Chapter 12

NOTHING BY MOUTH

My brain tumor had been intertwined with my cranial nerves, six of which controlled an aspect of the swallowing function as well as the vocal cords. The nerve damage sustained because of the size of the tumor as well as the state the nerves were in at its removal made it impossible for me to speak or swallow. Anything that went down my throat could end up in my lungs, which was why I had developed the pneumonia. Therefore, the medical instructions for me included “Nothing by mouth.” That meant nothing. No water, no toothpaste, nothing. Indefinitely. The hope was, with time, we could clear up my serious lung infection and, someday, with rigorous therapy, I could learn to swallow again. Meanwhile, nothing by mouth.

As I mentioned earlier, the way I was fed during this period was through something called nasogastric intubation, which is a medical process involving the insertion of a plastic tube up the nostril, through the nose, past the throat, and down into the stomach. This is not to be confused with the aforementioned tube for endotracheal intubation through my mouth, which ran down my throat into my trachea and was needed for breathing. These tubes were distinguished also from the IV tubes, which would mainline antibiotics and fluids. Basically, there were a lot of plastic tubes compensating for these basic functions that the brain stem was no longer capable of handling on its own. I don’t remember getting any of these tubes installed, but suddenly they were there and I was attached to a bunch of machines.

The machine attached to the nasogastric tube was a digital box on an IV stand that held a clear bag of thick yellow-white gunk, which was pumped through the thin tube in my nose. Of course, I needed this gunk to survive, but that bag of gunk was the bane of my existence. It looked awful, and every time I woke up and saw it, I knew I couldn’t eat yet.

Days went by. My sensations were “sick” or “empty.” Rage and frustration would turn into self-pity and sorrow as I dreamed of a bowl of chicken noodle soup. And I’m not talking about “chicken soup for the soul.” I’m talking actual chicken soup. Even a sip of water that I could pretend was chicken soup would do. Did I mention I couldn’t have water? It was kind of like being locked in a medieval dungeon, except there, you get water. There was a little sponge on a stick that they used to “brush my teeth” that was lightly treated with either a mint or a coconut flavor, and I looked forward to this every day, just to taste something. I always had a suction tube in my mouth (the kind the dentist uses) to make sure no drop of liquid could find its way down to further exacerbate the lung infection.

To extinguish the negative feelings, I held on to the hope that tomorrow, the doctors would come in and exclaim, “Oh my God, it’s a miracle! Your vagus nerve has completely healed! Let’s celebrate with Shake Shack!”

As many of you know, I’m not the person in my family who is normally consumed with thoughts of food, but under the circumstances, I became obsessed. Jim had canceled his tour so he could be in New York between home and the hospital. Instead of being thankful, I would whine and complain that I was starving and miserable and he would look at me helplessly and I would get even more frustrated. My logical mind was being overtaken by my ravenous id. Why couldn’t the guy who loved to bring me food every time he’d come home help me this time? I realized I was conditioned to salivate like Pavlov’s dog when I saw him, so now seeing him became torturous. But I also didn’t want him to leave. I was increasingly jealous of Jim when he left the ICU. I pictured him walking out the door and making a bee-line for the glorious buffet at the cafeteria. I imagined him eating out of spite, muttering, “I’ll show her!” between bites of an enormous cheeseburger dripping with condiments. I began to hate people who could eat, which was everyone. I burned inside with resentment. I know I previously claimed victory over my ICU suffering with my nirvana-like Rosary bliss, but come on, even nuns can eat! When it became too much for me to bear, I would remember the Rosary. There I would find peace. Then I would stop meditating, forget again, and seethe with bitterness and loathing. Without the Rosary, I was a hideous monster.

While the physical hunger was beyond bad, the underlying emotional hunger was unbearable. Remember, no kids were allowed in the ICU, so I felt actual pain longing for the touch of my children. The feelings of craving food and craving my children became so intertwined I was no longer able to distinguish one from the other. I feared that I would be so overwhelmed when I finally saw my kids that I might accidentally eat one of them. Jim would come in and tell me about all the friends and family who were sending dinners over while I was in the hospital. He described the big family meals with tons of food and the funny things the kids would say around the table: “Next time Mommy gets sick can we have this lasagna again?” I was hesitant to relate to Jim how difficult it was for me to hear about food for fear that he would stop sharing these precious moments. Patrick was reading already and could crack the code when Jim would spell something secret:

JIM: The neighbors sent over some c-u-p-c-a-k-e-s. Should we save them?

PATRICK: Cupcakes? Yes! I want cupcakes now!

He told me about how Weezie would always lose her glasses and Katie would find them on her head. My mom was now the one lying in their beds at night reading books and drifting off to sleep midsentence. Michael would pat her cheek so she could finish the bedtime story, though he was perfectly capable of reading himself. It sounded so familiar.

I felt like I was missing my life. I used to complain about waking up under a pile of five kids who individually came into our bed during the night. Now, all I wanted was a pile of five kids. The withdrawal from them was shocking to me. Lately, I’d spent so much of my time as a mother thinking, If I could just get away from the kids for a little while, I could finally get some things done! Now I was forced to be away from them, and my heart was broken. Maybe my oldest could come?

Jim reminded me that Marre was scheduled to go on an international trip with her school, and he was wondering if under the circumstances she should still go. It did not appear that I was getting out of the hospital anytime soon. I nodded vigorously. She was so looking forward to this major event, and we wanted to keep everything as normal as possible for them. Maybe Jim could talk to the ICU doctors to see if they could grant an exception to the “no kids in the ICU” rule for her to come in before her trip and say good-bye. Just a temporary good-bye. He said he’d see what they could do and then left to take care of all the things I couldn’t. I felt empty, so I started talking to God: Why did you allow this to happen? What does this all mean?

Lying alone in the hospital, staring at the flecks on the ceiling, I thought about the life I’d been living. I’d already figured out over the past few years that I needed more time with my kids. I’d even made a big career move to make that happen. The main reason we decided not to do season 3 of The Jim Gaffigan Show was that it became apparent at a certain point that the television production schedule was going to keep both of us away from our family. Both parents were gone all the time. We knew we could do a great show, but we didn’t want to make the choice between the show and raising our own children. We could look back on our lives and say, “We did ten seasons of a fantastic show, but we missed watching our kids grow up,” or “We did a couple of seasons of a great show, and we have fantastic kids.” The choice was clear. But in the year since this major decision, what had really changed? Perhaps the quantity of time but certainly not the quality. The simple act of moving my production office into our home did not stop me from failing to be truly present for my kids or Jim.

The separation I was experiencing from them now as a result of this medical disaster made me understand that at times I got so caught up in scheduling and running everywhere and trying to be a perfect mother, thinking, I’m doing this all for the kids, that I actually became overwhelmed and busy to the point that I wasn’t really doing much for the kids at all. I’d been focusing on things I felt needed to be accomplished for them while I was missing important opportunities to really connect with them. To get to know their hearts, to enjoy the time we spent together. I guess I just went from being executive producer of a TV show to executive producer of the Gaffigan household, and I wasn’t really experiencing the moments. Did Katie really need a printed list of how to clean up and organize her slime or should I just let her teach me how to make slime? I’d been squandering precious time with them. My efforts to make everything run like a tight ship weren’t really making me, or probably them, happy. Who the heck really wants to live on such a tight ship? Going around the hamster wheel of schedules and cleaning and homework and grades and appointments was also sacrificing my own ability to have meaningful, soul-fulfilling time with my kids. How I’d been living affected my own personal happiness just as much as it did theirs. And Jim’s. Perhaps I’d overcomplicated things so much, now that Jim was thrust into taking over for me and dealing with all the medical stuff, I’d made things unmanageable.

Many times over the years I’d planned a magnificent schedule to make sure everything got done, everyone got fed, and everything stayed relatively clean. Jim would come home from a few days away with a bag of trinkets for the kids and announce, “Who wants to go to a movie?” Instead of being overjoyed that their daddy was home and wanting to spontaneously do something fun, I would put a halt to any new plans and say, “Wait! You can’t just come in and change everything. Dinner is at six! Where are we going to put that bag of junk? They have baths and homework!” Had I been killing the joy instead of being a source of it? Now that I was away, I wasn’t missing the days when all their schedules worked out perfectly and the house was spotless, but rather Katie writing “if you please” in a letter to Santa Claus, Patrick asking for his “uncle-brella” when it was raining, putting a Band-Aid on Michael’s boo-boo and having him sincerely tell me I made it feel better. I sensed tears welling in my eyes and running sideways out the corners onto the flat hospital pillow. God, I’m sorry, please let me survive this. I can change.

I’m sure God spoke to me in the ICU. This is not “I had the best chocolate cake and God spoke to me” language. Rather, it’s “I’m so positive God spoke to me that I’m putting it in my book even though you might think me insane” language. God said, What are you worried about? Of course you are getting out, silly ye of little faith! Team Gaffigan will be restored. You will be completely healed in body, but you must work to heal your own spirit. Let go of your ego. You are not, nor will you ever be, perfect. Meanwhile, I have some personal commandments, tailored just for you:

I. Tell Jim and your children you love them every day.

II. Admit when you are wrong.

III. Take time to give each your undivided attention.

IV. Praise their strengths and be patient with their weaknesses as you guide them.

V. Explore their worlds and let them into your world.

VI. Teach them to serve others.

VII. Remember that people are more valuable than accomplishments.

In this way thou shalt not let thy children grow up to be jerks, nor lead thy husband to be hopping mad at thee. Those weren’t the exact words, but you get the idea. Pare down the BS on the to-do list and make room for the meaningful. A “must-do” list. On it. Now I needed another chance. I needed to get out of there. I needed to get up! I had some life-changing to do! But at the time of this epiphany I was really sick, so I put off the commandments for a while. Sorry, God.