Dependence Day

Fourth of July always finds me with my family. As a group of four people whose lives have always revolved around the military, the patriotic theme of the fourth always resonates with us. The Fourth means charcoal-grilled hamburgers, my dad smelling like the grill's thick smoke. It means beer, and killing time until the sun finally goes down. It means my little brother Chase and I running around like idiots, lighting fireworks and applauding loudest and longest for the most disappointing ones. It means Mom and Dad and Sammy, our Golden Retriever, sitting on the porch, watching us making fools of ourselves, warning against the perils of firecrackers ("Not so close to the house! Watch your fingers! Throw some water on that! Don't point those at each other!") in their good-natured way, while they remember the days they had to light the wicks for us.

This year, nothing was different. Except that my Billy was there with us. He cheered for the mediocre fireworks, he twirled sparklers with us. He fit right in.

Mmmm....Sparklers! And Daddy makes an appearance in the background. Like Bigfoot, but way cuter.

Me and my "Little" brother.

Not only is our love incredible, but it's also patriotic!

With Mom behind the camera (hence her noticeable absence in the pictures), we giggled our way through an evening of cheap fireworks sold at one of the many makeshift vendors stationed all around our fair town. The night was incredible.

But, funny that we were celebrating Independence, when that night reminded me of how much I need those people, how much I depend on them. All of them have made arrangements to sit in the waiting room while my doctor digs inside me and rids me of my pesky cysts. They will all help take care of me during my probably brief, but certainly painful, recovery, even though I hate to admit that I need anyone. And I know them: They won't ask questions, they won't begrudge my helplessness. They'll help me for no other reason than because they love me. Pure and simple.

My surgery is a one-day thing. No overnight stays, no lengthy rehab or anything. A simple procedure that will allow me to leave the hospital with nary a stitch hours after being admitted. The doctor assures me that she will glue my incisions back together rather than stitch them to avoid scarring, but my recovery will be a number of days. And these are the people I've counted on my whole life, with one new addition in the form of a handsome six-foot-four man that I never imagined I'd be fortunate enough to find. And they will all be there for me.

Sure, cysts, and their surgical removal, suck. But look at how fucking lucky I am.