PART III

An Uphill Battle

All fears I had of Jim losing his mojo of funny dissipated after we got home. He went from stern commander to court jester almost instantaneously. He treated every day like a victory celebration at the end of a brutal war. Having Jim as my primary caregiver at home was probably the main reason I made such impressive progress in my recovery. Though the nursing role was totally novel to him, the role of comedian was already his thing, and laughter truly was the best medicine for me. Jim found a way to make everything funny, and, since everything was really horrible, this was the key to my survival. During this time, it was pretty clear that God had designed our marriage specifically for this moment.

My younger kids used to wake me up in the middle of the night because they were scared to go use the potty alone, so I would take them. Now, because of the physical weakness caused by the pneumonia and the muscle atrophy caused by lying in bed, I couldn’t even get to the bathroom by myself, and it was depressing and frustrating. The kids would come in and be so sweet: “Mommy, when you get better I am taking you to Disneyland!” And heartbreaking: “Mommy, when you get better, can we get a dog?” I would nod weakly, but inside I felt powerless and ineffective as a mother. I remember lying in bed at night, wide awake, and hearing noises. Was it an intruder? Was one of the kids wandering around the house in the dark, an accident waiting to happen? I could no longer protect them. I felt like I was in one of those nightmares when you have to defend yourself against something awful but you can’t move. I remember saying, “Jim, I feel worthless. It’s like this will never end!” Jim wouldn’t let me dwell in this dark place for long. He knew how to read the room. He invented this character of “the horse,” who would put me on his back and carry me to the bathroom. Jim would appear at my bedside and say, “Your carriage is waiting, m’lady,” lift me out of bed, and make clicking noises like a horse trot. My noble steed transporting me to the bathroom made something that was unimaginably difficult into a sweet, romantic, and hilarious comedy sketch. Now that I was home and Jim took more time off from work to take care of me, I no longer had to rely on funny people visiting me at the hospital to lift my spirits. My constant companion was my comedy concierge. It made me realize how much I’d missed this time with him when I was in the hospital and explained and alleviated the tension we had been experiencing for the past three weeks.

One of the funniest things he did was wash my hair. Hair washing in and of itself is a very unfunny task, but a ticket to watch Jim Gaffigan, hairstylist extraordinaire, do it, is one you want to buy. I leaned back in a chair next to the bathtub, and Jim used the sprayer hose. My husband has, shall we say, drastically less hair than I do, and it probably takes him about thirty seconds to shampoo, rinse, and condition himself, so this was entirely new territory for him to complete the same actions with my hair. It was at least a two-hour process, including a thorough blow-dry so I could get back in bed. To pass the time, Jim became a gossipy salon owner lady with a thick southern accent. He went on and on with this character, chattering away: “Now, honey, my third husband was as cute as a button but dumb as a rock. He would always say, ‘Mabel, don’t you cut the back of my hair or it ain’t never gonna grow back!’ He was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he loved my cookin’ and ooh-wee, he was a looker! Now, girl, you’ve got a fine-lookin’ husband yourself; all he needs is a good mullet…” He kept me in hysterics the entire time. And he did a decent job on the hair too! I forgot all about my hair affair with my hospital husband. It was a meaningless fling and rather disappointing. After Jim was done with the blow-dry, I confided in him, “You are way better than Joe.”