Joseph Levy Escapes Death. Rick Strassman

and into his office—what used to be the master bedroom when Renee lived here with him. His camping gear is in the master bathroom closet, a cavernous enclosure. The door connecting the bathroom with the office doesn’t clear the carpet, and his first two weak tugs are ineffective. He leans his whole body backward and pulls it open. Sliding back one of the mirrored closet doors, he locates his winter-grade down sleeping bag, turquoise blue. An old girlfriend, he can’t remember who, used to call it Blue. Cute. He tugs it off the upper shelf and drags it behind him. Laying it on the bed, he crawls inside. Still sitting up, he piles on everything else he can find. Wool comforter, flannel duvet cover. He puts on his sheepskin toque.

      I can’t get comfortable, he observes. Now, that’s undeniable, and again provides him an odd satisfaction. The shaking and teeth-chattering are almost humorous, like a cartoon. Slapstick humor, or is it black, medical student humor? He’s not sure and laughs again.

      Throughout the night, whenever Levy surfaces from his delirious sleep—full of sad, lonely, fearful nightmares—into his waking delirium, he beseeches God with Jeremiah’s plaint. He doesn’t want to complain about God’s justice nor His mercy. God knows best. In fact, God is the only one who knows anything about where this is heading. Antagonizing Him would be a mistake. He opens his eyes and dim light enters through the bedroom window.

      What other prayers do I know? he asks. The Hebrew language is magic. I need magic, magical healing. Not many, he realizes. One is a short grace after meals. It doesn’t beseech, but thanks and praises. I’m thankful to be alive, Levy decides. I’m aware of my surroundings. I can interact with them. That’s a lot to be thankful for. He decides to praise God for being able to interact with his environment.

      Another prayer is the Shema. The short version is three verses, six words each. He’s been reciting it for decades every day upon awakening from and lying down to sleep. Knowing it is the bare minimum required of any Jew. The last words on their lips as they die. Levy’s always hoped to have the presence of mind, and the opportunity, to recite it with his last breath. He needs to get ready.

      Hear, O Israel, YHVH is our God, YHVH is one. Blessed is the name of the glory of His kingdom forever. One is our God, great is our Lord, holy is His name.

      The third prayer is the Kaddish. A hauntingly weird ancient prayer, a mixture of Hebrew and Aramaic. The firstborn son recites it every day for 11 months after a parent’s death. If the firstborn is a daughter, the current ruling is that she may, too. After that, you recite it every year on the death anniversary. It is only praise. The beginning words set the stage: “Magnified and sanctified is His great name.” The prayer of the living for the dead for the sake of the living.

      He calls the clinic at 9 and leaves a message. Lucy, Dr. Thompson’s nurse, calls back a little before 11.

      She says, “I’ll check to see if he can see you today.”

      It’s nearly 3 p.m. No Lucy. Levy lies down but quickly gets up. He’s freezing. The air looks like it does on MDMA. Sparkly, cloudy, bright, the soft blurring of objects offset by edges with a hint of hardness.

      Increasingly desperate, he leaves a message for the nurse who worked with his previous doctor. Help, he croaks. She returns his call shortly.

      “Lucy will get back to you.”

      It’s 4:20. He leaves another message for Lucy, and another for the other nurse.

      Five minutes later, Lucy calls.

      “Dr. Thompson wants to see you.”

      “I can be there in 20 minutes.”

      “How about tomorrow, say 11?”

      He’s got no energy to push back and says, “Okay.”

      He calls Leonard. His best and oldest friend.

      “Could you come out here? I need help.”

      “I’ll check with Penny.” His wife.

      He puts down the phone and returns in a moment. “Okay. I’ll be there in a few hours.” It’s 200 miles of highway.

      March is cold and windy, and no-one likes driving through the dark southwest night into a headwind. And there are the drunk drivers, many of whom keep their headlights off—a venerable and diabolic local tradition. Rarely, though, do they drive the wrong way on the freeways. They’re afraid of getting pulled over.

      Levy’s eyes tear. “Thanks, man.” It’s about 6. “I’m going to bed but will leave the front door unlocked. Make yourself at home.”

      He emails Karen. “Please don’t come. I want to be healthy when we begin this relationship. Santa Barbara was a struggle. Let’s wait for your visit until I feel better.”

      “No,” she writes back.

      No?

      She adds, “I want to see you. I will look after you. Don’t worry. I want to help.”

      She’s not listening. Which is not helpful. Or she doesn’t understand Levy’s request—which also precludes real help. Or doesn’t care. Which is the worst. Is he being clear enough? Is it a language problem? But she’s fluent. Maybe it’s the culture. For the Chinese, a man rejecting a woman’s offer to help, no matter how misguided, is an insult, a shameful attack on her virtue and value. But, if she wants to help, wouldn’t she listen? How does he put his foot down? He can barely lift them.

      He yields a little. “It’s not a good idea.” Then, “I’ll get back to you tomorrow after my doctor visit.”

      He lies on the bed in the dark. Buried under layers of insulation, torrential sweats pool under him, and teeth-chattering chills shake him. Feverish obsessive dreams: counting and cataloguing objects, placing them in order. He must remember lists of trivial things. It’s relentless, exhausting, meaningless torture. Malignant forces have infiltrated.

      That morning, he hears Leonard using the bathroom. I guess he got in last night, Levy reasons.

      He writes Karen in the morning. “This doesn’t look like a two- or three-day cold. Please don’t come. I don’t want you to see me this way.”

      “No. I want to come. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

      He can’t say, “No, don’t come.” Instead it’s, “I’ll call you after my doctor visit.”

      Levy doubts his judgment. And if he can decide anything, he doubts his effectiveness. Maybe it relates to his motivations. Is he being nice or mean to Karen? Selfish or generous? What is his motivation? What is he missing? Why won’t he, can’t he, state and enforce what he needs, what he wants? He can’t? Doesn’t know how? Is it because he’s sick? It might be that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t trust anyone, especially himself, especially now.

      It’s mid-morning. Leonard drives them down the hill in his comfortable Lexus to the frontage road. Levy tries to fasten his head to the window, so it doesn’t loll. His eyes won’t open, but it’s not that important.

      Behind the wheel, Leonard glances over at his friend. He asks, “Is this as bad as you get?”

      “Why won’t my head stick to the glass?” Levy moans.

      A generic nurse walks Levy to an examination room. She measures and notes his normal blood pressure, rapid heart rate, and elevated temperature. She checks his oxygen saturation with a spring-loaded finger monitor. Normal oxygen values are around 96, and Levy’s usually are 98. Today it’s 88. She quickly fits him with nasal prongs supplying oxygen. He wonders how low it’s gotten the last two nights, sleeping, when the drive to breathe lessens. That might explain the dreams. He curses Lucy for putting him off yesterday.

      He’s sitting in Dr. Thompson’s office. While I’m here, he thinks muddily, I’ll get a physical therapy referral for my back. That’s a good idea. He writes “PT” on the little piece of paper containing his timeline: tooth, steroids, travel, symptoms.

      Electric shocks explode along the right