Archive for the ‘The Family’ Category

In many ways, I am a perfect blend of my parents. I look a lot like both of them, but am not the spitting image of either. Half of people swear I look just like my mom and the other half swear I look just like my dad. Either way, there is no questioning my lineage, my genetics. I got my dad’s crooked teeth and deep belly button. I have his long skinny toes and a smaller version of his nose.

And more than that, I got his love of history. I got his passion for politics, his love of the Dallas Cowboys and a low tolerance for stupid people. I think I got a refined version of his sense of humor, but I’ll admit that I love me a good terrible one-liner as much as he does.

But what I am most happy to share with my dad is my heart. He is my best cheerleader, my number 1 fan. He has been a support, a foundation of love that I needed these past few years, he has offered help with no questions asked, no expectation of anything. He has wanted me to succeed more than anything, he has wanted me to be happy, even when the road to happiness has been convoluted and not so happy itself.

A multitude of times while planning our wedding we considered eloping and skipping the formal wedding ceremony. It was a lot of work and no one seemed to be happy with our compromises, with our plans. One of the biggest reasons we decided to go through with the big ceremony was because I wanted to walk arm in arm with my dad down the aisle. I wanted him to give me away, I wanted to share that moment with him, have those memories.

And I cherish them. Like so many others I have.

When I was little, my dad used to wake me up on school days. I know that I have made no secret of the fact that I am not a morning person, and that has been true since I was a pretty little kid. I did not like to get up in the mornings and on about a million occasions, I thought my dad would lose his mind before he left for work.

Sometimes when he couldn’t get me up my mom would come in and tell me good morning, and because I was a total pill, I’d open my eyes, reach up and tell her good morning. You can only imagine how much my dad loved that. Sometimes I feel a little guilty about it, I’m sure that karma will get me when I have children of my own.

When I was 8, I broke my arm. The follow up visits with my orthopedic doctor for cast changes and x-rays were always terrifying. I never knew if it would hurt, or what they would do or what to expect. On one such appointment, they straightened my wrist out after it had been bent to let the bones set a particular way for about a month. I was terrified and I remember my dad being there, holding my other hand. And mostly I remember going for ice cream after to soothe the pain, to drown it in chocolate and peanut butter for me, a black and tan sundae for him.

I sat in the same ice cream place today for my dad’s birthday.

I don’t know if you’re reading this, I don’t know if you’ll ever see these words or see how much you mean to me. I’m sorry we got to spend so little time with you on your birthday and that we don’t visit more often. But no distance changes how much love I have for you, how grateful I am to be your daughter, to share my heart, my memories with you.

Happy birthday dad. And many more.

We were standing in the airport waiting to check our one suitcase for our evening flight. It was just Slappy and me, enveloped in our own world, our own conversation. Somehow the conversation turned to how old our luggage is, and how there are almost no pieces that don’t have broken wheels or missing handles.

Slappy looked over our suitcase for a moment, examining whether it would survive this trip and all the things I’d smashed inside. After a moment he turned to me and asked why I didn’t cut the bundle of red and white yarn off the handle.

I sucked in a small breath of air.

“I can’t cut it.” I said, quietly.

“Why? It looks silly.” He replied.

I didn’t know how to respond. I thought for a moment and then I told him about the yarn.

That suitcase was the largest piece in a set my grandmother gave to me for my high school graduation. She had given all of her grandchildren luggage for that benchmark celebration, but each of us got something different. My sister’s was floral patterned, which made it easy to find at an airport, but mine was plain green.

It fit my personality, I thought.

And because mine was so plain, so simple, my grandmother tied red and white yarn to the handles of each of the 3 pieces so that I would be able to recognize them at the baggage claim. At the time, I thought it was silly, too. But I left it there at my grandma’s insistence.

My grandma passed away suddenly the following spring.

Since then, those suitcases have been to Hawaii, to Greece, to Spain, to New York, to Chicago, to Louisiana and the red and white yarn has gone with me each time. And though it seems silly, every time I see that yarn, I think of her. I feel like she’s here. Like she’s safeguarding me.

Like those wisps of red and white yarn are a very small piece of the grandmother I loved, the whimsical hearted woman who would’ve loved to go on so many far off adventures.

A few weeks after we learned about my grandpa’s cancer, we also learned that they weren’t going to remove it. That conversation took place over the phone, so no one was really sure whether the doctor didn’t want to remove it, or if my grandpa had just decided against it.

Both sides made sense, frankly. My grandpa is 85 years old, he’s a diabetic, he’s got heart problems, it’s not especially safe to do unnecessary surgeries. And likely, something else will get him before the cancer does (sad, but true). And on the other hand, the surgery involves removing a chunk of my grandpa’s tongue, which I know he’s not interested in and I can see why he would say “no thanks” and wash his hands of it.

It made sense.

But it didn’t sit well with any of my family. The idea of cancer just…I don’t know, being allowed to grow, unchecked just seemed wrong. Eventually a few family members convinced him to talk to his doctor about having it removed. And so tomorrow, my grandpa is having surgery.

It’s outpatient surgery, and there’s not really any big cause for concern, but I’m scared. I think we all are.

I saw my grandpa this weekend for the first time in months. He isn’t able to take any anti-inflammatories in preparation of the surgery and you could tell how much his knees were hurting. He looked so tired, he looked like he was in tremendous amounts of pain.

And for the first time, he just seemed old. I know he’s 85 and that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but he’s not the same man I remember when I was 15, he’s hardly the same man I remember at 25. And that’s really tough to realize. He’s aging much faster than I’d like, than any of us would.

He’s taking things in stride as much as he can, in the ways he usually does. He survived colon cancer over 20 years ago and rebounded faster than any of us imagined. He told us on Saturday that they may have to do a skin graft from his hip to cover the wound on his tongue. And he said that it would be kind of cool because he’d officially be the only person in Bakersfield who could lick is own ass.

In case you wondered where I get my crassness from, it’s him.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this except to say that I’m scared for my grandpa. I’m scared for this surgery, for how fast he’s aging. And I’m sad, for him, for having to always put on a brave face and dealing with things that many of us wouldn’t be able to handle, things he shouldn’t have to handle.

I try not to ask for it too often, but if you have prayers to spare, (or good thoughts if that’s your persuasion), please send some for my grandpa tomorrow. He’s pretty important to a lot of us.

*UPDATE* He’s out of surgery, no skin graft (which is good, but definitely limits the jokes he was planning to tell), and everything went according to plan. Now we focus our hope on the recovery- that it goes as smoothly as the surgery and he heals quickly and without complications.

30 years ago this fall, my dad became a father for the first time. Two and a half years after that, at nearly the exact same age I am today, his second daughter (that’s me!), was born. And then just 10 years ago he legally adopted a third. Yes, the fact that he can even breathe with all the estrogen is somewhat remarkable.

Things were not always as they are today. My parents divorced when I was 11 and though we’re really great about never talking about it, it was an incredibly tough time for all of us. I think we all bare some scars from those months and years. There were times of resentment, of anger, of sadness. There were times when I couldn’t write the things I’m writing today. Times when my bitterness was too great.

Those scars have finally faded. And what’s left now is more precious and unblemished than I ever thought it would be.

My father is one of those people who is impossible to describe succinctly. He is often soft-spoken, but even in his times of silence, he is deeply passionate. He’s incredibly intelligent and protective in a way that sometimes surprises me. He has a way about him that makes you feel safe and comfortable most of the time, but when he wants to, can also make you feel so horribly guilty that you want to apologize for every wrong you’ve ever committed. One look and the four words of doom, “I’m disappointed in you” and I dissolve into a puddle of tears and regrets.

I’d like to think that the guilt induction is a skill I had an extra special hand in helping him develop.

My dad is also hilarious in his own, quirky way. He tells jokes that you don’t want to laugh at, but that you can’t stifle laughter over either. He’s hilarious on the phone because the man can text like you wouldn’t believe, but lo, if the call waiting beeps, there’s about a 75% chance he’ll hang up on you, but not before saying in a far away voice, “if they didn’t make these buttons so damn small…”

And don’t get me started on the time we convinced him to look at Urban Dictionary. My mind may be scarred forever, I know his is.

A little over a year ago, my dad got sick with something that his doctors couldn’t quite figure out. It was months of him not feeling well, of scary diagnoses being tossed around. And while it ended up fine, I can barely even begin to tell you how often I was terrified for what might happen next. He was so fragile and his face so obviously showed how tired and weary he was. In those months, I think I worried more than I have in years. The thought of losing my father was something I couldn’t even begin to cope with.

And it was after that scare that I really began to realize how much of my childhood and teenage years I wasted, not noticing, not appreciating him for the incredible influence that he always was. Never realizing how blessed I really was to have him in my life. Refusing to let go of anger, of bitterness enough to see how lucky I was to have a father like him.

I realize now.

And I am so grateful.

We have a running joke that I’ve married my father, because in many, many ways my husband is a lot like my dad. They have similar mannerisms, similar personalities, similar terrible jokes. They even have a almost the same dark brown curly hair and blue eyes. And while sometimes it scares me how much they are alike, it also comforts me in a (totally non-icky) way.

Because it means my children will get to have a father like mine.

If you had asked me ten, or maybe even five years ago, I probably could’ve told you a short list of things I’d change about my history with my dad. And maybe life has had a hand in this, maybe it’s just growing up, but this year I’m thankful for all of it. For the good and the bad, the easy and the complicated.

Our relationship is imperfect, our history is not without strife, but I am so fortunate to have a father who supports me all the time, even when he probably shouldn’t, even when I make it difficult. To have a father who would walk to the end of the earth for me without ever being asked, who would do it with a smile on his face if it meant bringing one to mine. To have a father who makes failure seem impossible, who makes dreams seem attainable, who makes life seem full of endless possibilities.

For all of that and so many reasons that I can’t even begin to articulate, I am grateful for my dad.

Happy Father’s Day Dad.

I love you more. Infinity times infinity more, to be exact.

I think it’s normal to idealize birthdays.

They’re the one day each year that’s really about you. They’re supposed to be fun, filled with joy and laughter. And of course cake.

Today, on my birthday, I found out that my grandfather has cancer.

It would’ve been tough news on any day. But getting hit with it today was a special challenge.

Part of what made it so tough was because it took away the carefreeness of the day. It’s hard to be freely happy when you hear something sad, it’s hard to try to be positive with news like that.

But it’s also tough because I don’t know what things will be like on this day next year. I don’t know what will happen, frankly there are many more unknowns than knowns right now. But I know that I will not forget that on this day, my birthday, my grandfather was told that he has cancer. Again.

My grandpa is a fighter, but he’s also aging, and more quickly than I care to acknowledge. He’s battled and beat cancer once, but that was years ago. That was before he was diagnosed with diabetes, before we found out that his heart isn’t in great condition. Before he lost his wife to cancer.

I’m scared and I’m sad. For him. For my family. For myself.

And I’m hoping that the love that I felt from my friends on this day will be what helps carry my grandpa and my family, through the weeks and months to come. And I hope that next year my birthday will be but a distant memory of bad news. That it will be a reminder of what faith and modern medicine can accomplish.

That it will be an anniversary not of bad news, but of the beginning of the defeat of cancer.

The beginning of a victory.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of several important things. It’s the anniversary of the day Abraham Lincoln was shot, the anniversary of the day the titanic sunk and most importantly, the anniversary of my mom’s birth.

There are some things you might not know about my mom. She was the valedictorian of kindergarten. And junior high. And high school. And she graduated with some Latin suffix from college too. She is the middle out of 5 children. She has 2 daughters and 3 step-daughters. She yells “fuck a duck” when she drops heavy things on her feet (she denies this). She swears like a sailor when she makes pie crusts (she denies this too, see a pattern?). She cleans when she’s mad. She can spell better than I will ever be able to dream of.

And she is the best mom in the world.

I could call my mom at 4 in the morning on a Tuesday and all I’d have to say is that I need her and she’d be here as fast as she can drive those 130 miles that lie between us. All I have to do is casually mention cake or cookies and before I know it, there’s a cake or a plate of cookies at my door. Before I even receive medical bills, she offers to pay them.

My mom loves fiercely, passionately. And she loves with her whole heart, every single time. And because of that, she’s had her heart broken more than once. She had her dreams destroyed. She’s been disappointed, she’s been devastated.

But she has never given up.

She’s struggled through times harder than I’ll ever know, than I can ever imagine, but she picks herself up every time. She never loses hope, never loses faith that in the end, it’s going to be okay. She tries harder, she pushes through and she never just survives. She thrives. She shines.

I owe my mom more than I can put into words. It’s obvious that I wouldn’t be the person I am without her, but it’s so much more than that. My mom picked me up from the depths of depression, from the torment of an eating disorder. She supported me when I traveled around the world alone. She let me move 2000 miles away for a boy she hardly knew and supported me, even when I know she would’ve done just about anything to keep me in California.

And if that was all she’d ever done for me, that would be enough.

But that’s not all she’s done, all she is.

My mom is also one of my very best friends. She is my confidant. She’s my cheerleader.

My mom is the keeper of my hope, the protector of my heart. She is my inspiration, my role model.

My mom is the kind of parent I want to be. She is the kind of person I hope to become.

She’s so much more than this, but there aren’t adjectives to describe her. I can spend all night trying to explain to you how much that lady means to me, but I’ll never capture her. I’ll never capture the mom, the person, the friend that she is. It simply isn’t possible.

And so instead of wasting more time or searching for more ways to eloquently say that my mom is awesome, I’ll just stop here and cut to the chase.

Happy birthday lady.

Thank you for being my mom. For being you. For loving me.

I love you to the end of the earth and back.

As with most things in life, it is easier to see and remember the negative things that chronic pain has brought into my life. It’s unfortunate, but true. But I would be lying if I told you that nothing good has come out of it.

A few months ago I wrote a blog post (somewhat, um, passive aggressively) to a family member that I was struggling with greatly. We couldn’t hardly be in the same room together. She couldn’t find an ounce of sympathy or empathy for things that were happening with me and instead settled for harsh criticism.

I left Thanksgiving ready to never see her again. It was sad, but things were just so bad.

In the months since then, things have changed so much I can hardly believe the words I wrote months ago. The relationship that was essentially completely demolished, that I was ready to completely sever, has grown by leaps and bounds. It has become a relationship that I have wanted my whole life. She has become one of my biggest supports, one of my best cheerleaders and one of the people I can talk to about anything.

I had given up on us. I had given up on ever feeling close to her. A closeness I have wanted, a closeness I had never had (this is not to say I had no role in our troubled relationship, it was just never what I wanted it to be). I am certain that we will have more fights, that not all days will be easy, they can’t be. But the incredible difference that these few short months have made is amazing.

I could spend hours telling you about how my life has changed in the past 6 months, or even in the past 2 years since the surgery. My energy levels are so low that evenings are a major struggle. When I get home from school, I go directly to the couch or bed, just trying to finish what I have to do before crashing like a ton of bricks. Simply put, my life is entirely different than I ever imagined. And in general, the difference is not for the better.

But there are these few silver lined things, like this relationship, that have emerged. And while it is easier for me to think about what I have lost, tonight I’m clinging to what I’ve gained. To a relationship that has been resurrected.

To a truly good thing that has emerged from this cloud of ugliness.

In the crazy that was last week, I overlooked a pretty important event.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t lovely and incredible and special, but it happened on a day where I experienced more pain than I even believed possible. On a day where we waited with bated breath to find out if my doctor would fix the horror that was the enormous spinal fluid leak that made even lifting up my head a nightmare.

I was a little self-absorbed. To say the very least.

So while I am a week late, I am incredibly happy to introduce all of you to a very special addition to my life.

To my family.

This is my niece, Olivia Quinn.

She looks just like her big sister, 2 year old Mia.

And they are together, among the two sweetest little girls I’ve ever known.

And though I am a week late sharing this wonderful addition to our life, I could not be happier to be an aunt for the second time, to another sweet baby girl.

p.s. Dear husband: I want one of these. Thanks.

I was born into one of those crazy Catholic families. Well, we were crazy without the Catholic, but my grandmother was at times fanatical in her Catholicism. One fine example of this is that my youngest aunt is just 10 years older than me. And the fact that she’s closer in age to all of her nieces/nephews than to any of her siblings. And she has many of both.

This aunt became an aunt when she was just 6. She was 10 when I was born and you can find her in about half of the pictures from my childhood. She’s my aunt, but she’s as much of a sister to me as any of the 5 others who technically have that role.

This aunt was there for me in most of my major life events. She’s seen me at my lowest lows and my highest highs. She’s wanted such great things for me, even when I didn’t want them. She loved me without conditions, even when I made her cry, even when I didn’t show her the same love in return.

This aunt is often one of the first people I turn to in a crisis because she’s the best at being brutally honest without being an asshole (a quality that is rare in my family). I always know that something is a truly an issue if my aunt thinks it is. Aside from her politics, I trust her judgement implicitly. She gives sound advice and will not tolerate me ignoring it (much to my frustration, I might add). She listens and cares, always. No matter how big or small, important or completely stupid.

This aunt gave birth to the 3 most beautiful children I’ve ever seen. She’s allowed me to be a part of their lives from the very start. I changed her daughter’s first diaper (and then swore I would never have kids because ohdeargod that was gross), I babysat her son daily for weeks. I love her youngest son so much I seriously contemplate stealing him. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. Have you seen his eyes?

This aunt was a huge reason I pushed Slappy to come back to California (Hi Mom! You were absolutely the other reason, please do not be offended). Simply put, she’s one of those people I just plain need to be around. I need her in my life. I need her to listen to me rant. I need her to get in the car with me when a family event turns into a yelling match. I need her to remind me why I keep having medical tests, even when I’m in insane amounts of pain and shedding endless tears of frustration. I need her to keep me grounded, I need her to keep me sane.

This aunt is more than an aunt to me. She’s a role model (again, minus the politics, because no, just no). She’s an inspiration. She’s a voice of reason. And she’s one of my very best friends.

I cannot imagine my life without her. I know I would not be the person I am today.

This aunt’s birthday is today. And since I’m stuck on a couch in Los Angeles, I can’t be there to hug her and assure her that of course I’m turning 19 this year and of course she’s turning 29. But I can tell her and all of you, that I love this lady with every fiber of my being. I hope someday that I can be a fraction of the mother, aunt and sister that this aunt is.

Happy birthday purplebreath. I love your stinking face off.

I don’t understand you. And I really don’t get how my being in pain brings out the nasty in you.

If I am feeling hopeless, it is NOT okay for you to tell me that my hopelessness is probably a cause of my pain. If I am upset, I do not need you to tell me that I’m being silly. I’m not. It’s not. You have headaches too, and I get that. And I have been nothing but empathetic to you.

Why can you not offer me the same in return?

All I did was announce that it was the 2 year mark from my brain surgery. Why did that launch you into a tirade about calling it brain surgery? You’re right, it was skull, vertebral, brain and brain lining surgery. So sure, perhaps saying brain surgery isn’t the most technically correct terminology. WHY DO YOU CARE? What difference does it make to you?

I know that last week mom and dad to come to town. I didn’t guilt either of them into it, they both chose of their own volition. So why do I get a guilt trip from you about causing mom to miss work? I’m sorry that mom coming to Los Angeles for a few days was a hardship on YOU, you’ll have to explain that to me some time.

When I told you that there was no other cause for my low CSF pressure and low protein, there was no reason to be snarky. As you pointed out, I’m not a neurologist. But guess what? Neither are you. I’m educated and I’ve done research. I invited you to do the same and you declined. I think that means you don’t get to offer your thoughts on it.

You are supposed to be a part of my support system. You’re supposed to be someone I can come to for love and comfort. You’re not. You never are. And I don’t know how to process that.

It breaks my heart because I can’t stand to be around you anymore. I can’t stand what you do to me and how you make me feel. It devastates me that you derive pleasure from making me feel shitty.

And it stops here.

I’m not a 6 year old. I will not be talked down to. I will not be mocked, I will not be made to feel stupid or guilty. I will not walk out of every family gathering feeling like I’m an inch tall.

It stops here.

You may never read this, and even if you do, you probably won’t recognize that I’m talking about you. But understand that this is it. If it happens again, I’m done. I don’t need you in my life. And that? that is freeing as all hell.

The next time you pick a fight about my health or take jabs at me for no reason, I’m walking away. And I’m not coming back.

And that’s something you’ll have to live with forever.

It stops here.

One way or the other. You choose.