Of Hope and Fish [Featured in P.S. I Love You]

[This story was featured in P.S. I Love You.]

So I need to tell you a little story about hope.

My husband, Jim, had a serious illness that required organ transplant. There were lots of pretty rough moments, but one, in particular, stood out.

A thing that’s important to understand about liver transplants is that you have to be dreadfully ill to receive them (because the waiting list is so long), but also well enough to successfully make it through surgery. From a medical standpoint, this is like dancing on the head of a pin wearing high heels and a blindfold.

One day, Jim was scheduled for a simple but necessary procedure to maintain his dwindling health. As we were hitting the road, we received an urgent call telling us to re-route to his transplant hospital. Something was wrong.

After a 7-hour wait to get a bed, an exhausted Jim was told his blood counts were really, really off (hence, the procedure cancellation) and that he was in for a serious battle.

Privately I was told by his doctors that his situation was dire. Patients with this complication begin to lose their mental grip on things, swiftly fall into a coma, and then pass shortly thereafter — even with aggressive medical intervention. The next 12 hours were critical. The doctors advised me to keep him aware, engaged, and do my best to lift his spirits.

Very. Tall. Order.

So…what do you talk about with someone, in the hospital, freezing in a drafty room, who is exhausted beyond measure, who was just told not to buy any green bananas?

Well, you talk about Le Bernardin.

If you haven’t heard of it, Le Bernardin is a French restaurant specializing in truly outstanding fish. Eric Ripert is its famous chef. Justo Thomas is the fish butcher so phenomenally precise, they have to bring in three people to replace him when he takes a well-deserved vacation. Anthony Bourdain was a devoted fan. It has won virtually every culinary award. You need reservations months in advance. It is a NYC institution.

My opening gambit:

“Well, Jim. You just have to get past this $&!+ so we can go to Le Bernardin.”

Thus began an all-night conversation, about a restaurant, where he would likely never get to eat.

We talked about the oysters, fresh and sweet.

We talked about the linens and fragrant flowers.

We talked about the waiter — would he be really French or Brooklyn actor acting French?

Would they seat us by a window?

Would we dine à la carte or put ourselves in the Chef’s hands with the tasting menu?

As the hours got smaller, we talked on — while the doctors and nurses worked so hard to keep him around.

We had an entire meal over the course of the night, talking about every dish, every nuance of the place.

At the conclusion of our “meal” — at nearly 8 in the morning — Jim had turned the corner. The war was still on but this battle was won.

As I left him at the hospital that morning to head to work, I felt full. Full of hope. Full of possibilities.

Le Bernardin had become our unlikely battlecry. Because he still had a whole lot of living to do.

Yes. He would get past this $&!+.

We would get past this $&!+.

One day, we would have that meal.

And then one day we did.