Archive for the ‘The Family’ Category

I had planned to write about one of three things today. The first option was about how awesome this morning’s test went. And then I took the test. And so I thought about writing about how badly the test went, because spoiler alert, it went badly. Like, I knew 30 of 75 answers badly. And the third option, which, let’s be honest, I’m totally going to use tomorrow, is a story about my cat. But I’m not going to write about any of these.

This past week has been a struggle. Finals are always difficult and this semester has been by far the toughest academically of my entire life. I’ll do a real post about it later because there are things I need to get out of my head and things I want to share, but suffice it to say that it’s been rough. But all week I’ve managed my stress pretty well and honestly, I’ve been happy.

I’ve been happy because I got several reminders that the people in my life are incredible.

I was reminded that the people in my life are incredible because my friends have found a way to help someone in need. And because members of my family seems poised to do the same with a different family. I am inspired by how much the people I love give to one another. I am not surprised, but so thankful, about how when I told my husband I wanted to help even though our finances are tight, he didn’t hesitate to tell me to do it. By how the people in my life are giving to others out of love.

I was reminded that the people in my life are incredible because I got an email from a family member with a really kind compliment that I didn’t expect. And it brightened my day.

I was reminded that the people in my life are incredible because I have a family member undergoing a very serious surgery for a very serious cancer and I’ve gotten to watch how my family and his friends have rallied around him and around his wife and kids. It has been amazing to watch and to be a part of. He is quite possibly one of the bravest people I know, even while facing something that would break most of us. And as a sidenote: his surgery is tomorrow morning and the more prayers and good thoughts he can get, the better.

I was reminded that the people in my life are incredible because all week I got to witness how they are here for each other. Because it would be easy to not do all the wonderful things they have done, to turn a blind eye and go on with life, but they didn’t. And they have let me be a part of some of it. They have reminded me of what this season should be about and how much better it feels to give than it has ever felt to receive. I’ll admit, I had gotten caught up in the materials of the season; in the act of buying presents instead of in the spirit of giving. I’m not caught up in it anymore.

And even though I am exhausted, both mentally and physically, and have a world class headache tonight, I am happy. Truly, genuinely happy.

Because I remembered that I am blessed with amazing people in my life, with amazing models of kindness and goodness. Because I am surrounded by people who make me want to be more kind and more loving. And I’m just so grateful for them, for you, and for the reminder of how lucky I really am.

I hope someone can remind you this week too.

I’ve tried to write this about 20 times in the past few weeks. I’m just not sure where to start. We’re kind of complicated, you and me.

First, I can’t believe you’re 30. Dude. You’re kind of a grown up now, which is weird, because even though you’ve always been my big sister, I guess I’ve never realized how much we’ve grown up. Mostly you, because I’m not 30 for 2 and a half more years.

The first 26 years of our sisterhood were, well, rough.

You told me that Santa Claus wasn’t real when I was 6. I thought dad would kill you, but I know you did it because I was being a brat. I’m not gonna say I deserved it, because it’s not like I lopped your leg off or something, but I remember it was slightly understandable.

And there was the one time when you pushed me in the pool on the day before Thanksgiving. And, okay, so I totally deserved it, hell I think I even dared you to do it. In my head I envisioned it getting you into trouble. I’m not sure I deserved it when mom locked me out on the patio soaking wet immediately thereafter. I mean, I didn’t jump in the pool myself, what kind of crazy person would do that in November?

I remember the time we went to meet our aunt and uncle at Marie Calendars when we were like 15 and 17. You kicked me in the shin with your Doc Martins and I hit you in the head with my fist. And mom got back in the car and drove home. We went in and had lunch. I think we can chalk that one up to pay back for the Thanksgiving pool patio lock out.

At the risk of this becoming a roast, I’ll stop there. But you know that there are only about a thousand different examples of how we abused each other, how we hurt each other, physically and emotionally. How I got you in trouble, and how you got me back.

I remember people always telling me that we’d grow up to be friends and I dismissed it, because we continued to grow up, but the friendship wasn’t happening.

There were times where I wanted to hate you. I really did. It would’ve been so much easier if I could’ve just walked away and never dealt with the button pushing or the hurt that we inflicted upon each other again.

But I couldn’t hate you.

The day you went to college, mom and I stopped at a gas station on Foothill Blvd before getting on the freeway to go home, she got out of the car and I burst into tears. My sister, my big sister, wasn’t coming home with us. You didn’t live there anymore. I cried because I loved you and I knew that things would not be the same as they had been.

After your wedding, I cried all the way back to your apartment with all the gifts (and the cake that dad put in the freezer, fresh flowers and all) because you belonged to someone else now. You weren’t just my sister, you were someone’s wife.

I couldn’t hate you because I was too busy loving you, even if I never did a good job of showing it.

In the past year, something amazing happened. We both had our own crises, and they weren’t so amazing. They were pretty freaking ugly. But for the first time in our 27 years together, we needed each other. And we were found. We gave advice without criticism, we gave love without thinking. We supported each other.

For the first time in my life, I feel like we have that thing that everyone told us about. You’re not just my sister anymore. You’re not just the girl I fought with, that I got grounded in high school, that I shared a phone line and a wall with for years. You’re my confidant. You’re one of my best friends. You’re one of the first people I turn to in a crisis and in a moment of celebration.

Maybe it took me 27 years to realize it, but I am blessed to have you in my life. To have you as a sister, as a role model, as a friend. You shaped so much of who I am today and who I want to be in the future.

May this landmark birthday be everything you deserve and a celebration of all you are today. And most of all, a day to recognize how freaking old you are. (You didn’t really think I’d ignore the opportunity to make jokes about your age did you? I mean come on, there has to be some perks about being the younger one.)

Happy birthday dude. I love you tremendously. I always have, and I always will.

“I know some sisters who only see each other on Mother’s Day and some who will never speak again. But most are like my sister and me… linked by volatile love, best friends who make other best friends ever so slightly less best.” ~Patricia Volk

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.