Taken For Granted

I really thought my first post of 2010 would be something lighthearted and fun- maybe an entry about Jason's first time on snow skis or a quip about some cute thing one of the girls did or said. I never thought my first post of the new year would be anxious and reminiscent.

I'm the product of the typical American family, by which I mean that I am lucky enough to have four parents- two biological and two of the step variety. Though step-parents often get a bad rap, I'm pretty lucky in that regard.

My stepdad, Steve, came into my life when I was 13 years old. At the time, I thought it was pretty cool that he was a professor and people called him "Dr. Wheeler." I really thought it was neat when he took us to work to see all of the interesting science stuff he had laying around (fetal pigs, giant frogs, skeletons, etc.), and I loved it when Steve's students called out to him or asked questions while we were there- since we were with him, it felt like we were afforded extra special status, too.

Although we had the typical growing pains of any blended family, Steve tried really hard to make us one whole family (I'll never forget being scolded by Steve's mom for licking my fingers while eating a messy dessert. Steve's response was to slurp and lick each of his fingers defiantly, making me feel instant kinship). When I think back on the many rollerblading trips, outings to the racquetball court and countless camping expeditions, I really have to give him credit. Though he'd already braved the teenage years with his own daughters, he never shied away from having to participate in the terrible teen years with my brother and I. He gamely shouldered the responsibility of being a full-time dad, and he participated 100%. Even at times when my own father was not there, Steve was always at the football games, dance competitions, UIL events and award ceremonies. Steve even attended events for my highschool boyfriend and could always be counted on to stay in the loop and cheer from the sidelines.

Steve was there for proms (taking hundreds of pictures), driving lessons (completely decked out in a mock neck brace when he taught me to drive a standard), scholarship applications (proofreading) and most of the other "fun" activities from my teen years. He encouraged me to take college classes while I was still in high school, he encouraged me to go to Germany as part of a summer exchange, he encouraged me in every single thing I ever did-always.

He was also there every night when I got home from work. If you've ever met Steve, you probably would not describe him as a talker. Lucky for him, the rest of our family are talkers! Though I'm sure there were nights he would rather have poked himself in the eye than talk, Steve was always willing to listen to me. He sat in his big blue recliner, and I sat in the floral rocking chair (now re-covered and sitting in MY living room), and we talked. We talked about science and philosophy, school, current events and people, my future and my brother, family and a hundred other subjects. Steve is great to talk to, and when he says something, it is always well thought out and usually sage.

Steve was there when I went to college, and he hugged both my mom and I as we cried when it was time for them to leave me at the door, and he was there when I moved (and when I moved again and again and again). He was there when I got married (twice), there when I bought my first house, he was there when I was hospitalized during my first pregnancy, and he was there when Caitlyn was born. He's been there to play with all the kids, and my life came full circle when he took my girls to work with him to show them all of the interesting science stuff.

Steve is ALWAYS there. For a long time, I thought he was mostly there because my mom was there. But, as I got older, I realized Steve was there for me too, and even if my mom were not, he would still have been at all of those wonderful milestones in my life.

Oh sure. There were rough spots. I am, after all, human, and Steve is not(in spite of all the good I've just shared) perfect. We clashed at times. He got on my nerves, and I got on his. I rolled my eyes, Steve doled out "the LOOK." Those who know Steve, who have ever crossed Steve, know the Look. Sometimes accompanied by a huffy exhalation, the Look is given when you are sitting in Steve's spot, when you don't offer to bring in groceries, when you bring your giant dog to visit or some other similar offense. But, here's the thing about Steve- while he might sulk or Look all day long, he never, ever says anything ugly or hateful. He rarely makes snide comments, and I could count on one hand the times I've heard him make a derogatory comment about someone. Though the Look might hurt your feelings, or bruise your spirit temporarily, Steve doesn't leave hurtful words ringing in your heart long after the offense is past.

And here's the other thing about Steve- he can't stand to let hurt feelings last. I vividly remember being in the 9th grade. Steve and I had some argument one morning before I left for school, about what I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is that during lunchtime, amid a sea of adolescent noise and chaos, I spotted Steve from across the cafeteria. He'd driven 30 minutes from work to come see me, to apologize for our quarrel, to make it right, in a move that is just SO Steve. When you are uncertain or anxious or hurting, Steve has big, warm hands that just knead the hurt and worry away. He gives great, supportive hugs, he squeezes your shoulders and you just know it will all be ok.

And now Steve is sick. He has some stupid, serious disease, and quite frankly, it pisses me off. As he put it, "it's a dirty trick." He is being poked and prodded and worked up and dialysized and oxygenated and intensively cared for, and it's rotten. Steve has always been so solid and so stable (certainly more so than most people I know), and now he is sick.

His road to recovery is going to be long and tough, but I know that if anyone can rise above a rare blood disorder, it is Steve. I know that if anyone is stubborn enough to insist that he get better, it is my mom. They make a good team, in all things, and in fighting off a gloomy diagnosis, I think they're well-matched. But my heart aches with worry and anxiety. I've always taken Steve for granted, that he is there and that he will continue to be there. And I'm worried that I didn't say "I love you" enough or "Thank you" enough. I worry that he doesn't know just how much he means to us and how much we need him to be ok.

So, Steve, even if you cannot read this right now, I'm putting it out there. We love you. We need you and your hugs and your advice and your understanding. Hell, we even need the Look sometimes.