details are gone while so many others are etched,      sharp and clear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I sit beside him, a man with a grim, determined face that I could      draw from memory, and see the ambulance in front of us, filling      the windshield like an oversized video game, lights flashing,      siren blaring as we speed through the city, going the wrong way      down one-way streets, buildings blurring, everything gray, color      leached as if sucked away by our speed, feeling as though I am      floating somewhere above the scene while I grip my seat so hard my      fingers ache, none of it real, yet intensely, horrifically real,      even while I continue telling myself: This can't be happening-you      are dreaming-you are going mad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The car radio crackles to life with static chatter and I am      startled into the moment. I need to say something, to ask a      question, but my mouth won't work. I swallow; it feels as if there      is glass in my throat. I open my mouth but no words come out. I      try again. You know how to do this. I take a couple of quick      shallow breaths and manage a sentence, \"Just-tell me-she      is-going-to be-all right.\" After a long moment the fire chief      says, \"They're doing all they can,\" the whole time staring      straight ahead, his voice uninflected, never once taking his eyes      off the road. It is a canned response, one I will hear again.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301659693285,"sku":"NP9780143132493","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143132493.jpg?v=1767742212","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-widowers-notebook-isbn-9780143132493","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}