Part 1, Christmas: Our Family

Christmas is my favorite time of the year. Not because of the presents or the rusted, fake Christmas tree that stood tall in our living room, but because it was the one time of the year that our family would all come together. We’d sit down at the big dining room table (that as kids we weren’t allowed to eat at unless it was a special event) and share a meal together. When I was young, it was before about half of my aunts and uncles had gotten married, so we could still reasonably fit everyone at the same table.

There was no “kids” table in our house. At least not in the traditional sense. A lot of times my uncles would eat in the kitchen to avoid the calamity of politics, music and art talks coming from the women of the family. There was one year that one of my aunts even launched a plate of food in protest to some topic. I can’t remember if it was Aunt Laura or Aunt Kathy that did it, but it really could be either of them. Something that I’ve always loved about the Pryzgodas is that they are a passionate bunch. When someone in my family believes in something, be it an idea or theology, they will argue it to the end with all the passion and righteousness of a stereotypical evangelist.

The disagreements were not always about religion, but ranged from philosophy to what order you’re supposed to use the dinner forks in. It was glorious. Around Christmas, our house was filled with laughter and pointless arguments. I always felt a little bad for the boyfriends or girlfriends that were dragged along for Christmas festivities. Some of them would sit stock still, staring with wide eyes at the insanity that was our family. Others embraced it and became part of the chaos. Those are the ones that I now call aunts and uncles.

Like Uncle Steve. My first encounter with Uncle Steve, aside from the pleasantries of initially meeting him, took place at 6 AM on Christmas morning. Sam was sitting diligently by the pile of presents from Santa, waiting for Mom to get up and I had gone into the kitchen to make Mom a cup of coffee. As an aside, my mother would pretend she was sleeping on Christmas morning until one of us delivered a cup of coffee to her. Then she would begrudgingly get up and go downstairs, with a small hidden smile, and present opening time began. I found out about two weeks ago that she had been “faking it” my entire young life. Go, Mom.

Anyway, I walked into the kitchen and I saw Steve leaning into our refrigerator, bare foot with a t-shirt and pajama pants on. There was a pot of coffee already brewing and I stood staring a moment at the stranger before he leaned out of the fridge. He had a plate of left overs in one hand and was taking a bite out of a whole kielbasa. Without missing a beat after spotting me staring at him, Steve pulled the kielbasa away from his face and offered it toward me, “Want some?”

He was definitely part of the family.

It was PINK!

This is another one of those “Sam was sick” stories. It was a normal night in the Cleland/Pryzgoda household. Our mother had decided during the divorce that she was going to keep our father’s last name. She said she didn’t want a different last name than her children. I think that gesture speaks droves about our mom.

Anyway, normal night, I think it was Friday. Sam had been sick all week, and at this time we were sharing a room and bunk beds so while she was upstairs in bed, I was avoiding the room. As I mentioned, we rarely could agree on what TV show to watch and at that point Mom had set up a TV and VCR to watch in our room while Sam was stuck in bed. Needless to say, when she was sick I always lost the argument of what we were going to watch. So, tonight I was downstairs with Grandma and Grandpa watching Fawlty Towers rather than bothering with the upstairs television at all.

Earlier in the evening, Grandpa had come home with a platter of shrimp cocktail. Sam’s favorite. Sam LOVED shrimp. It didn’t particularly matter what form it was in. If it was shrimp, Sam loved it… so obviously being presented with an entire platter of shrimp sent her into a euphoria of crustacean joy. She ate the whole platter pretty much by herself. After that, she wandered into the living room with her heart blanket and passed out on the love seat.

We were about halfway through an episode of that zany British show, giggling at Basil’s antics, before Sam appeared at the base of the stairs. She had her heart blanket clung to her chest and it was the first time I’d ever seen anyone look GREEN. She stood there a moment in silence as the three of us slowly turned our attention to Sam.

Grandma finally spoke up, “Honey, are you feeling ok?”

Sam shook her head and when she opened her mouth, no words came out. Instead a steady pink faucet of chum projected in an arch across the family room, even going so far as to cross my line of sight to the television. Not only was the arch of refuse bright pink, but the sheer smell of dead fish and bile easily could have turned the most stalwart man’s stomach. So, weird color, terrible smell and it just went on. She puked in one steady heave for, I swear, thirty seconds. It just kept coming until it began forming a chunky pile about three feet in front of my sister.

The monstrosity of a moment finally drew to an end and my sister was again standing in silence, pink goo dribbling down her chin and tears in her eyes. We all sat in silence, staring at Sam. It was our Grandfather who finally spoke up, “You feel better now, sweetheart?”

Sam bobbed her head and he stood to carry her upstairs to clean up and put her in bed, leaving Grandma and I still in a stunned and disgusted silence. We both covered our noses and stood to begin cleaning up the mess.

There was a massive pink stain on our family room carpet up until the day we actually moved out. Like a disgusting testament to the capability of the human body and will of a little girl.

The "Accident"

I’m going to start these stories way back at the very beginning.

Samantha was an accident. I use the term “accident” loosely as our mother says it was a welcome surprise, but at the time we all thought me ever having a sibling was an utter impossibility. At three years old I was completely ok with being the center of my parents’ universe. Little did I know what the future had in store.

After my mother had me, the doctor’s told her that if she were to try to have another child it would kill her. Her blood was too thin, her uterus too damaged (yeah, I totally took a machete to it on my way out) and her body too weak. So, my mother decided to have her “tubes tied.” She went begrudgingly through the procedure and it nearly broke her heart.

You see, our mom grew up in a family of nine children. I still can’t even fathom Grandma popping out nine bouncing babies. In this day and age it just seems utterly unfeasible. Anyway, to our mother, family was life and she was devastated that I would never get to experience the love of a sibling. Our mom had this thought in her head that every kid should have a brother or sister, because that way if Dad and Mom died we’d still have each other. Morbid, right?

Well, it turns out there was a bit of mal-practice at play. While our mother supposedly underwent surgery, it seemed that they forgot to actually do the procedure. Mom was sent home under the belief that everything in her gut was tied up in a neat little bow and since she had a brand new baby girl to go home with, the depression of becoming barren was pushed aside.

A few years go by and our mom gets a terrible flu. It’s so strange though as it only seems to come up in the morning and her feet have started to ache more and more. So Mom goes to the doctor and they run all sorts of tests. I think she saw three doctors before one finally said, “Well, let’s try a pregnancy test just in case.” To which our Mom (God love her) refused until the third visit. Low and behold, Mom was pregnant.

One of my earliest memories is actually when my mother told me the news. I was unhappy. In fact, it was the end of my world as I knew it. That was a lot for a three year old to handle. Mom of course made it out to be this wonderful thing and someone I could play with when I was bored. Someone to love no matter what and love me no matter what… but I knew better!

I was determined that this new thing was only coming into the world because God hated me. Obviously, that’s the only thing that could be true. God hated me and I was going to be cast aside and ignored. I had seen Lady and the Tramp! I knew how these things worked! I was going to be bouncing up and down on the stairs and Daddy would walk by me with a tray full of baby bottles and I wouldn’t even exist anymore!

I actually wasn’t too far off at first. Samantha was the talk of the town. Every single conversation amidst friends and family was talking about the new baby and what a miracle she was and how lucky I was to have a new sister on the way! Was I bitter? Yes. Incredibly.

Our uncle Tommy (the youngest of our mother’s nine siblings) was the only one that seemed to even notice how I felt. During the hubbub of Samantha’s coming into the world, he took me on little adventures and talked to me like I was the only person that mattered. He and his girlfriend Kirsten (now our aunt) helped me cope with the idea of sharing anything with a new person.

If not for their love and attention who knows how bitter I would have been.

My mom went into the hospital early in case of complications and I was carted between relatives until the day came that Samantha was born into the world. Her face was squished in and her head was the shape of an egg. Everyone thought she was so beautiful. I didn’t get it.