My sister and her husband had been trying to have a kid for years by this point. Something was broken, and there wasn’t a whole lot in the ways of hope at this point. They’d been checking into every available option, including in-vitro, etc. At family events, my sister would sneak off into the bathroom to inject herself with fertility drugs that were playing havok with her hormones and emotions. She was a wreck. They had pretty much given up on trying to have children of their own and had decided that adoption was going to be the only way to share the love they were eager to give. It was fairly heartbreaking, because I knew how bad they wanted it. But hey, adoption is wonderful also. Giving a child that would perhaps otherwise not have a chance at a caring family is just about the best thing you can do for anyone (besides strippers and cocaine).
Occasionally, a small cross section of the family would meet at my sisters house for dinner. Sometimes a board or card game to pass the time and get the competitive juices flowing. We’re pretty ruthless when it comes to games, my sister takes them pretty seriously. Hell, she even wears a shirt to them that reads “I didn’t come here to lose.” We had just eaten and my sister was pretty jazzed about a cake she had made. “Does anyone want any cake?” to no luck. I mean come on, we had just gorged, we were stuffed. Who has room for cake? She waited another 15 minutes before asking again. Still no takers. At the time, I was 300+ lbs, you think I’d consider even leaving room for cake (and before you even fucking say it, fuck you. it was meats, not sweets, that tripped my trigger) ? She waits another, what had to be only 5 minutes, and asked for the last time.
I know what you’re thinking. Here’s where shit gets crazy. She said cake three times, and now the urban legend of Cake Man is supposed to appear with his scary pie-trowel hand and force feed all of us until we explode like Mr. Creosote from MP’s Meaning of Life. Sorry to disappoint, this did not happen. What did happen was my sister basically yelling “EFF THIS, I’M GETTING SOME CAKE.” I was just more surprised that she was less interested in the game, and more interested in said cake. Moments later she came out and layed the cake on the table. Across the top in pink and blue icing, the cake read “I have AIDS and am going to die very soon. sorry about that.”
Ok, maybe that’s not exactly what it said. Or anything really that close. “I’M PREGNANT”. We all sat there for a second in a stunned silence. The only thing I remember hearing was my step-mother squeaking out a “really?”. I don’t think it was more than a few seconds before we were all crying. The games were done for the night but we were ok with that. It was a pretty great night, and I was bursting with pride for my sister (and maybe with a little cake too). I knew what they had gone through.
This was almost four years ago. Time really does fly. Since then, things steamrolled a little bit. My sister and her husband kept going and had another child after. A girl and a boy for the set, and they’re pretty awesome. Being an uncle is way better than being a dad. First and foremost because I don’t have to take them home at night and deal with the aftermath of me giving them too much sugar. They’re still pretty young at this point, so they need that extra attention. I almost can’t wait until they’re a little more self-sufficient. Almost. I think my only request currently, is that a 200% reduction in screeching would be wonderful. I have a tough time with that in particular.
I wanted to share this with you because this is a memory I cherish dearly. It’s the one that started this new, crazy journey as ‘Unc’. I’ll never forget that night, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.