Chapter 9

EASTER WEEKEND

HOLY SATURDAY

The next day I was obsessed with making Easter baskets. If my kids are reading this book, let me make it clear that I was prepping the Easter baskets so that the (real) Easter bunny would know which of my kids wanted what color and which items. I mean, the Easter bunny has a lot of kids to visit, and I wanted to help him or her understand that the five-year-old has different needs than the twelve-year-old. I was just prepping. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’ll go on. There was one point when Jim came into the office where I was doing this important (prepping) work: “Don’t you think you should be spending time with your children instead of doing this?”

“This is spending time for my children!” I replied way too defensively.

“All right, all right,” he said while exiting. But I knew he was right. I realized that the Easter basket making had some kind of a complex symbolic meaning. They weren’t just part of the autopilot, ticking off the to-do list that had helped me carry off the last ten years. Maybe the Easter baskets were a way for me to procrastinate on telling my kids the truth and I just wanted to act normal and give them pretty things and candy to mask the harsh reality of life. Maybe I felt that I could make baskets for my kids better than anyone in the whole world, and I was showing my love through service to them. Maybe I was afraid that it would be the last time I would be the one responsible for this highly anticipated annual tradition and I wanted to give it my all. Whatever those Easter baskets meant, I wanted to be making them more than I wanted to tell my children what was about to happen. Maybe telling them would make it too real for me, and then I would finally feel the fear I was not feeling. Finally, the baskets were complete and beautiful and it was time to act. I checked my inner task list: call parents, tell kids, call Nora. I decided to call my dear friend Nora first. This would be my warm-up call.

I first met Nora Fitzpatrick in October 2003. Jim and I had gotten married earlier that year in July at St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in lower Manhattan, on the same block where we both lived and met. Yes, I moved all the way to New York City to marry the boy next door. Later I found out that during our wedding there was an international retreat going on at St. Patrick’s and they had run out of food for all the missionaries. Nora was a volunteer at the missionary retreat and was trying to figure out how to feed fifty people on a Saturday night at midnight when at the same moment, a wedding reception (ours) at the Puck Building around the corner let out and a team of girls in gowns and boys in tuxes (my siblings) showed up at the church with pans and pans of high-end wedding food. Nora laughs later when she recounts this as our first introduction. The French missionary priests were especially excited about the champagne grapes and the pâté. Our parish priest at the time, Father Thomas, officiated at our wedding and was of course the guest of honor at the reception. When he saw all the leftover food we had at the end of the night, he pointed out that there was a huge retreat going on at the church, and isn’t that the way the world should always work.

In October of that same year, I found myself volunteering at another food-centric event at St. Patrick’s, “A Taste of NoLIta” (which stands for “North of Little Italy”). Neighborhood restaurants donated a batch of their specialty dishes to the church, and the public could buy a $20 ticket and sample all the local fare. It was a pretty great fund-raising idea as well as a community builder. Though I was nearing the end of my first trimester of pregnancy with my first child (yes, Marre was a “honeymoon baby”), I signed up to volunteer. Collecting dirty plates and garbage was not the best activity for someone battling the nausea of early pregnancy, but this parish was dying on the vine, and getting married and expecting a child awoke in me a newfound desire for a community in which to put down roots.

The enchanting little church with the redbrick wall around it was the center of our neighborhood and made New York City feel so personal, almost provincial. The parish’s heyday was long past. The Italians of the neighborhood had long ago moved to Long Island and beyond, and were replaced by Dominican immigrants who were getting priced out by models, artists, and, I guess, Jim and me. I felt a responsibility to the beleaguered, once thriving parish of Italian grandmas and Dominican die-hards that was now the center of the most secular community in Manhattan.

As I hauled a huge rubber bus tub full of slop to the back, I noticed another woman, who stood out because she was below the age of eighty, doing the same activity with an energy that mirrored mine. She was tall and gorgeous with jet-black hair and pale white skin. Most significantly, she was about eight months pregnant, which seemed to make her even more powerful and beautiful. As we emptied the slop into the garbage and slid the sticky sauce-covered plates into the sink, I noticed our husbands holding court with the priest as the last of the patrons were leaving. I felt the situation definitely called for one of my signature sarcastic remarks: “Let the pregnant women carry the garbage. What’s a little more weight?”

“It’s good exercise for them,” she quipped back. “It prevents varicose veins.” And a lifelong friendship was born. Practical, funny, and empathetic, that was Nora.

It feels strange to characterize Nora and Trey as simply friends. They are most certainly friends, but also so much more. Do couples have the equivalent of a soulmate couple? Like-minded childbearing fools who walk beside you down the thrilling and treacherous path of parenting? After Nora gave birth to Joseph that December, I had Marre in May. After she had Nellie in August, Jack was born the following November. The simultaneous pregnancies continued until we each had five children. This was not a coordinated effort, much to the disappointment of the little old ladies at our church.

Every time they would notice Nora with a bump, they would encircle me after Mass like a small pack of wolves. “You better catch up! Nora is winning!” We would insist it was not a competition, but what fun was that? We realized we were really spicing things up for the daily Mass crowd. They were gleefully intrigued by each new development and at the same time a little disgusted: “Again? What, don’t you have a TV?” The ten children gave our families star status in the parish, the congregation of which at the time comprised us, the aforementioned little old ladies, and some neighborhood regulars who were the same regulars of the corner tavern in the evenings. When there were other families with small children (or a child) at Mass, they sat far away from our group of rowdy hooligans.

There was an infamy to our celebrity, as Nora and I were often found gossiping in the church vestibule during Masses with a couple of babies and a lot of Legos. We were the bad Catholic girls turned bad Catholic moms. I remember Father Thomas confronting us about it one time. “You shouldn’t take them to the back when they cry. They should get used to sitting in the church.” I was so impressed with us for getting our five kids to Mass on Sundays that I secretly felt we deserved some kind of all-access pass.

“Father, they are one-year-olds! They are not quite getting the concept of transubstantiation at this point.”

Father was not having it. “You see that little boy, Cooper? He is three years old and he sits quietly in the front pew.” Father Thomas was right. Cooper did sit quietly in the front pew. Cooper also sat quietly at the park where we all took our kids after Mass. Kids from smaller families had a different disposition. In other words, they behaved.

Nora and I had been through many of the ups and downs of raising a big family in the city together, and we were bonded like sisters. We traditionally spent Halloween, Mother’s Day, Fourth of July, and innumerable weekends together. Doing anything with ten young children in Manhattan feels like a field trip, and the Gaffigans and the Fitzpatricks did it with regularity. We would literally overtake city sidewalks and parks. We found amusement in the horrified reactions of New Yorkers who encountered our combined brood. It must have felt like an invasion of children.

This Easter we had planned a similar brunch following the egg hunt that the Fitzpatricks spearheaded each year after Mass at St. Patrick’s. Finding seating for fourteen-plus at the bougie NoLIta restaurants was always an adventure, but through trial and error, we cracked this dilemma and always had an adventure finding a back room or a downstairs area that would accommodate our herd of children and where we adults could have a fabulous salmon benedict and mimosa while the kids barely touched their $30 French toast because it was served with a dollop of gross-looking ricotta on it. Nora always brought a big bag of thematic kiddie crafts, and the trendy café would be transformed into our idealized entrepreneurial venture where a “family-friendly” experience did not have to mean bad food.

We had one of these plans for the next day, and I thought it would be best if I let Nora know about the craniotomy prior to the mimosa. Nora’s reaction to my phone call confirmed the love I felt for this woman.

“Just wanted to give you a heads-up that I have a large brain tumor and I have to go into Mount Sinai Monday for an urgent craniotomy.” I knew her well enough that I could hear her heart bursting with compassion while her voice remained measured and calm.

Imagine looking up and seeing this crew entering your brunch spot.

“Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry about us.” She went on, “We totally can cancel the brunch.”

“No!” I replied. I wanted everything to be normal. “I want to have the best Mass, egg hunt, crazy take-over-SoHo brunch and let the kids trash their fancy Easter clothes at ‘Dirty Park’” (our pet name for our local NoLIta playground where a trip down the slide would result in blackened pants). Nothing sad, nothing scary, just fun and love. Like we do it.

“Okay,” she replied. We would stick to the plan.

“I have to call my mom and dad,” I said. “They don’t know yet.”

“Okay, do that. Bye.” She hung up. Nora is not one for long good-byes. Practical and empathetic, that was Nora.

Telling My Parents

Saturday went by like any other typical weekend day in the Gaffigan house, except Dad was home. Jim was usually performing on weekend nights, but this was a special family holiday and he had committed to be home months ago. Fortunate and unfortunate at the same time. With and without fortune. It was the night before Easter so the kids were riled up. After a normal, chaotic dinner, we got the kids ready for bed, but they were wide awake. I pulled Jim aside.

“Jim, can you put on an Easter movie in our room for the kids so I can call Dom and Weezie to tell them about the surgery?”

My matter-of-fact demeanor was all he needed to reply nonchalantly, “Do they have a kid’s version of The Passion of the Christ or something?”

I ignored Jim’s borderline sacrilege. “I think it’s called Hop, and it’s not great.” If I survived this, I decided, I had to do something about kids’ movies. I sat down on the couch in my living room and dialed Dom and Weezie. I started referring to my mom and dad as Dom and Weezie a few years ago because that’s what Jim called them, as he is vehemently opposed to spouses calling their in-laws “Mom and Dad.” Jim’s parents both unfortunately passed away before I met him, and like most comedians, he covers the pain with dark humor. For instance, if I say, “What should we do for Dad’s birthday?” he says, “My dad’s dead. Thanks for bringing it up.” So, I call them Dom and Weezie. I still, of course, call them Mom and Dad to their faces.

I distinctly remember calling them from my darkened living room. It seemed more appropriate than doing it from the home office where I usually make private phone calls. This wasn’t a business call. It was a human call. The most human kind of call. A private, somber grown-up call. I guess I initially left the lights off as a deterrent from a kid walking in. But in retrospect I realize that it was the mood lighting I needed. A dramatic kind of a setting for me. The right ambience. I’d been putting off this call, and now it was time. As a parent, all I do is worry about something happening to one of my kids, and now I had to tell my own parents that something was happening to their kid. I took a page from Nora’s playbook for the tone of the call: serious, but under control. You may be wondering why it took so long for me to call my mom and dad about something so life-threatening. I had enough experience under my belt to know that I shouldn’t call my mom and dad about something in the middle of chaos.

“Mom, Dad, I just found out I have a mass in my brain and I have no idea what to do!” would have been the call to them two days ago. The reaction would have been my dad consulting Dr. Google for “mass in the brain,” and my mom calling her ob/gyn for advice before telling me I wasn’t taking enough fish oil. Her father was an ob/gyn, so in her mind those doctors were the leaders of the medical community. She would call her ob/gyn even if she had a head cold. I realize this sounds like an exaggeration, but, as much as I love my parents, I understand how they process bad news. I called their landline. I know, I know. No one calls the landline anymore. But this seemed like a landline kind of call because I wouldn’t have to choose between calling Mom’s or Dad’s phone. I was calling them both.

“Hi, Danielle, can I talk to Dad?” Danielle is my sister who lives at home. She was born with a rare chromosomal disorder, Williams syndrome, that is characterized by moderate intellectual disability, distinct facial features, and cardiovascular problems. For those reasons, she will probably always live with my parents. Williams syndrome kids are the friendliest, nicest people and often, like Danielle, have advanced musical abilities. Danielle is the fifth child, smack in the middle of the nine, and she is the soul and anchor of our family. She is love incarnate, and I just couldn’t tell her about the surgery yet. One step at a time. “Dad, hi. Can you get Mom on the other extension? I need to speak to you guys about something serious.” Being one of nine siblings, I very well could have been the sixth or seventh call they got that day that opened with the same statement.

I heard my dad calling, “Louise!” The way they rallied together in situations like this was impressive and made up for all the needless bickering that occurs after forty-eight years of marriage. (Or fourteen years in Jim’s and my case.)

When I was sure they were both on the phone, and out of the earshot of Danielle, I asked them if they were sitting down. I know that’s kind of a cliché way to open a call, but I meant it. I’d never really said that to someone before, but I didn’t want to be the reason either of them fainted and hit their head. I’d never hear the end of it from my eight siblings. “You told Mom and Dad you were having brain surgery without telling them to sit down and they fainted and hit their heads! How selfish of you!” I suppose I also said it to keep them focused so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. I led with the right statement: “I am not going to die.”

“Glad to hear it.” This from my father, the die-hard pragmatist. His dry response indicated he was over the drama and wanted me to get to the point.

“Okay, um… I have a brain tumor, and on Monday I’m having brain surgery to remove it.” (Pause)

“What kind of a tumor is it?” said Dom/Dad. I could hear his fingers clicking on the keyboard, Dr. Google at the ready.

“They think it might be a meningioma, but there’s no way of telling until they get a sample of the tissue.”

“Did you get a second opinion?” asked Weezie. My mom loved second opinions. I wondered if she was texting her gynecologist.

“Meningioma are benign,” my dad/Dr. Google informed me.

“It still needs to come out, Dad, regardless of if it’s benign or not. It’s very large and it’s pressing against my brain stem. I’ve been consulting with John Broderick, and he thinks I have the right plan. I also found my surgeon through Marita and Beth Haggerty.”

“Oh, then that’s fine. Do whatever John says,” said Dom.

“Marita knows all the best doctors,” said Weezie.

My dropping these names was all my parents needed to feel satisfied that I had done everything I could. As my mom would say, now it was in the hands of God, and as my dad would think, it was in the hands of the secular universe. However rocky the road ahead, they would walk it with me, each in their own way. “We are coming to New York for as long as you need us.”

“Thank you, but Jim will let everyone know how it goes. I don’t want anyone to panic or put themselves out.” No big deal. It’s just brain surgery.

My mom and dad were obviously curious as to how I found out that I had a tumor and how this was all happening so fast. I went on to tell them about the hearing loss and all the delightful “coincidences” that had brought me to this place. I made it a happy, positive story because in reality, it was.

Once I knew that Dom, the lifelong journalist, would handle the family press release, and Mom would get on the local Bye Bye Birdie Hail Mary chain, I was ready to move on to the next step in my plan: telling the kids.

Dom and Weezie

Telling the Kids

Anyone who has had to have a serious talk with kids, or who remembers their parents calling them in to “talk to them alone” when they were a kid, knows that feeling of dread before the actual conversation. As the one giving the news, you know you can’t just blurt it out, or bring it up right before school or bed. You have to give a warning that something needs to be said in private. You know from experience that you have initiated the dread feeling, and that makes you all the more anxious as you dread the reaction. Basically, there’s a whole lot of dreading going on. A talk like this is done with a level of formality, where you must sit facing each other, free from all other distractions. It’s not really appropriate to be fixing a car engine or stacking boxes like you’re being interviewed at your job by detectives on Law & Order.

Jim brought in the two oldest, who at the time were eleven and twelve. There were a few fears and concerns I’d had about this talk. One, that the kids would think, before we said anything, that we were going to tell them we were getting a divorce, not that there was any real reason for them to think that, but they could. Sure, Jim and I sometimes fight in front of the kids about idiotic stuff, but so many of their friends’ parents have suddenly announced they were divorcing, and it kind of comes out of the blue and surprises us all. Of course, that’s not what we were going say, but the way Jim and I decided to tell them—“Jack and Marre, come in here, please; your mom and I need to talk to you”—I knew that even for a moment they might look at each other and think, Oh no, divorce! When they eventually came in, I didn’t want to lead with “We are not getting divorced!” Because what if they weren’t thinking that at all and now I’d put the thought in their minds?

The second fear I had was, what if they asked me, “What will happen if you die?” I really couldn’t give them an answer there, because Jim and I had not even entertained that as an option. We had decided that we would get the two oldest together and tell them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help us God. Tell them that we loved them and that we were hoping for the best. The pickle with this honesty approach was that if they asked “Are you going to die?” and we said “No way!” and then I did die, would they spend the rest of their lives thinking we’d lied to them? Jim and I realized we had never, ever had one of those “come in here please, your mom and I need to talk to you” talks with our kids before, and we knew nothing about how to deal with their reactions. What we did have going for us was that we didn’t really hide much from our kids, and we had been relatively honest about bad things happening in the world and other adult stuff. Therefore, we knew our kids were strong. Well, strong about some things. If we told them that iPads were being outlawed, well, that reaction, especially Jack’s, might have been something that we would need a child psychiatrist on standby for. The other concern I had was that they might not care. They might be like, “Cool, it will be nice to have you off our backs for a while.”

We sat down facing them and took their hands. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to begin. Jim jumped in: “Your mom is very sick and needs to go to the hospital for surgery.” My oldest, Marre, was silent. She is very introspective and thoughtful in her reactions to everything. She was processing, but I couldn’t read her. Being the oldest myself, I could relate to feeling like it was my role to be the most responsible and mature one, and I hoped she was not thinking that this problem was being dumped on her like she was supposed to fix it.

Jack blurted out, “Is it cancer?”

“It doesn’t look like cancer. If it is cancer, we will cross that bridge when we come to it, but for now it’s a brain tumor that has grown very large and it has to come out.” Jack’s and Marre’s eyes looked like that spinning thing on a computer when it’s working really hard to search for something.

“Did you get it from a cell phone?” Jack seemed certain. All those empty threats we had given him about overuse of screens must have brought him to this conclusion.

I debated momentarily about answering, “Yes. Cell phones, iPads, and walking too close to the Xbox definitely caused this tumor.”

“No,” interrupted Jim, who saw my hesitation and probably knew I was thinking about turning this personal crisis into a sham teachable moment. “We don’t know what caused it, but Mom has to go into the hospital Monday so they can try to take it out and she might be gone for a while. As in, not at home.” Marre’s eyes dropped to the floor. I imagined her thoughts: Good-bye, childhood.

Jack was fascinated. “Are they going to pull it out your nose or cut your head open?”

“Cut my head open,” I tossed back. I met his gross-out challenge. I’ll see your “pull it out your nose” and raise you a “cut your head open.” Jack stared wide-eyed at the wall.

“Are you going to tell Katie, Michael, and Patrick?” Marre asked. I saw the haunted look in my oldest child that I read as “I’m too young to take over this circus.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “But we are just going to tell them tomorrow night that Mom has to have an operation and will be in the hospital for a while. They don’t need to know the details.”

“Can you keep it?” Jack asked. Maybe he thought leaving the hospital was like leaving prison. “Here you go, your wallet, keys, tumor…” I pictured the tumor in a jar on the mantel. The ultimate trophy. I wanted to explain to him that it would likely have to be removed bit by tiny bit because of all the vital nerves entangled in it, but that might freak him out. The thought of it was freaking me out. I kissed them good night and left, by myself, to go to the Easter Vigil Mass. Hardest conversation I’d ever had with my kids, check. Jim, the designated babysitter, was going to have to field the residual questions. Now that the cat was out of the bag, I knew I had to give up having Jim at my side for every moment of my personal trauma so he could be there for the children. I would need a different support system for myself. One that could give me undivided attention. It was time to bargain with God.

The Vigil Mass

I had not been to an Easter Vigil Mass by myself for years. In fact, probably not since before I had kids. It takes place the night before Easter, and it’s the extended remix version of the Easter Sunday Mass. It goes a little late for small children, so for the past twelve years I’d been putting kids to bed at that time so I could, you know, help the Easter bunny hide the eggs and candy. Then, in the morning, we’d all normally go to the shorter, more upbeat version of the Mass, the one of fancy-hat fame.

The Vigil is very theatrical, beginning in a darkened church by candlelight. Tonight, it was more than just a show for me. I was going “backstage” to receive the sacrament called the Anointing of the Sick after Mass, and the whole night was me getting ready for this beautiful and terrifying blessing. I had already called Monsignor Sakano, the pastor of our church, to arrange my anointing. I couldn’t help but think of it as preparation for my own personal crucifixion. Not to diminish the actual crucifixion, which did not involve any anesthesia, but it would be the closest I had come to anything like this in my life. The real point of getting this kind of blessing was accepting that I might die, and that I had an expectation that death would not be the end. I had to believe that to have peace with this surgery. There is nothing more deep or profound than that kind of feeling. Having faith because I simply had to. No atheists in foxholes.

After the Mass I found Deacon Paul, an extraordinary soul and talent, who was going to perform the anointing with Monsignor. I’d known him for years. He’d officiated at Katie’s baptism and called all the children up to the altar and delivered the homily like it was a fun segment on Sesame Street. No Muppets but clapping and singing. The whole ceremony was totally unlike the more formal service at our previous St. Patrick’s baptisms. St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral had its fifteen minutes of fame as the church in the Godfather baptism scene. Our other baptisms there were similar to the movie, but instead of the baptismal vows being intercut with mafia massacres, think me and Nora in the back with screaming kids.

Deacon Paul is a three-time cancer survivor and believes in miracles, so I was thrilled to have him as part of the anointing experience. The resident expert. He was like the Dr. Bederson of the sacrament. After the Vigil, I pushed down my fear and boldly walked back to the sacristy, guns blazing, and announced, “Hi, Deacon Paul! I’m ready for you and Monsignor to anoint me!” After pointing out that his multitalented son Eric had refinished the gleaming antique credenza that was the centerpiece of the room, Deacon Paul sat me down in a chair and got ready for my anointing, which I equated with “last rites.” His showing off the credenza made this moment so personable and less terrifying for me. I’ll never forget the credenza. Focusing on these small details grounded me in reality and stopped my mind from wandering off to all the “what-ifs.” I readied myself for whatever Deacon Paul was going to do or say to make me feel at peace with this journey I was about to take.

Appearing like an angel at his side was Helen, Deacon Paul’s devoted and marvelous wife (meeting her stopped him from becoming a priest, so you know she’s got it!). She placed her hands on my head, not as part of the ritual, but as if reading my mind that I was looking for a strong and supportive mother figure in that moment.

The blessing began. I couldn’t ever repeat the words that were spoken, but that tight circle around me offered a glimpse of the power of good that surrounded me in my life. I closed my eyes and felt the oil dripping on my forehead. A week before, if someone would have told me that I would be in this bizarre setting, next to a refinished credenza backstage at a church happily having oil poured on my head as if getting ready for the rapture, I would have asked if they were high. The absurdity of the situation was obvious, yet I felt part of something larger, much larger. The blessing of the new fire, the water, the oil, Helen the Saint, and the holy men in robes elevated me to another place.

What had happened the previous day at Mount Sinai with all the scanning of my body was happening now for my spirit. I was aware of the nonphysical part of me in a way I’d never been before. I was alive for now, and I needed supernatural help. I knew there was a presence larger than the physical world. I knew there was a God, and he would take care of me and my family. I felt covered from all angles. I believed with all my heart and soul that I was in the right place at the right time for all of this to happen now, and the fear and doubt that were so intertwined in the deepest part of me were released. It was kind of like getting a pedicure before going into labor, but way better.

EASTER SUNDAY

I woke up on Easter morning with total confidence. Normally it is a time of extreme chaos in my home. There’s the Gaffigan house egg hunt, where Jim and I essentially set ourselves up for failure by letting the kids find—then trying to stop them from eating—baskets full of chocolate bunnies, Peeps, and handfuls of jelly beans just before Mass. My children don’t really grasp the idea of “saving some for later.” They take after their father. Then there is the wrestling match of getting everyone into cute outfits and to Mass in some proximity of being on time. It usually explodes into me yelling, Jim cursing, and the kids all having a contest to see who can cry the loudest. If you were to walk into our home during this time, you would think you’d stepped onto the set of The Exorcist. Getting them to church on Easter morning, the most joyful holy day of the Christian calendar, has basically the same effect as a ritualistic invocation of Satan.

But not this morning—I was floating through life and everything was easy. It may have been a result of my soul cleansing from the night before, or just a heightened appreciation for every moment spent with my amazing kids, but the energy was jubilant and enthusiastic. The kids were overjoyed at finding their personalized baskets, and the cute outfits went off without a hitch.

I chose not to pack any after-Mass play clothes, because for the first time in my life, I didn’t care if they trashed their Sunday best. In the past, I’d brought two sets of clothes on Easter Sunday and changed my kids in tiny bathrooms of restaurants so they would not ruin their white-and-pastel ensembles. Last year at the end of the Easter adventure, I discovered I had lost one of a pair of brand-new good shoes, an expensive white hat, and a navy wool blazer that could have been handed down to two more boys. I imagined the staff at the restaurant finding them and thinking, Whose kid is walking out of our restaurant with one shoe? The collateral damage from the Easter quick-change was costly and maddening, but I used to do it just so I could enjoy seeing them play rather than biting my nails about the white dress getting stained at Dirty Park. This year, however, I was looking forward to watching the good clothes get wrecked. It was as if I’d just remembered that people are more important than things.

We got to Mass on time and everyone was well-behaved in anticipation of the big parish egg hunt in the courtyard. In the church, there were fresh flowers everywhere, and I felt like I was in heaven. This was heaven for me: flowers and Jim and my children and love and meaning.

After Mass and the egg hunt, we walked with the Fitzpatricks down to Grand Street and all of our kids held hands and skipped. Even that journey to the restaurant was glorious. The Gaffigans’ and Fitzpatricks’ Easter Parade. Jim, not usually one for small talk, commented on the amazing weather. It was breezy and sunny, not a cloud in the sky, unlike a few years ago when it had snowed on Easter. “At least it will be nice when they inevitably kick us out of this restaurant.”

When we arrived, we were escorted downstairs to a semiprivate area that was already set up for our huge party. There was another large table down there that appeared to be a bizarre bridal shower brunch (one of the ladies was wearing an ironic white veil), much to the amusement of Katie and Gigi, our two families’ seven-year-olds. “Mommy, is that lady getting married to all those other ladies?” What do you expect? They’re New York kids. The food was fantastic, and Trey ordered a bottle of champagne. One little sip wouldn’t hurt me. We toasted the success of the operation and the mood was euphoric. The older kids who didn’t want to do the arts and crafts projects that Nora pulled out of her giant handbag were allowed to go into the “lounge” area with money and order “mocktails” from the bar.

Jim, Trey, Nora, and I were reminiscing and laughing about our many adventures with all the kids together when another priest friend we knew from days past, whom I had not seen in years, walked in. Father Jonathan had been a major figure in our lives, heaven-sent, after Jim and I went through the darkest three years of our marriage from around 2006 to 2009. Jim’s touring theater career had exploded unexpectedly, and neither of us was prepared for this major change. At the same time, I was at home, overwhelmed with the treacheries of young motherhood: I’d had two pregnancies that didn’t end well, while at the same time nursing a baby and chasing after a rambunctious toddler. Then I was pregnant again—in my eighth month—and I found myself riddled with anxiety. Jim was gone all the time, physically and mentally. I wanted to talk to him about all my angst, but he was consumed fully with work. I had always been at his side and now I felt like an afterthought. I was at the end of my rope and having drastic thoughts when Father Jonathan was assigned to take on some responsibilities at our parish. He was young, and from a familiar world, as he was a frequent TV and radio commentator and had been the dramaturg on feature films. He’d counseled us out of the dark ages and witnessed our marital renaissance.

Since Father Jonathan had been reassigned to a parish in the Bronx, getting together with him was a rarity. Now he was walking into the NoLIta brunch spot on the most significant day of my life. I was stunned at this incredible coincidence until I found out that Jim had sent him an email regarding what was going on with me, and he had loosely invited him to meet us after Mass. It was a long shot because inviting a priest on Easter is like inviting a retail executive on Christmas Eve, but he showed up. It was exactly the right time in the party to have our guest of honor appear. Who doesn’t want a priest to show up to the Easter meal?

We squeezed him in between us, poured him a glass of champagne (after the Vigil and morning Masses at his parish he was off duty), and apologized for eating all the food. We tried to get a waiter to come over and take his order. He looked around at the piles of uneaten pancakes and eggs and bacon on all the plates and decided to scrape together a brunch from the leftovers. Total big-family move. Father Jonathan is one of six kids and felt as at home with us as we did with him.

After we had a few laughs, he looked at me and said, “So, Jeannie, what is going on with this brain surgery?” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as I realized that other than the initial toast, we hadn’t really been mentioning it, in true lace curtain Irish fashion.

“Well, Father,” I started, “I’m going in to Mount Sinai tomorrow, and they are going to embolize the tumor, then on Tuesday I’m going to have the craniotomy.” I took a sip of champagne. “And everything is going to be all right.” My peaceful smile said it all. “I just need you to look out for this guy.” I stuck my thumb out at Jim. Everyone laughed, breaking the tension.

Father Jonathan’s huge blue eyes sparked with compassion. “Jeannie, God is guiding you and your family through all of this. I have no doubt that your strong faith and love are going to carry you.” Those years ago, when Father Jonathan first came into our lives, I was a mess. I did not have strong faith at all, and my love for Jim was faulty and conditional. Jim and Father were meeting for spiritual counseling, and I was wildly envious and resentful. I was about to give birth to Katie, and I felt abandoned and neglected by my husband. When it was my turn to meet with him alone, I unloaded to him all of my negative feelings for Jim.

His response was totally unexpected: “Jeannie, I spent eight hours yesterday with a woman whose husband and three children all were suddenly killed in an accident.” I was shocked. Was I bothering him because he was exhausted from helping someone with a real crisis? Was this meant to minimize my feelings? Bad things happened all the time, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t vent about my selfish husband! But then something happened in me. I imagined I was the woman who’d lost her whole family. What if the day before she’d been complaining about how selfish her husband and children were and now they were gone forever. I don’t know if he knew I would draw this conclusion, but it worked. When I thought I was at rock bottom with my marriage, Father Jonathan had reached down and pulled me back up. However bad I felt it was, it could have been a lot worse. Now, when he was looking at me all these years later, facing a true crisis, I saw admiration. I wondered if he knew he’d had a part in my spiritual growth. If I hadn’t made the journey through the hard times before, I probably wouldn’t have been able to gather the strength to face this one.

The restaurant was a few blocks away from Dirty Park, and we invited him to walk over with us. He was going to Deacon Paul’s house for dinner and it was close by. As we were walking, the blue sky rapidly turned gray and, without warning, opened into a torrential downpour. We all got separated. Each adult grabbed whatever child was closest and ran for cover. It was pandemonium as trucks whizzed by in the pounding rain and I tried to do a headcount, looking for the smallest and most vulnerable in our group. I had Patrick and Timmy under the awning of a bodega, and I spotted Nora and Jim with Michael and Danny a couple of doors down in a similar huddle on the stoop of a paint shop. We were drenched in our Easter finest. We burst out laughing, noiseless under the roar of the rain. Laughter in the face of adversity.

That night, as we cuddled in our big bed with the kids, Jim and I told Katie, Michael, and Patrick that Mommy was going to the doctor tomorrow to fix something that was wrong in her brain, and she would probably have to be in the hospital for a little while but would be home soon. “Are you going to a ‘talking doctor’ to fix your brain?” asked Katie, precocious as ever, concluding that Mommy was clearly going to in-patient psychiatric therapy to resolve her obsessive-compulsive cleaning disorder. New York kids.

“No, it’s a surgeon doctor, like the kind that takes bad tonsils out, but I have kind of something like a bad tonsil in my brain.”

“Do you have to get a shot?” Michael’s eyes were as big as saucers. He was terrified of shots. It was pretty much the worst thing he could imagine.

“I might get a shot, but I’m not scared. I don’t think it will hurt at all.” I didn’t want him to worry.

Patrick chimed in: “Then you can get a toy out of the treasure chest!” Jim put his arms tightly around our youngest and said, “I’ll make sure Mommy gets a toy after her shot.” The thought of that happy ending seemed to pacify everyone.

After we’d put the kids to bed, and Jim went out to do a set (the best therapy to calm his nerves), I started to experience a bit of panic. Not about the surgery, but about what I was going to eat. I had to leave for the hospital at 6 a.m., and I was to have nothing to eat or drink after midnight. Jim is always game to pick up late-night food for me. He loves me and he loves food, so it’s a win-win situation. Over the years when I would be stuck in a chair nursing a newborn baby all night, this tradition became part of our marriage. Jim would come home from his spots bearing one of the unique nighttime delicacies that only New York City has to offer at all hours: shawarma, falafel, Korean hot dogs, and even sometimes he’d happen upon the taco truck on First Street. He’ll often call me at 11 p.m. and say, “Do you want me to pick up anything?” I know that means he wants to eat something and knows better than to come in smelling like street meat. I always say “sure”—I just don’t ever know what I want. “Just get what you want to get and I’ll eat it.” That night, I felt like it had to be my choice. I was still kind of full from brunch, but I knew I would not be able to eat for a while, so I had to have something. What do you have for your last meal? Yes, a cheeseburger and fries of course is the correct answer, but I wasn’t feeling it. There was a sandwich place across the street that had these amazing salami and parmesan sandwiches on focaccia bread. That’s what I wanted. Jim was out doing a spot at a comedy club so I texted him to pick us up a sandwich for my last meal. There was another sandwich place right by the club, so he said he would bring home sandwiches. It wasn’t our usual favorite spot, but it was right there.

When he arrived, I unwrapped the sandwiches with the highest hopes for the perfect last meal. I bit into the focaccia bread, expecting the familiar and perfect combination taste of balsamic vinegar, parmesan cheese, and salami. Jim and I took bites at the same time, and though our mouths were full, we exchanged looks as we realized together that these were not the right sandwiches. They were horrible. They were nothing like either of us thought they would be. I felt not-ordering-a-burger regret. Which is a real thing. Even Jim, who has been known to finish an entire meal before remarking, “That was bad!” didn’t eat his bad sandwich. How can you mess up a salami sandwich? I opted to just be hungry until after the first procedure. It was too close to be turning into a “nothing after midnight” pumpkin to try for anything else. That’s when I started to get a creepy feeling. I knew it was superstitious, like that stupid thought that if you have a bad New Year’s Eve, the rest of the year is going to suck.

Something about that bad last meal really shook my confidence. It wasn’t about the surgery. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get that thing out of my brain. I could feel it back there, taunting me. With all the activity in the last few days, the scans, the Easter baskets, the people to tell, the Vigil, the brunch, I’d forgotten about the evil pear that had caused it all. Now I could feel it. Get out of my life! I thought. No one invited you here. You’re ruining everything. It could probably hear my thoughts up there. I thought it may have throbbed back, menacingly. I held perfectly still. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the thing killed me the night before I went in to the hospital? I felt an icky tingling sensation in my limbs. Oh my God, I’m having a stroke, I thought. What happened to all that peace I’d felt that day? I thought this new calm Jeannie would be a one-shot thing. I texted John. I knew it was late, but unfortunately for him, he was a neurologist and I had his mobile number.

I believed it.

My mother, my brothers and sisters, my relatives, my friends, my priests, and Jim had all told me that God was going to get me through this, but when John, who was Mr. Science, outspoken in disbelief of all things supernatural, spoke to me about faith, it was somehow the most meaningful and powerful. He knew the odds, he knew the probability, he knew the medical facts, but the night before my surgery when I called him in fear, he told me to have faith. Even if he was just telling me what he thought I needed to hear, that gesture of selflessness and generosity was really the most godlike gift he could give me. Earthy, scientific faith.