Chapter 25

THE ANNIVERSARY

Marriage is like recovering from a serious illness. It’s a lot of work, and it’s painful, but it’s better than dying. Sometimes. Just when you think you get over a hurdle, you get comfortable and then WHAM, you get hit with a setback.

I think Jim was more excited than I was the day I was allowed to have my first swallow of food. Jim and I went together to Mount Sinai for the big moment. We’d built it up so much in our minds that we’d anticipated we could start off with a steak dinner, and then just eat our way across New York. We would be the couple that ate New York.

My long-awaited reunion with food was very anticlimactic. I was required to pass an x-ray test where I had to swallow tiny bits of white barium paste with my strict yet sensational speech and swallow therapist, Leanne Goldberg, closely monitoring a screen to see if it went down the right pipe. Jim had a field day watching me swallow the barium paste: “You know, with some salt and pepper that doesn’t look like it would be that bad. I would spread that on a bagel!” I passed the test; the barium went down without aspiration. I graduated from the “nothing by mouth” sentence, but instead of the glorious feast I’d been dreaming of for months, I was allowed three spoonfuls of applesauce per day.

On the way home, Jim was so elated that I’d passed, he stopped and bought two giant grocery bags full of assorted flavors of applesauce. “You are going to par-tay!” I forced a smile. “C’mon, Jim, it’s not like it was the bar exam!” He went on, “Nothing is too good for my lady! Today, cinnamon applesauce; tomorrow, Smith & Wollensky’s (his favorite steak house)!”

I just wanted water, but water was a no-no. I had to stick to “nectar-thick” liquids such as applesauce, because anything thinner would just go down the wrong way and I would choke, or else it would immediately run out of my nose. Gravity helped the more substantial liquid down my throat, so I had to add this starchy, powdered thickener to water and coffee. If you want to know what that tasted like, I’ll put it this way: I actually missed nothing by mouth. Not really, but almost. It was easier to PEG than eat. But Jim was ready to celebrate for me and with me.

July 26 was our fourteenth wedding anniversary. The number 14 doesn’t really mean anything as far as anniversaries go, but it was a huge year for us because unlucky 13 could have been our last. Furthering the grand celebration was the fact that my tracheotomy had been removed and I was left with a neck scar that looked like a stitched-up belly button. Luckily it was an “innie.”

A chef friend, who had been wonderful about sending food to my family during the nothing-by-mouth days, invited us to his fancy restaurant to celebrate this milestone in our marriage. He knew about my dietary restrictions and had custom-designed a five-course menu consisting of all liquid delicacies. Jim, in communion with his ailing wife, decided that he, too, would just have the liquid menu.

After dinner Jim produced a beautifully wrapped jewelry box and presented it to me: a gorgeous necklace that was intended to cover my garish trach scar. With a romantic gesture, he fastened it around my neck. I excused myself to the ladies’ room to admire it in the mirror. When I saw my reflection I was horrified. The front of the necklace formed a little V, which sat directly under the scar on my neck, as if it were a glittering silver pedestal showing it off. What was I going to do? I had to wear it; it was a gift from Jim. He had picked it out with the best intentions in mind, but it just accentuated my pink neck-button deformity. Staring in the mirror, repelled at the sight of myself, I resolved to wear it only for him. He was back to work on the weekends now, so he would never know that I hated it.

I returned to the table, and through a big toothy smile I exclaimed, “Thank you so much. I love it!” Jim looked sad. Either I’m a terrible actress or else when you’re married for fourteen years, your husband knows when you’re full of it. I backpedaled: “Maybe we can get it adjusted a little higher.”

“Of course we can. You look beautiful in it. I hardly notice the scar.” Maybe he was a bad actor too. Time to change the subject. The dinner conversation quickly turned to all the things we had recently been through as a couple, and how we were rock stars in our fantastic marriage. We had overcome so many obstacles over the years—and how we’d grown from all the hardships! The struggles we’d been through, from baby Bean to Father Jonathan counseling us through our marital discord, had shaped and prepared us for this latest catastrophe and for the many more that were sure to come. I apologized about my reaction to the necklace.

“I’m sorry, Jim. Am I still in the doghouse?” I put my fingertips together over my head, forming a little roof, and peered my head out like a sad dog. This was an inside bit we’d been doing since the first year we were dating. If one of us was in trouble with the other, we could disarm the situation by putting ourselves “in the doghouse” and making a sad dog face. It always cracked us up and broke the tension. Stupid, I know, but it’s our thing. Jim responded by putting himself in “the doghouse,” and we both started laughing and clinked champagne glasses. As soon as we let our guard down, the mood changed dramatically. Jim asked me if I remembered something very specific he did when we were at the hospital. I replied, “I barely remember you at the hospital.” Now before you also misunderstand this, what I meant was that the hospital was very foggy and confusing for me, and I remember only spurts of time. I should have said, “I barely remember the details of being at the hospital.” But I accidentally added the “you” part. What he heard was, “I don’t remember you being at the hospital at all,” as if he hadn’t come.

Jim was hurt and enraged: “I was at the hospital all the time, Jeannie! What do you mean you don’t remember me being at the hospital?” Instead of clarifying what I meant, I was wildly defensive. “You’re mad at me for not remembering everything that happened in the hospital after I had brain surgery?!” So there we were, in the fancy restaurant, seething with fury and resentment toward each other, with champagne I couldn’t handle drinking yet dripping from my nose directly onto the unwanted silver trach pedestal.

Jim had canceled sold-out shows to stay with me. He became the master of ceremonies for the Gaffigan household, and now he thought I didn’t remember any of it. But I did. I was just too stubborn to admit I was wrong. God wasn’t kidding with those commandments!

Seeing the look on his face at that moment, I believe Jim finally understood how I felt sometimes as a mother. To give and give to the one you love until you feel you have nothing left, and it seems they don’t even notice you are there. Or even more so, what it’s like to be God. He’s probably pretty bummed being a benevolent giver who just gets ignored and blasphemed in return. I know I’m guilty of that. I understood how Jim felt, but he was wrong. I did notice, and I remembered. I’ll never forget what he did. And I’m sure, someday, the kids will look back and appreciate me.

At the beginning of our relationship we’d figured out that we fit together based on who we were already. That’s how we knew it would work. Sure, we’d tweaked and adjusted a bit, but our identity as a couple was based on how the two puzzle pieces we’d individually brought lined up, and as we added kids and other elements, we continued to view each other through the same lens as we always had.

The tumor reset had switched our roles like Freaky Friday and as we emerged from the depths of the crisis, our ability to adjust and redefine who we were as a couple was presenting us with a big mess o’ growing pains, as illustrated by our failed romantic dinner. Jim felt underappreciated, as I had so many times in the past. I felt like I couldn’t say the right thing, as Jim had pretty much every time in the past.

Over the year that followed this anniversary and through many long, honest conversations about the challenges we faced as we evolved into our new relationship, I came to realize that as painful as this experience was, our marriage benefited. Jim understood what it was like to be Jeannie. Jeannie understood what it was like to be Jim. This deeper level of empathy reshaped who we were as individuals and fit together in a new and better way.

Once a day we each make a point of communicating love and appreciation for each other. It may be something as simple as “Thanks for buying that cheese I like,” or even texting a heart emoji. This was something that we’d overlooked as a necessary part of a strong coupleship over the past fourteen years. The anniversary wasn’t a disaster after all, because in our failure we’d gotten the greatest gift either of us had ever received from each other: the daily gesture of a simple “Thank you.” Okay, was that too corny? Am I in the doghouse now?