First there was the double tragedy that tore the family apart – then came a deadly diagnosis. The writer reflects on life after the death of her novelist husband
I
am alive. My husband, Paul Auster, is dead. He died on 30 April 2024, at 6.58pm here in the Brooklyn house where I am now writing these words. He was diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer in January 2023. But before that, in early November 2022, Paul had a CT scan in the emergency room at Mount Sinai West hospital. The radiologist spotted a mass in his right lung and noted it might be cancer.
We all die, but only some of us know our lives could end soon. Although I had often thought about what it would mean to live without Paul, I began to imagine it more often. I imagined walking around the house alone. I imagined grieving. If your father dies, I said to our daughter, Sophie, I will lose my every day.
What I didn’t imagine is that after Paul’s death, time would be deranged beyond recognition. I remember and then forget what day it is. I remember it’s the month of May and then forget. The hours skip ahead but minutes often move slowly. I want to root my body in calendar and clock, those reliable, if ultimately fictional, markers of time, but I’m not making sense of their regular beats. I’m afraid if I don’t keep checking date, day and hour, I will lose my orientation, stumble on the stairs, and fall or float away ungrounded.
