Tommy Untucked

“Are you sure you want me to buy these?” I asked Tommy as we stood in the candy aisle at Target. In one hand, I was holding a 10.5 ounce bag of mini Three Musketeers, Milky Ways, Trix, and Snickers;  and in the other, a 12 ounce mini Hershey’s with nuggets.

As I waited for my husband’s response, my eyes landed on his tummy, which lately, has plumped and oozed over his belt.

Ignoring my stare, Tommy answered with two thumbs up.

I persisted. “Honey,” I said. “These candies are making you gain weight.” I shook each bag for emphasis. “You’re eating too many of them.”

He continued his affirmative thumb raise.

“Okay,” I said, as I tossed the bags into the cart and rolled on.

My 77-year-old husband is dealing with a serious medical condition that has robbed him of speech and dimmed his reasoning.  How could I deny him sweets? Also, he is stubborn and likely wouldn’t listen to any lectures on wise food choices.

But, as I pushed the cart through the aisles, and Tommy headed up the escalator to savor golf equipment, I thought of the man I married 14 years ago. He was a proud 145 pounds with nary an ounce of pinch-able fat. His biceps were solid as Major League baseballs, his calf muscles impressively sloped upward, and his stomach enviously flat.

This physique was hard-won. “I was a smoker and overweight,” he had confessed in the dawning days of our romance. “My cholesterol was high and I was in lousy shape. When the doctor told me I had to change my lifestyle or I’d die, I did what he said.”

So, Tommy joined the local YMCA and became a regular. He stopped smoking, started running and bike riding, and within time, dropped weight, and lowered his blood pressure and cholesterol measures.

On top of that, four years into our marriage, he became a vegetarian and has remained meat-, chicken-, and fish-free since then. He’s judicious on portions and appears to stop when full. But, he can’t seem to resist those mini chocolates.

Throughout the day, I will see him rise from his prone position on the couch, or upon returning from a bike ride or park walk, and head for the kitchen. I’ll hear the familiar gasp of the opened freezer door, the crinkle of a plastic bag, then the slap of the sealed door. Next, the pop of the garbage can lid, the rip of foil, and the sugary symphony’s final note as the lid slams shut.

The other day, I decided if I couldn’t stop Tommy from gorging on the minis, I could do something to improve his appearance and ease.

He was on the couch flipping the remote, and as always, his t-shirt was tucked into his size 36 cargo shorts, and a black leather belt was looped and clasped in the waist band. His paunch loomed over the belt, which didn’t disguise the freed first button.

“Why not remove the belt and untuck your shirt.” I said. “You’ll be much more comfortable.”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I unhooked the belt from its notch and wrenched it out like a whip. Then, I wrestled his Japanese Free Spirit t-shirt out of his shorts and draped it over his stomach.

“Now, stand up, Honey,” I said. “Isn’t that better?”

He rose, gave a deep breath, put two thumbs up, and did a little shimmy shake which I took as two degrees above the thumb raise.

 “You look nicer, too,” I said. “Slimmer.”

He grinned and did one more dance before returning to the couch and MeTV.

Now that he’s untucked, and his belly is hard to spot, I ignore his jaunts to the freezer.  Let him enjoy. There’s always 38’s, elastic waist bands, sweat pants, and other wardrobe fixes that will allow my husband to expand. 

At his next exam, when his cholesterol and blood pressure are checked, it will be up to his doctor to learn if the levels rose, and perhaps issue a warning. But since she knows Tommy’s diagnosis, and is aware of his losses and day-to-day struggles, I suspect her prescription will be similar to mine: “Enjoy,” she’ll say.

And, he will.

Tools Shed

I use a scissors to slit open the label covering the rigid plastic box. Once it’s removed, I can unfold the top. The box is grey, tough-looking, which is fitting for this Durabuilt 144-Piece Household Tool Kit.

With the kit spread open from the center, the box is exposed. It holds a wrench, pliers, scissors, screwdriver, hammer, and other tools. All packed in a  convenient carrying case.

The case has a handle, but when I lifted it off the store shelf, I found it too heavy, so I cradled in two arms and placed it in my shopping cart. My guilt felt as heavy as the tool kit.

It was just two days ago when I made this offer to my neighbor:  “I”m on a mission to clean our basement and rid it of  junk," I said to John. "Tommy has a wall full of dusty, old tools he doesn’t use. Would you be interested?”

“What do you want for them?” he asked.

“If you haul them out, along with all of the other clutter, they’re yours.”

Of course, I had asked Tommy first. “Honey,” I said, “how do you feel about giving John the tools in the basement? You’ve got enough in the kitchen cabinet for repairs. He plows our driveway in the winter; this would be a way of thanking him.”

Tommy gave me two thumbs up. That was enough to give me clearance for full speed ahead on the de-shedding.

It was a different scenario when we first moved into this house in 2000, two years after we were married. I was happy watching my new husband assemble his basement workroom. He mounted a peg board on a wall, inserted hooks, and one-by-one attached tools he had accumulated over the years.

And he continued to buy more, often calling out to me, “Home Depot” as he rushed out the door. He’d return with just the right-sized hammer, or perfect wrench, or saw, or some other needed implement.

I’d encourage him. “Honey,” I’d say, “I need a shelf for my office. Can you do that?” Any project  I could think of that would get Tommy down the stairs to gather materials would make us both happy.

The piles of wood that my husband accumulated -- and that John eventually packed into the recyclable can -- were stockpiled during Tommy’s alley trips. When we walked the dog, he’d pause at each opening, check to see if anyone had discarded wood, and if so, change our direction until he had the lumber on his shoulder. On the route home, he looked like the leader of a Christmas procession.

On the day of the removal, John shouted up to me, “Come down and let me know if there’s anything else you want out of here.”

“Want to help us?” I asked my husband. He put two thumbs down, put on his radio headphones, and left the house for his afternoon walk around the park.

In the basement with John, I waved a hand across the wall of tools and pointed to lengths of twine, rope, extension cords that were looped on a hook, to dusty containers that held casters of various sizes, to plastic bags filled with bits of unknown origin. “All out,” I said.

After John carted away the debris, and left the house, Tommy returned from his walk. He opened the basement door and started down the stairs. I followed.  At the foot of the stairs, we looked at the bare wall that once held the peg board and tools. We walked further in and saw the basement, junk-free with its remaining file boxes, golf equipment, gardening tools, and paint supplies neatly stacked on metal shelves.

Tommy's worktable was clean except for the TV, cable box, and tape player. He tried the devices; they were working properly. Before he turned to go back up the stairs, he stared at the blank wall. He made no gestures to tell me what he was thinking. No thumbs up or down. No post-it notes with written clues. He just stared.

I put a hand on his arm, and said, “Honey, when we go to Target this weekend, I’ll buy you a new tool kit. Okay?” He put two thumbs up.

So that’s what I did. Now the Durabuilt 144-Piece Household Tool Kit with "Ergonomic Grip, Wrench, Pliers, Scissors, Carrying Case, Screwdriver, and Hammer" that carries a "Lifetime Limited Manufacturer Warranty," sits open and waiting on the workshop’s table.

I have to think of a project that needs Tommy’s attention. A new peg board might be a start.