Archive for the ‘The Family’ Category

I’ve lived away from “home” now for about 8 years. For the first five, I was a short car ride from my family, and I never missed a holiday. For the past three, I’ve been a long plane ride from them, and it has been difficult because on days like today, Mother’s Day, I can’t be there to celebrate with my family. To celebrate my mother as she should be.

I don’t think it’s an overstatement at all to say that I am the person I am, because of the woman who raised me.

I lived alone with my mom for 3 years after my dad left her, and she became something more than just a mom to me. She was my best friend, my confidant, and my inspiration.

My mom gave up her house for my sister to go to college. This meant moving back in with her parents to save up money, a move that was humbling and difficult, to say the very least.

She gave up a serious relationship to spend more time with me.

She took time off work each week to eat dinner and watch Friends with me, even though it meant staying up later that night to get everything done.

She devoted her life to us and has been there everytime we’ve stumbled, and every time we’ve called.

Growing up, I never had a curfew and I was never grounded, but it wasn’t because my mom was too soft or because I was perfect (okay, so I was sort of perfect). But rather because my mother instilled in me values that guided my way.

I struggled through my freshman year of college, but I went back for another 3 years, including a semester studying abroad, because my mother taught me to never, ever, give up.

I found a boy I wanted to spend my life with and I followed him 2000 miles across the country. Because I loved him. And my mother believed and taught me that love was one of life’s greatest gifts.

I had brain and boob surgery, because I needed to. And I rebounded and moved on with my life (even if with a little lot of whining), even with the constant string of complications. Because my mother taught me to have faith in God’s plan for me.

I am now gearing up to start my first year in graduate school because my mother told me that I could be anything in the world I wanted to be, regardless of the cost or challenge. And though now she keeps reminding me that I should probably decide, for good, what it is I want to do so I can be fully educated and give her some grandchildren, she has supported my every step in the application process.

My mother isn’t perfect, and neither am I. But I hope that someday I can give my children the gifts she has given me. The gifts of strength, of courage of conviction, of passion and of love. I hope that someday, I will be half the amazing role model, friend and mother that she was for me.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom. I love you.

Slappy’s family is having a bad really day.

I’m not at liberty to go into details on any of it, but there are several things that they’re dealing with right now and it’s all very distressing. It seems like each generation of Slappy’s family is hit by something new and none of it seems under control or even things that can easily be brought there.

I know this is short and dull, but if you’re so inclined, they could use good thoughts and prayers about today. Especially thoughts/prayers for strength and wisdom to survive these challenges and hopefully move past them.

Until last weekend, I had never met Slappy’s grandmother. I have heard numerous stories, both good and bad, but had never seen a picture nor met her in person. Part of this is because she’s lived in Florida the entire time I’ve known Slappy and part of it is because she has rather advanced Alzheimer’s Disease.

Earlier this year, Slappy’s parents moved her to California to a facility that could provide her better care and the transition has been rough. So when Slappy’s mother suggested that we go visit her this past weekend, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect, both of her in general (um, have you met her daughter? Right, you haven’t, but you’ve read about her…) and of her state of mental clarity.

Even with these worries, Slappy and I embarked on the 2 mile journey before leaving town on Monday. We found the facility, signed in and rode the elevator up the 3 flights of stairs to the Alzheimer’s floor and then found someone who worked there, because we didn’t know where she’d be.

Slappy’s grandma was asleep on the couch so Slappy woke her up and she was pretty startled. She immediately asked Slappy if she was dead, and when he told her she wasn’t, she looked at him and said, “No, I really think I’m dead.” And no, technically the words weren’t funny, but the way she said it was a little humorous.

I was taken aback at how much my MIL looks like her mother. Slappy looks like like his father, so I knew those genetics were strong, but after seeing Slappy’s grandma, I’m pretty sure my children stand no chance of looking a thing like me.

After we convinced her that she was alive, we suggested that we move out of the (really loud) tv room into her room to chat. We got to the hallway and she didn’t know where her room was. She decided she was pretty sure it was down the right hallway and after looking we found her room and entered.

Aside from not knowing where her room was, she seemed really lucid to me. She did say that she thought she was dead several times, but, you know, that’s not even on the scale of the strangest things to come out of a grandparent’s mouth.

We had a short conversation where Slappy reminded her of who he was and introduced me. We talked about why we were in Los Angeles and that Slappy and I would be living there soon. She was polite, attentive and really just lovely. She said I was a pretty girl and she complimented my name.

And then there was a small pause, she blinked her eyes briefly and then she asked us where we were staying. A conversation we had just finished. Slappy very patiently repeated where we were staying, what we were doing, etc. She seemed completely okay with who he was, but my presence was confusing and she asked us if we were married or not.

And then she paused, blinked and asked us where we were staying again. And then if we were married.

Pause, blink, repeat.

And on about the 4th or 5th pass at the questions, when we told her we were married, she said, “if you’re married, why didn’t I go to your wedding?”

And in that moment, my heart shattered into a million pieces. Because, you know what? She should’ve been there. She’s his grandmother, and it’s profoundly tragic that she isn’t capable of attending things like her grandson’s wedding.

And then 2 minutes later, she asked us again. And honestly, it didn’t feel any better the second time. And while she most certainly won’t remember that we visited or that we got married, I will always remember that moment and the way it felt to explain to her that she couldn’t go.

After several more cycles we told her we had to leave and she thanked us so graciously for coming to visit her. She said she was so glad to see us, gave us a hug, paused for a second, and then asked if we were leaving. We told her goodbye again, hugged and left before she’d have a chance to get confused and start over again.

The experience was heart wrenching, truly, yet I’m glad I went. I’m glad I got to meet his grandmother, even if without her short term memory. I’m glad I got to hear her spout off Yiddish in her New York accent and see her warm smile when she thanked us for coming.

Someday when I’m old and my grandchildren are grown, I hope they’ll come visit me, even if I think I’m dead and even if they’re scared of what they’ll find. Because beneath the disease and beneath the haze, there was a really genuine woman in there and I’m so very glad I got to meet her.

I went to visit my new baby cousin last night, who by the way is just the sweetest, squishiest little boy ever. He dropped down to 9lb 1oz with a nasty case of jaundice, so he isn’t quite as big as I expected. In fact, he’s just freaking perfect (okay, maybe a little yellow, but I like yellow) and I’m trying hard to not steal him. Or eat him. Because seriously with the freaking perfect chubby cheeks baby.

While I was there I got the privilege of putting his older two siblings to bed as well. This is a rarity, usually they only want their parents to do this, so I jumped at the opportunity.

I had to practically wrangle the 5 year old into bed, and then I tucked her in with all 1200 of her dolls. And then she looked up at me with this sweet little quizzical look.

Her: Katie, I went to your wedding, right?

Me: Yes, you did.

Her: So you’re married to Slappy, right?

Me: Right.

Her: And you’ve been married to him for a while, right?

Me: Right.

Her: So why don’t you have a baby in your tummy?

Me: Um, Because I’m not ready for a baby.

Her: Oh. Well, maybe tomorrow.

I’m not really proud of this, but I just, literally 5 minutes ago finished telling my dad about the surgery. Yes, the internet knew before he did. Yes, I probably should’ve called him a week and a half ago, er, two weeks ago, but I’m sorry, it’s my dad and my boob and those two things just do not go together.

I explained to him what they were doing and the following conversation occurred:

Me: so yea, um, it’s going to be on Tuesday.

Dad: Okay. How much are they going to be taking out?

Me: 1/4th of it (meaning 1/4th of my total breast tissue on that side).

Dad: Wow. Why only a 1/4th? Why not just take it all?

Me: ….what?…because, I mean, why would they take it all?

Dad: Well, if they know it’s bad, why not just take it all out?

Me: Dad, it’s my boob! They can’t take it all out.

Dad: WHAT? I just meant the lump, take all of the lump out.

And that, among a host of other reasons, is why you just don’t have boob conversations with your dad.

In other news, I just killed two cockroaches and burned the shit out of my finger. Oh Wednesdays…

(editor’s note: Make that 4 cockroaches and counting. Please, someone shoot me.)

So, my mom doesn’t read this blog, which is probably the best birthday gift I could ever possibly give her, but since today is her birthday, I wanted to honor her a little bit. I think often she doesn’t always get the highest of praise, but truthfully, given the things that have happened in her life, she’s done a remarkable job at not just surviving, but thriving. And, if I do say so myself, she managed to raise two successful and independent women, mostly on her own.

My mom was the third child of 5, the first girl and was always given the role of the “smart” kid. She was the valedictorian of kindergarten, 8th grade, high school and graduated Summa Cum Laude in only 3 years of undergraduate work. She now holds two Master’s Degrees, and three different Teaching or Administrative Credentials. She’s nothing if not incredibly intelligent.

She married my father when she was 22 years old and had my sister when she was 25. I was born when she was just barely 27. She worked full time as an elementary school teacher until we came along and then she worked part time as a reading specialist for the school district nearest our house. When we both were in full time school she became the full time reading specialist, splitting her time at 2 different schools each day.

On their 17th wedding anniversary, my dad moved out of the house. I was 12, my sister was 14. On what would have been her 20th wedding anniversary, my mom sold the only home I ever knew to pay for my sister’s college expenses. We moved in with my grandparents to save money until we could buy a new house. We eventually found on, and it was ours, hers and mine. We went together to pick out tile and carpet and she and I became each other’s whole worlds.

She didn’t parent me in the way that most parents do, but I’d like to think it’s because she instilled in me good enough morals that she didn’t have to. I didn’t do wrong things because I knew they were wrong. I didn’t test my boundaries because I knew what they were and I knew why they were there. She was literally my best friend, my confidant and my hero.

Moving away from her to go to college was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done and I know it tore her to pieces as well. Everytime I came home we both were reduced to tears at the idea of me driving the whole 90 miles back to school alone. Like I said, she was my best friend. We both grew a lot that first year after I moved away. In time she found someone to fill the void and 2 years later, married my step-father.

She has stood by him through prostate cancer (surgery was performed on the same day her mother died), through economic swirls and through his general obnoxiousness (oh, did I say that?). She is no longer a teacher as she was long ago promoted to the county coordinator for all things language arts related and she’s damn good at her job.

There are times when I wish she fit the mom outline that other people have. She’s not the queen of advice and she’s been known to coin phrases like, “you’re responsible for your own guilt.” But she also said that she’d pay 400 dollars to fly out here for 4 days for this surgery if I wanted her to, which doesn’t seem like a big deal until you realize how much money she’s loaned or given us for this wedding and how big of a financial hole she’s in. She just loves me.

She has her faults, but many of my favorite and most lasting memories from my adolescence involve me and her, sitting around the coffee table eating a gourmet feast of mac and cheese and ceasar salad while watching Friends. We carved out one hour a week that was just “us” time and it will always be something I’ll think back on fondly.

So, on this, her 52nd birthday, I raise a glass to the woman who helped me to be the person I am. She gave me strength, intelligence and perseverance and those lessons are ones that I know I never could’ve experienced and grown from without her.

Simply put, she’s my mom, and I love her. Happy birthday lady.

So, I’ve left out some bits and pieces of the story of this week, only because I was waiting to see how they panned out before I came and ranted with my jazz hands of anger.

(editor’s note: leaving anonymous comments telling me to “get over” myself is fairly unnecessary. Trust me, I’m over me. Now I want to kill you instead.)

On Sunday we got a phone call from The Fiance’s parents. A week earlier I had socialized with the MIL and listened to her talk about their upcoming trip to NOLA for Jazz Fest and we had discussed the restaurants we’d eat at and all the “fun” we were going to have (seriously, I was extremely polite and kind). Which is why it was surprising that she told us in this phone conversation that they had cancelled their trip. They decided that they wanted to do something more relaxing and so they were booking a trip to Puerto Vallarta.

After she told us about the trip they were planning, we informed them that we had booked our honeymoon and they became intrigued with the idea of Maui. They asked for our hotel information and prices, etc. This is probably where I should’ve suspected that everything was too good to be true. They weren’t coming to New Orleans and we had booked our honeymoon successfully.

On Monday, The Fiance called his dad to find out why they really weren’t coming out for Jazz Fest. He initially gave the same story, and then called back 10 minutes later with a guilty conscience. Apparently, the MIL does not feel comfortable coming out here, she does not feel welcome (weird, right?) and she doesn’t want to start any big arguments right before the wedding. And while I appreciate that on her part, I also wonder if for her, starting an argument is some sort of reflex where like, if things get going too happily she has to ruin everything.

We decided to let it go. Except that then they decided that they really liked our idea and they cancelled their trip to Puerto Vallarta and booked one to…you guessed it…Maui! They’re not staying at our hotel (it’s a Condo, did you know that they won’t even have room service or turn-down there? The HUMANITY), but for all intents and purposes, they are going on our honeymoon, just one month ahead of us.

I realize that this may not sound like a big deal, except that we will have to listen to all of her sage wisdom on Maui and all the things we have to do, shouldn’t do and can’t afford. She’s going to pre-screen my honeymoon. I’m sorry but this IS NOT OKAY. Seriously, as a parent, if your child called and told you that they had finally booked their honeymoon and were really excited would you then book a trip to the EXACT SAME PLACE one month earlier?

So then yesterday happened and we lost our flight to Maui. The MIL called today to whine to The Fiance about how she needs to find some travel insurance because woe is her, what will she do if something happens to her trip? Not one little tiny iota of sympathy for our honeymoon being fucked over by the universe. No, it’s all about how we’re stupid for booking through Expedia, it’s not cheaper and they’re going to screw us over in this whole debacle. She actually uttered something along the lines of, well, you won’t be able to afford it now, we’ll tell you all about it when we get back. You should look into Puerto Vallarta, it’s much less expensive.

It’s just a damn good thing I wasn’t on the other end of the phone because I’m pretty sure I would’ve completely lost my shit. As is, I’m still trying to figure out where I misplaced it.

She also called to talk to us about the one teeny tiny wedding thing we let her control. I once suggested that we get personalized Mardi Gras beads as wedding favors, and was met with mediocre response. She then came up with the same idea a week later and has been unwilling to let it go since. So we told her that she was welcome to buy them and we would give them out as favors, in addition to the treats we’ve already procured. Our intention was to get them personalized, you know, with our name and wedding date on them and put them on little racks so they could be grabbed on the way out of the door. We don’t really want every picture of our reception to be people with beads on, we’ve spent a lot of money to have a really nice reception, this is just not the way we want it to be remembered for all posterity.

We just got off the phone with the MIL again, and she’s ordering Champagne glass beads from somewhere in Gulfport, only, she’s not ordering them or paying for them, we’re supposed to go drive there and buy them from the store. So, she’s not buying them, they’re not what we want (according to her, the personalized and wedding ones are “so tacky” but these say “it’s a party.” She even went so far as to say that if someone gave her the personalized ones, she’d throw them away as soon as she got home), and she keeps referring to them as table decorations, which they are decidedly not.

Please, please add more shit to my growing pile. I’ll be over here, throwing it into the fan.

And while we’re on the topic of shit and doing stupid things, I have a new hatred of all things airlines because the 5 companies still flying to Hawaii are outright, douche-baggedly taking advantage of us. Our tickets were in the neighborhood of 500 a piece when we booked them on Sunday, not cheap by any means. If you look today, you’ll not find a flight under 800 dollars and the vast majority are more like 1000 a piece, and not even for direct flights. It’s just not necessary, people are still going to fly to Hawaii, you’re still going to make money, why is it that you have to be assholes?

So now we’re sitting at a coffeeshop, The Fiance is yelling at an airline’s automated voice system and I’m seriously considering the option of sedating myself for the next few days. That seems to be the only way to control the rage I have pouring out of my veins. Though the mojito I had with NOLA last night helped considerably.

And friends, this is only part 1, of at least 3 I can think of off the top of my head. It has been the worst week arguably of my adult life. And that light, the one that’s supposed to be at the end of the tunnel? It just got snuffed out.

The Fiance told me a story that is so graphic that it will be running through my head for the rest of the evening, so I decided to share that burden with all of you.

The Fiance’s brother-in-law, who is a very nice, though sometimes a little rash, was making chili on Easter (nothing says “He is risen” quite like Chili). While chopping the meat he accidentally cut the top of his finger off. Then, in a fit of rage or frustration (no one can quite explain this part), he threw his fingertip down the garbage disposal, never to be found again.

There are some other elements about how plastic surgery at the hospital offered to put a piece of his ass on his fingertip and he refused it, but frankly, the image of him shucking his own finger, throwing down the garbage disposal and then his sister picking up the knife and finishing the chili while he went to the emergency room makes me smile in a demented sort of way.

Tomorrow, March 1st, will mark the 6th anniversary of my grandmother’s death (and I should add, the 6th anniversary of the day my step-father was “cured” of cancer- he was literally in surgery two hours away when she died). Generally speaking, I’m not an overly sentimental person and I remember as a kid finding it bizarre when people are too attached to their grandparents. I mean, they weren’t their parents and they were…you know…old, but my grandmother was one of those people that sticks with you, one of those people who for better or for worse, impacts your life.

When I was young she was always the fun grandma because she was always doing something goofy. If we were playing hide-and-go-seek, she was always the one hiding in the cupboard all bent up like a pretzel. There’s a picture, which I want to find desperately now (found it, and it’s at the bottom, apparently our faces weren’t painted, I imagined that part), where all my cousins and I have our faces painted and we’re making ridiculous faces at the camera, and at first glance, you probably wouldn’t even realize that a grown woman is crouched down in the middle, making a face, too. We, her grandchildren, were the lights of her life.

She was also one of the most relentless worriers, which, I believe is where I get my anxiety from. She worried about any and everything, and sometimes shut herself out of life with her worries. She never let us eat ice because she believed it caused anemia (um, and she was a nurse), and she wouldn’t let my sister have an egg toss at the birthday party she had to supervise when I was whisked off to the hospital with a broken arm, because surely with all those eggs, someone would get salmonella.

She was probably the worst cook to ever walk the earth. Her signature dish that we came over for Friday nights to eat was called “Hot Dish.” The ingredients are ground beef, tomato paste and penne pasta. You boil the pasta, cook the meat, stir it all together and bake it in the oven for a few minutes. She’d set out the big green can of parmesan cheese on the table for anyone who wanted more flavor. On Fridays during Lent she made the most revolting casserole, which consisted of several kinds of “cream of” soups, tuna, and crushed up potato chips. It somehow was edible when Grandma made it.

My grandmother admittedly favored me over my cousins, which was an odd position to be in, but I kept the goofy childhood act a lot longer than my siblings and cousins, so we related well. And then my parents divorced and my mom couldn’t afford our house and my sister’s college tuition, so we moved in with my grandparents to save money before getting a new house. I can honestly say that it was probably the most difficult 8 months of my life living there. My grandmother had some personal space issues and she and I butted heads constantly, and looking back, it’s because we were so much the same person that we just couldn’t deal with each other. There’s almost never a day that goes by that I wish I didn’t apologize for being such a brat, and I tell my students about it because maybe they won’t say those things to their grandmothers at 14.

My grandma died on a Friday afternoon. She had had surgery earlier in the week to have part of her lung removed due to lung cancer from smoking for 50 years. She was to be released from the hospital later that day and start chemo the next week, but at some point late Thursday night there was confusion among the nurses and she did not receive a very needed bloodthinner. Her anxiety about the pain and the incision literally paralyzed her and those blood thinners were the only thing keeping her blood from turning into gelatin. So that morning when she got up to go to the bathroom, she threw a clot and died. With no warning, with only her youngest daughter there (who was 30 at the time and with her newborn son), and without saying goodbye.

When I heard the news from my aunt, I screamed and cried, because surely, that could not be true. Not MY grandmother. No, that couldn’t happen to her. But it did. And as of tomorrow, I will have lived a quarter of my life without her. I can’t even wrap my head around that fact. A quarter of my life, has been with her gone. I still half expect her to be in her house when I go over there, I still half expect her to show up at Christmas and I still, 6 years later, cry for my grandmother. Because she has a grandchild she never got to meet, who was named after her and I cannot begin to imagine how proud that would’ve made her. She has 2 great grandchildren she never got to meet either, as well a new daughter-in-law and a new son-in-law and nothing was more important to her than her family. And I cry for all of us who knew her, because she was what held us all together.

At her funeral, the church was more full than it had ever been, literally ever. The priest cried when he spoke, because my grandmother had changed his life. Women and children were everywhere, she had been an amazing labor and delivery nurse and had literally saved, and helped bring into the world, hundreds of lives. Homeless people showed up because when my grandmother retired, she couldn’t sit still, so she went to work delivering food to homeless shelters. We drove from the church 30 minutes outside of town for the burial and over 300 people came back to the church after for a lunch in her honor. People sent 10 hams, TEN hams, to my grandfather after her death as well as at least 15 pies, fruit and cheese trays and just more food than anyone could ever eat in a lifetime.

I hope that she knows that I live each day with the hope of making her proud and that I feel so incredibly blessed when people tell me how much I remind them of her. I cannot imagine a higher compliment than that.

So tomorrow, The Fiance and I will go to the place that she loved the most, a casino (she was never happier than when her whole family came to a casino) and we will play slots for Grandma, because I think she’d appreciate that kind of thing. And I will continue to live my life, and learn from her, knowing that her life, her presence in mine, has shaped me and helped me to grow up the independent young woman that I am.

Rest in peace grandma, you are more missed than you could ever possibly know.

(I promise this will be one of the two last MIL posts for a long time, then I have a Meme all lined up, and a couple of funny stories. This is just a good outlet for all of this right now, so bear with me a few more days and you will be rewarded with humor again. Unless you’re into the crazy, in which case, the run is almost over…)

So the FIL spoke to the MIL about the dinner debacle. The MIL then spoke to the Fiance about it at the dinner they had last night (which I did not attend, I had class, though I’d sooner have dissected my own thigh than voluntarily gone to that dinner). In her version of the dinner story, not only did she eat the food I prepared, she had two servings of it. Now, she did have a few shrimp (that was only after she discovered that her left over meat was mostly fat and thus not enough for dinner), but she had no black beans and no rice and she is claiming two servings.

I may be a bitch, but at least I’m not a liar.

Additionally, I am now back in the time-out corner because yesterday morning when I left I didn’t tell her “good morning.” No, I’m serious, she’s really upset about this. My reasons for not uttering those two words were many. a) I was running extremely late and literally running out the door and didn’t have time for a conversation; b) it wasn’t a good morning, what with her deciding to move out of our house because it wasn’t nice enough for her; c) I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say it without the word fucking the middle.

And it wouldn’t have mattered, she had already decided to move out before that, so it’s not like I pushed her out, but in her universe what I did, the whole not saying good morning was “extremely rude,” in fact more rude than not eating someone’s cooking in their own home (by the way, I’m testing this theory next time I stay with them).

I can’t wait to go to dinner with her tonight, that certainly won’t be awkward.