I Have a Very Kind and Loving and Much Younger Sister

A couple of days ago, I arrived at my much much younger sister’s home unannounced and uninvited. I do this from time to time—especially if, as in this case, I haven’t seen her in over a month. And, lest you think me rude, I came bearing gifts: a box of Brazilian chocolates with little pieces of banana embedded inside (they keep your mouth happy for hours afterward), and a box of Reese’s-flavored Oreos.

That last gift may sound odd. After all, my sister has written the definitive cookie cookbook—The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies (available now on Amazon)—but it’s our thing. Whenever I find a new Oreo flavor, I bring it to her, and together we make the definitive decision about whether it deserves a spot in the pantheon.

My much younger sister was just leaving the house when I showed up. She could easily have given me the stink eye and said, “Great, you just ruined my plans to escape to Paper Plane coffee shop to get some writing done.” But she didn’t. As I said, she’s the kind of sister who is loving and kind.

We walked inside, weaving between greetings from Norman Bates, her enthusiastic 60-pound puppy, and disdainful glares from her two cats, Clyde and Calvin. She noticed I was limping as I lowered myself uncomfortably onto one of her kitchen stools. I explained that since returning from Brazil I’d been suffering from sciatica, with semi-predictable, extraordinarily painful cramps in my left buttock.

As she broke open the Oreos, she asked all the right questions:
– When did this begin? (On the walk from our airplane in Miami to customs and border control.)
– What was I doing to relieve the pain? (Naproxen and McKenzie Method exercises.)
– Had I called the doctor? (Yes, I had an appointment with my physiatrist next week.)

The conversation paused while we tested Oreo’s newest flavor. (Two thumbs up, although we split on whether they should be dunked in plain milk or Fairlife Chocolate.) Then she said, “I’ve got a person. Her name is Sharon Miamiga. I’ll make you an appointment. You’ll feel totally different afterward.”

Two days later, I found myself sitting in the entryway of a late-nineteenth-century home-turned-medical practice, waiting for Ms. Miamiga to see me. The pain had only escalated. She greeted me warmly and ushered me into what was likely once the parlor. After a few preliminary questions and tests, she invited me to lie on the treatment table.

As she began to work the muscles of my lower back with acupressure, she asked when the trouble had started. I told her about my long flight home from Brazil, but also that the pain hadn’t appeared until I stumbled at border control when confronted by a portrait of the Great Leader.

She nodded. “Sometimes long flights can exacerbate incipient conditions.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, but I’ve taken this flight plenty of times and it never happened before.”

She pressed further: “When else do the attacks happen?”

“Well, the other day I was at the gym on the Stairmaster. Normally it doesn’t trigger attacks, but I made a mistake. I started my workout right as our Commander-in-Tweet was giving his address to the UN. Every TV was filled with his image—and worse, closed captioning. Despite my best efforts to ignore him, I heard him lecturing the UN on how immigration was ruining countries, how climate change was a con job, how he had solved all the world’s wars, and how Christianity was the most persecuted religion on earth. Finally, I had too much. I stepped off the machine, and my left cheek seized so badly I could barely walk.”

Shirin, now focused on my hamstrings, asked, “Any other times?”

“Yes. The other day I was at my desk when alerts popped up about Captain Combover’s big news conference. He claimed acetaminophen was a major cause of autism. It was horrifying—he couldn’t even pronounce the drug properly. The studies he cited were about correlation, not causation. By that logic, you could say pickles cause autism. Many pregnant women eat pickles, after all. Major studies around the world have debunked this link, but instead of funding real autism research, billions will now go toward nonsense that financially benefits RFK Jr. and Dr. Oz. By the time I got up from my desk, my buttock was spasming so badly I had to sit back down. .”

She started to massage my stomach to stimulate my lymph system. “And?”

“Well, on the drive here I made the mistake of listening to CNN. Hair Force One was announcing his new executive order on domestic terrorism. But it wasn’t about domestic terrorism. If it were, it would have focused on ultra-right-wing nationalist groups—the very ones the FBI (back when it wasn’t run by presidential toadies) identified as the chief domestic threat. Instead, it targeted Black Lives Matter, Antifa, and so-called George Soros projects. This wasn’t about terrorism. It was about suppressing opposition. And then, as if that weren’t enough, the report was followed by news that Secretary of War Hegseth had convened unprecedented secret meetings with all his generals and admirals. By the time I parked, I could hardly get out of my car.”

As she worked the rigid muscles of my neck, Sharon said, “Hmm. I think I know what the problem is.”

On my way home, I called my much younger, extraordinarily kind sister (whose cookbook The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies is also available at Barnes & Noble) to thank her for sending me to Shirin Irani.

She asked, “Did it help?”

“Yes. I feel much better. And she thinks she discovered the source of my problem.”

Curious, my sister said, “What does she think is causing it?”

Smiling, I replied, “She says Donald Trump is a pain in my ass.”