Please Hold My Neighbors In Your Collective Hearts

I have wonderful neighbors. My circle of wonderful neighbors extends for several houses up and down. I've always known this, but they have been unfailingly kind to us particularly since Tom was diagnosed. I'm not playing favorites, but the family next door couldn't be sweeter, and the kids (two teens and almost a tween) couldn't be more polite. They always greet me with a smile and some polite conversation. I don't know how the Mom does it, but I'm in awe.

Recently the youngest one was dressed as if for the first day of school, tossing the ball against the front steps, obviously waiting for Mom or Dad. Our chat went something like this:

Me: Hi, Boyneighbor, you look nice today. Going someplace special?

Neighbor: Not really. I'm getting my haircut for school. Well that and I have something wrong with my head, so I'm having a CAT scan afterwards. And I have an MRI on Friday.

Me (silently): Excuse me dear while I go throw up.

I didn't see his mom for a few days, but spied her carrying in groceries, and our conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh, Momneighbor, I'm so glad to see you. I totally understand this is none of my business, but your son told me about his CAT scan and MRI, and I've been so worried about him and about you. Is there anything I can do to help?

Neighbor: No, thanks, not at the moment. The CAT scan ruled out leukemia, but he needs a few more tests. So keep us in your prayers, okay?

Me (silently): Oh, I can so do that for you.

I am simply unable to wrap my brain around being the mom taking my son for a CAT scan to rule out leukemia. He still has a series of tests ahead of him. One of them is a colonoscopy. This boy is nine years old.

So if you wouldn't mind, could you hold my neighbors in your collective hearts?

Have You Ever Owned A Dog?

There couldn’t have been a more straightforward question, particularly coming from the adoption desk at the Northeast Animal Shelter while you’re adopting a dog. As I was uttering my response, I knew I had misplaced my modifier, and the woman at the desk, Marianne, wasn’t going to understand. I tried to take them back, but the words had already spilled from my mouth.

Standing next to me, my sister Jeanne heard the words as they were floating through the air, and tried to grab them and give them back to me. No such luck.

Marianne heard my answer, and replied with the only reasonable response.

Tom with Maxwell, about 1989

Marianne: Have you ever owned a dog?
Me: My husband had a dog, but he died.
Marianne: Your husband or the dog?

Jeanne and I looked at each other, then looked at ashen-faced Marianne who realized what she had just asked, and all three of us laughed at the absurdity of the exchange. Then I told Marianne about my animal loving husband, Tom, feeling pretty assured we'd take our dog home after that.

No Dog Yet, You Say?

I started wanting a dog when Tom was sick. I'm sure the pain is the same whether your spouse has brain cancer, or heart disease or any terminal illness (Tom considered his cancer "terminal" with the quotes, having read much about long-term survivors. Few though they were, they were not non-existent.), but brain cancer had already robbed me of my hard-working, cuttingly-sarcastic, animal-loving, handyman-project-doing, car-guy husband, and my sense of loneliness was all the more acute because Tom was alive, but no longer, well, Tom. A dog would love me, and keep me warm, and fill the hole in my heart that I shouldn't have had because I should have just been grateful my husband was there, sleeping right next to me in the bed every night, drinking his coffee and reading his paper every morning. But that emptiness in my heart continued to grow, and my desolation darkened. And that dog? I really just wanted a dog to love me. I wanted somebody to love me. And for God's sake, at least the damned dog wouldn't die of brain cancer.

Then, Tom died. I don't know how else to explain it. Tom died, and the loneliness that I felt finally at least felt normal. My husband was dead, my sons' father was gone, and that the loneliness was expected made it somehow more tolerable. Getting from today to tomorrow became easier after Tom died, as I found myself already partway through the process of grieving his loss. The desperate yearning for a dog slowly subsided, replaced by the quiet belief that there's a place in our family for a dog.

So there we were today, at the Northeast Animal Shelter:  the place Tom took me on our second date; one of his memorial charities; and the place where the sweetest little  Belgian Schipperke x picked us for her forever family. She came with the utterly unacceptable name Skippette, so we're down to business picking out a name. I think her name is supposed to be Zoetje, dutch for "little sweet one". Any dutch speaking readers out there? Please advise.

And say hello to the newest Gentile, Zoetje.

Next Stop: Memory Lane

So I'm searching through my files for some piece of paper that I'm sure is in there, but I sure as heck can't find. I'm desperate, and truly hoping that this particular item wasn't part of that 2 1/2 big black construction bags of paperwork I shredded after Tom died. All those bank statements and credit card statements from 1978; the electric bills from the 1980's; all that paper. I could have heated the house all winter with the paper I culled from our files. It's the only "winnowing" I've done since Tom died, and it was months ago. So now I'm hyperventilating, and pulling out one file at a time,searching through each, sheet by sheet. I eventually found whatever piece of paper I was looking for, filed right where it belonged under "W" for "where should I put this so I'll be sure to find it six years from now when I finally need it", but not before finding some very special treats. I didn't even know Tom had these, and I love them all.

Except for the laminated birth announcement photo that was in the paper when he was a couple of months old, this undated photo is the earliest picture of Tom I have. I see that the unease that Gentile menfolk feel with Santa is a genetic thing. 'Splains a lot.

I'm guessing, since his birthday is in January, that this is just before he turned 2. Seems too old for turning 1, and too young for almost 3. I love the shoes, which seem to be one of the few things Tom didn't save-in-case-he-might-need-them-later.

As Madeline efficiently noted on the back of this photo, it's "Tommy 28 months, Gerald 2 months May 1955" Tom and I may have been destined to meet, but I'm glad he had a brother to keep him occupied at this time, as I hadn't even been conceived yet. This may have been the last time my husband did not object to being called Tommy.

Tom and Gerry at Aunt Lee's house in Jamaica, Queens. 1961 Calling them "Tom and Gerry" always makes me giggle.

I don't have any childhood photos (that I'm aware of, and I only just this week even became aware of these, so who knows what else lurks in the bowels of this house?) of Tom with his brother Jim (hint, hint, Kathy!)

School photo, 3rd grade, 8 years old. But I don't know the name of the elementary school Tom attended. I'm only aware of Molloy, which was junior high and high school. I don't know what SMS on the tie stands for. (St. Mary's School; thanks A!)

And speaking of Archbishop Molloy, here's Tom's high school graduation inside what I can only guess is the house in Woodside, for which I probably still have a key. We can see the nascent long hair. I think he really liked that Agent 96 has long hair, but I wonder how Joe felt about it on his son. My brother Jack  used to get "Jacqueline" alot, although no one would dare that move now. May 1970

I've left his First Holy Communion pictures for last, so I can sneak in a few of my own, too. May 21, 1960.

Agent 96's picture on the occasion of his First Communion, normal enough. And above, with his cousin C, who celebrated her confirmation at the same time; and his co-First-Eucharister cousin J.

Agent 98's First Holy Communion picture. Nothing that would set off alarms ... but this is 98, remember. Behind that cute face lies the soul of a person who would ask for ...

... a word search cake for his First Holy Communion celebration. Can it really be okay to eat chocolate cupcakes that say "Body of Christ"? (So far, so good.)

Solution below, but c'mon, it's not that hard!

Six Months

Six months. Six months, and I have not yet cleaned out a drawer or a closet or thrown out a single sock. Among the stuff I have not thrown away is a Lincoln phone list dated June 5, 2005. And MacInTax disks for a mac that's been gone since before Kwaj. And in this pile of keys is a key to the Daytona (the chick magnet, which he sold for $400 in 1998), and probably a key to the house in Rochester, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was a key to the house in Woodside.

I see the key to one of Tom's ex's here

I wear his t-shirts as nightgowns, and I wear his underwear every day.  I wore them in Niagara Falls, and I wore them in Hawaii, and Pennsylvania; and yes, I have them on right now. It makes me feel like Tom is still taking care of me.

Yup, probably ...

This is not a new thing, this obsession I have with his underwear (briefs, not boxers). I had an ER visit once for an asthma attack, at least ten years but probably much longer ago than that, and poor Tom was mortified to discover I was wearing his underwear. "Ew, gross! What if the doctor finds out?! Won't you be embarrassed?", I remember him asking at the time. (He did, and I wasn't.) And I know it traumatized Tom, because his first question before any subsequent ER visit, I kid you not, was always: "You're not wearing my underwear, are you?" Ever the Good Wife, I always changed into my own underwear for an ER visit.

Since we've been married, I've always worn his underwear and had my morning tea in his mug when he travelled. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, I suppose I thought at the time. Nowadays, I guess I do it because I just like having his cooties.

Six months, and counting.