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.

So, last night while I was finishing editing the emergency room story, I got a call from my older (perfect) sister. She told me that she was telling a friend about my headache and that friend has some connection (that I’m not entirely clear about) at the very neurology office I have my October 1st appointment scheduled. And, most importantly, that said friend thought she might be able to help.

I cautiously optimistically emailed a brief health history to my sister to email to her friend to give to a doctor (or pick out a doctor? Again, the details, they are fuzzy) and this morning got an email from my sister with an attached email, from the doctor, saying that she’ll see me THIS COMING TUESDAY at 3. Yes, I’ll have to miss 20 minutes of class. But dude. 5 days instead of like 29. I get to see a doctor in 5 days. I’m beside myself (almost literally, but that’s neither here nor there).

So while I lie on the couch and will the entire world to stop spinning (dear God the dizziness is out of control tonight), won’t you please tell give my older (perfect) sister some props for making this happen? Because it is because of her that I have a new small ray of hope and I’m going to bask in its glory for five short days.

I’ve spoken briefly in the past about my sisters. I have one biological older (perfect) sister, 3 step-sisters who range in age between 24 and 28 and one half-sister who is now in college. We’re all exceedingly different and pretty damned independent.

My older (perfect) sister is brilliant. She, almost literally, has brains coming out her ears. She went to the same school (and program) I am starting in August, got perfect grades, scholarships every year and is now an adjunct faculty member. It’s important to keep in mind that this is the best program in the country. She got one of two internships they offer in the whole school and the job of her choice. She’s, as the parentheses indicate, perfect. And always has been.

My younger (angstful) sister is an athlete. She’s smart, much smarter than she thinks she is (that’s what having a ridiculously brilliant oldest sister does to your mind), but she is in college on a full scholarship for swimming. After one year she has half the school records and placed in the top 10 in the western conference (division 1). She’s less than half a second off olympic trial cut times. She works hard, but she’s just so naturally athletically inclined it’s gross. In a good way.

I, on the other hand, am intelligent, not brilliant. I’m a fair athlete in some sports, but in general suffer from a severe lack of coordination. I got some academic scholarships, but in the end, did not graduate from college with any honors, awards or recognition. I’m not trying to demean myself, but I’m not in a league academically with my older (perfect) sister, nor athletically with my younger (angstful) sister.

What I have had is baking. When I started college, I began to have a love of food (which is ironic since it’s also when I stopped eating for a year, but whatever). I began to cook and especially bake, every chance I got. I won a ridiculous number of pie and cake baking contests and I was officially given the job of providing dessert for every family gathering. It was my thing. It is my thing and I love it.

My younger (angstful) sister has recently decided that what she wants to do is become a baker. She wants to get a degree in business and then go to culinary school. She wants to run a bakery. She wants to do the one thing I’d do if I had all the money in the world. She wants to steal my cake, and eat it too.

Rationally I know her decision has little to do with me and considering that she’s 19 and changes her mind about everything every 15 seconds there’s a good chance it won’t happen, but I am a little HUGE bit jealous that she’s going to do this. That she’s going to be bringing the desserts for family gatherings. That people will wonder what she’ll be bringing next time and make requests for her baked goods.

I want to be bigger than this. Bigger than these feelings and just be happy for her. But this wave of jealousy has crashed over my head and I’m drowning in it. I want my talent back and I want it all to myself.

In case you were keeping score, that’s jealousy AND selfishness.

I’ve written about my dad before and the tumultuous relationship we had, but my father has truly become one of my greatest cheerleaders. No one is more quick to tell me how proud they are of me. No one is more accepting of my life decisions. And no one is more willing to do anything I ask of them. If I asked my dad to jump he’d say “absolutely. And I’m so proud of you for delegating.” Because that’s how my dad is. He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t complain. He just does.

When I’m feeling frustrated by a parental or family response about something important, he’s my go to.

Because when my sister was having a fit about me marrying a Jew (and a fit is probably the nicest way I could possibly put that), he told me he thought it was great and that our children would be so enlightened about different religions.

When my mom was having a fit about our wedding not being in good ole Bakersfield, my dad asked me all about the place we had chosen and ooed and ahhed about it. He reminded me of how much nicer the weather would be there and reaffirmed that as long as I was happy with my choice, it didn’t matter what anyone else said.

When Slappy’s family criticized our housing choice (because it has pools and barbecues and according to them, we really don’t need that, and nevermind that it’s just a perk and really we loved the complex…), my dad went online and looked at the site. He told us how amazing it looked and encouraged us to move where we would be happy.

I could literally go on and on about all the ways he has stepped up in my adulthood and how he has become this incredibly important figure in my life, but there simply aren’t words to describe how much I love my father and how blessed I am to have him. His health has declined some this year and his frailty reminded me of how precious our relationship is and how much it means to me.

We had years of clashing where our relationship was ugly, but perhaps those years of trials and tribulations are what brought us to where we are today. More than ever, I can’t wait to give him the grandchildren he so dearly wants and watch him give my children the love and support he has given me.

Happy Father’s Day.

So, still no internet. It’s killing me a little inside. Really. I NEED YOU.

Yesterday Slappy’s family came over and his mother and sister helped us pick out a couch. From the moment I sat on the one we bought, I was sold. It was everything anyone could ever want in a couch. It was soft (like sitting in a giant teddy bear), it had a chaise area where one can sleep and it still affords us room. It doesn’t have a pull out bed like we’d planned, but frankly, sitting on the pull out area is not comfortable and there’s lots of sleep space on the couch and in the rest of the room. And dude, the teddy bear thing.

Slappy’s mother was on especially good and helpful behavior and suggested that the couch was too tall, which, I was confused by, but went with. We went and looked and others and eventually came back to the teddy bear couch. The only flaw of the couch is that because we’re having it custom ordered (picked a different color, a burgundy red), we won’t get it for TWO WEEKS. So, until then, we have our folding chairs in the living room, looking super classy and not at all white trashy.

We also finally found some dressers that fit perfectly for what we need and we’ll be picking those up today. They’re the right size and they have some storage, though no dresser in the world will hold all my clothes. After shopping we had an “Us and Them” party, which, if you say it fast enough sounds an awful lot like S and M, which is just not at all the same thing. Basically we opened 15 boxes Slappy’s mom had and the 3 siblings took what they wanted and bartered for what everyone wanted. It, was lovely, was much less painful than it could’ve been.

Dinner, however, was EXACTLY as painful as it could’ve been, perhaps even more so. Astoundingly, my MIL only played a small part in that and it was my brother in law that made me want to gauge my eyes out with my fork. At least 3 times.

Today we have get to go back to Bed, Bath and Beyond to return 2 things we bought and don’t need and pick up 30 billion more. And then we’re having lunch with Slappy’s brother (yes, the one from dinner last night, I’m keeping an open mind about today. No really. I am.), then we’re driving up to see my family until tomorrow night.

And then, on Monday? We get internet. Oh, and we’ll celebrate our one year wedding anniversary. But dude. The internet. (I’m kidding, you know that, right?). And maybe by then I’ll have something more interesting to say. Chances aren’t great for that, but go ahead and come back then anyways.

So, recently the out-laws moved Slappy’s grandmother (who has severe Alzheimers) from her home in Florida to a facility (a very nice one) in Southern California near their home. In doing so, they had to sell her house and pack everything in it.

Now, a logical approach to this would involve a moving van or even a moving company. But, let’s remember who we’re talking about.

The out-laws decided to rent an SUV (note here also that Slappy’s new car is his grandmother’s, which also had to be picked up in Florida, so the car rental? mind boggling) and drive the stuff, not to California, but to our house.

So that we can move it.

At no cost to them.

And it wasn’t like just a few boxes. It was like 1/3 of our spacious dining room filled with CRAP. Things that Slappy’s mother called and asked us if we wanted, and even after we said no, somehow they ended up in our dining room anyways. Because no only means no when she says it.

Anyway, among the “gifts” she’s giving us, is an antique planter. She prefaced our first viewing of the planter with a warning that it’s kind of “different” but with a plant in it, it looked quite nice.

Um. No.

This “planter” is easily 2.5 feet tall. Seriously. It’s huge.

And a little inappropriate. Like, this lady, totally groping the other one.

Or this naked kid eating grapes.

I so want to have that in my house to explain the nakedness to my kids. “Oh, don’t worry honey, it’s antique, that makes it totally okay. And totally not the world’s LARGEST eye sore.”

But even better, it also breaks into two parts. I believe that one is an obvious choice for a port-o-let, and the other, a chess pawn. Whatcha think?

But wait, there’s more.

Before the stuff was packed, Slappy’s mom called and asked if we had a mop (we do). She said that she was going to send us the “stick” anyway, because it is the greatest cleaning tool ever. We inquired and she explained that you just wrap a towel around the stick and clean the floors. You know, like a, oh, what’s the word? Right, a MOP.

Behold, the stick of glory.

We spent a good 20 minutes coming up with alternative uses of the stick. So far we’ve got hockey stick, hammer, mallet, door knocker, and many many others. After all the suggestions, a miffed mother-in-law said, “you should really keep it. You can’t just get another one of those.”

No, probably not. But give me ten minutes in a forest with a hammer, and I’m certain I could make one.

Nevertheless, we have to bring the hideous planter and magical stick of wonder back to California. I’m just worried that the planter might fall out of the moving van somewhere in Texas.

Moving is crazy, you never know what kind of crap might spontaneously combust…

Alright, I’m finally ready to share. I needed the week to not think at all about Lucifer, her husband and her other son, Satan, and their adventure in my life. My blood pressure is rising just thinking about it. But here we go anyway.

So the out-laws (Slappy’s mother and father only) arrived in town on Thursday night. We met them for a nice dinner at Bayona, though it took us at least 10 minutes to park and absolutely no one was pleased with where we were, except me, because dude, I can only take so much advice before I aim my car for the closest landing space and run for my life. Dinner was blissfully uneventful and since I had work the next day, I had no parent duty until Friday night where we had a nice, and totally tolerable, dinner at Commander’s Palace.

Saturday morning, we awoke at the ass crack of dawn for Tulane’s graduation. The out-laws tried to convince me to drive Slappy to the Superdome early, then wait a while and pick them up, so that they wouldn’t have to get up as early. Um, no. I picked them up around 8:15 and we parked and headed into the dome.

When in, I called Slappy who told me he would be sitting on the LEFT side of the stage when facing it. So I found some seats near the left side. Slappy’s mother then found some she liked better. Because, of course mine were NOT GOOD ENOUGH. Anyways, ironically, Slappy was sitting on the right side of the stage, and I had to spend most of the hour and a half there hearing about how worthless it was since we weren’t even near him and how much she wished she was sitting over there (guess what? You have legs, go for a walk. You won’t be missed.)

After the graduation, we found Slappy and immediately headed to, and I quote, her “favorite place in New Orleans”…the Windsor Court hotel. Seriously. Of all the amazing restaurants in the city, THAT is where she wanted to eat. So that’s where we went. While there, Slappy’s wildly inconsiderate older brother showed up. He had been sick and wasn’t eating much, but he did try to procure some alcohol anyways, because the only thing he does better than be wildly insulting is drugs and alcohol. Well, and complain. And be right all the time. He just got offered the job of a lifetime, like, the thing he’s been working towards forever, and he isn’t happy. But he isn’t happy because he won’t be near his girlfriend. The girlfriend he conveniently forgot while he was hardcore hitting on another girl who he met in the French Quarter and later had breakfast and dinner/drinks with. Nice, right?

Anyways, I left lunch early because I could. not. stand. another. minute. with his family and Slappy had to get there early. I offered to save us all seats (5 at this point) so they could come a little later. A little later was 4 minutes before the procession, nice, right? Slappy’s brother slept through the entire graduation and then when it was over, hugged Slappy and went home. Slappy’s parents hung out for a while and then went and changed clothes for another super nice dinner.

On Sunday we went out to lunch with Slappy’s brother and then made plans for dinner with the out-laws. Slappy and I took the car to pick up his parents and his brother was to take the other car and meet us there, leaving a few minutes after us. After sitting at the restaurant for 15 minutes waiting, we called Slappy’s brother who informed us that they decided to take the Streetcar instead, despite it being WAY slower and them having left not 5 minutes after us, but 15. And he thew in a nice condescending, “I hope you don’t all starve to death” when we complained at his choice. Nice, right?

This dinner was the one that just about made my head explode. First, Slappy’s mother decreed that the whole world should be on the same time zone. But not in any logical fashion. She believed that the United States should stay on the schedule of being awake during the light hours and asleep during the dark hours, and everyone else could just adjust to sleeping when it was light out. This was followed shortly by the inevitable discussion that everyone should just learn English because Americans are God’s gift to the universe. My head explodes at the egocentrism displayed by this woman. Truly.

Eventually, the conversation shifted to childbirth where, she decided to entertain us with the story of Slappy’s brother’s birth, which happened at home. The apex of the conversation occurred when she described her mother-in-law’s reaction to walking in on my mother-in-law, on all fours, with Slappy’s brother’s head out. Go ahead, try to delete that mental image. Now try to do it while EATING.

And then the conversation shifted yet again. This time, Slappy’s mother decided to mention that she didn’t think I would ever give birth. She went so far as to say that I would hand a knife to someone to have the baby cut out before I’d undergo the pain of childbirth.

What.
The.
Hell.

Dude. I had brain surgery with less than 24 hours of narcotics. I had boob surgery with NO narcotics. I had my tonsils taken out, at age 20, with no narcotics. I don’t doubt that childbirth is wildly painful, but I’m pretty sure I’d survive. Unfortunately, I probably can’t ever do it, because sneezing makes the back of my head nearly explode, I can’t imagine that trying to squeeze a bowling ball out of my cooter will feel better. But that’s SO not the point. I could do it. I could if I needed to. And I will if I can. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

When Monday rolled around, I woke up feeling refreshed. Slappy’s brother and parents were scheduled to leave (the former in the car, the latter by plane) and soon we’d have our house back. I probably failed to mention that Slappy’s brother stayed in our house. With a friend. Without asking. For several nights. Nice, right?

When I came home from work, we got ready to go out to lunch, as we had planned at dinner the night before. Of course, Slappy’s brother denied being invited to said lunch, and had made plans with the girl he’d picked up in the French Quarter. So we went with just his parents. After lunch we came home, and I got ready to go to my school’s graduation, only to hear Slappy’s brother mention, that, oh yea, they’re going to stay another night. Of course, the next day was my birthday and all I really wanted was my house and sanity back. But no.

And not only that, but they wanted to have alligator for dinner, so they asked if we would mind going to Jacques-Imo’s Monday night, even though Slappy and I were going there for my birthday then next day.

Yes. Yes we would mother freaking mind.

Eventually, I fell into a deep, dark funk, we went to dinner somewhere else with Slappy’s brother, went to a casino (where Slappy won $350, the bastard, and I won -$40) and I came home and crashed hard and early while Slappy stayed out with his brother (who stopped on the way home at the girl’s house to get pot. Classy!).

The next day, I had work, Slappy somehow convinced his brother to leave (and defended me at a breakfast where his brother was trying to tell Slappy that I needed to change my perspective on science, because, you know, proteins and carbohydrates are totally perspective important issues…ugh) and by the time I got home from work, he was gone.

And all was right with the world again.

As the move gets closer and closer, I get more and more excited, but also more and more aware that, instead of 5 hours by plane, we’re now 45 minutes by car. We’re…gulp…in-law ambushable.

Hold me.