The last post was entirely too depressing.  Here.  Let me cheer things up.  Let’s talk about DEATH.

My aunt died.  And I’m laughing.  Not that she died - she is…was…an absolute gem in our family who will be sorely missed.  A spitfire full of self-proclaimed meanness who could make anybody laugh with this sweet-acerbic wit that you just would not believe.  And the woman could flat out tell a story.  Of course, how could you not coming from her mother, another full-on Southern spitfire named Fairy Bush.  With a name like Fairy Bush, you have to be funny, and Ms. Bush certainly lived up to that challenge, and passed her abilities on to her daughter with incredible sharpness.  Two peas in a pod, they were.

But anyway, my aunt died.  And I’m laughing.  I’m sure this is okay because this, of all my aunts, is the one who’d want me to the laugh the most.  But not at her.  She’s not the butt of the joke.  Never was, unless my father was doing the telling, but then she came back and turned it around where it was all his fault to start off with.  She was quick.  Fast as a bullet.  Sharp as a knife until Alzheimers dulled and addled her.  But she was one hell of a funny lady and always loved laughter.

So, my aunt died.  And I’m laughing.  Because I found out from my father sending me a text message.  A text message, of all things.  Here, hi, you’re aunt died, no plans yet.  It popped up while I was driving.  I only swerved a little.  This wasn’t unexpected.  She fell out of bed a couple of weeks ago and hit her head.  On blood thinners, the brain bleed was bad, the damage undoable and unlivable.  She was in hospice.  Funny.  Alzheimers and cancer and what finally got her was a bump on her head.  Guess she wasn’t as hard headed as she always proclaimed to be.  Always acted.  Always was.

My aunt died.  And I’m laughing.  Because this isn’t a hugely sudden shock.  She’s not someone I’ve seen recently, was fine, then boom, she’s gone.  She just kind of faded away, it feels like.  The last time I saw her may even have been my wedding, when the Alzheimers was really just starting to become an issue.  That’s how much she just, surprisingly, faded away.  MAYBE my wedding.  But I’m pretty sure she wasn’t in Mississippi for Thanksgiving anymore after that, and I never went to visited her.  Thirteen nieces and nephews and I’m the closest in proximity yet I could never bring myself to go down and play Russian Roulette with “Hi, do you remember who I am today?”  I’m also the youngest - the last to come along.  I was terrified she wouldn’t, so I didn’t go.  So selfish of me.  But still funny because the last time we saw her was at my wedding, and in consoling me, Hubby says, “I’ll really miss Aunt W,” and I laugh, “You never KNEW Aunt W,” and he tries with, “But I knew OF her.”  “You know her in pictures,” I say.  “But you don’t remember right now what she looked like,” I continue.  “It’ll be one of those peek in the caskets, ‘Oh THAT’S Aunt W!’ kind of moments for you.”  And later he says, “I really will miss Aunt J,” and I laugh because he’s trying so hard.  “Aunt J’s not dead.  Aunt W’s dead.  And you won’t miss her.  But I will.”

My aunt died.  And I’m laughing.  Because I’m afraid to stop.  I don’t want to cry.  How do I explain to The G who I’m crying for?  “Sweetie, your great-aunt - the one you never got to meet but who you would have loved and who would have absolutely LOVED you, you wicked little funny girl, you - that aunt.  The marvelous one whose stories other people will have to tell you because I just cannot do them justice. She died.”

See, my aunt died.  And I’m laughing.  Because I’ve been in this incredible funk all day with no real reason, and the skies have been not raining but just weeping a little all day and I’ve wondered why.  But now I know.  My heart knew what was going on hundreds of miles away.  And isn’t it funny how sometimes our moods reflect things unknowingly?  Things we don’t even know are happening but that on some level we sense, we just know, but we can’t put our finger on it until we get that call - or text message - and then it’s AHA!  That’s what was wrong today.  The universe was shifting just an iota during this transition of one of its beloved from life to death.  The world was starting to mourn while the heavens were opening just a crack to ask for the secret password.  If she didn’t know the password, she still talked her way in - of that much, I’m sure.

My aunt died.  And I am heartbroken.

I like to talk.

This is of NO surprise to anyone who has ever met me.  Seriously.  I like to talk.  A lot.  An AWFUL lot.  More than is often necessary.  In fact, most people I encounter - merely encounter - can tell you enough about me that it’s kinda verging on frightening.  Open book?  Ha!  I’m an open audio book, except with no stop, no pause, and no volume control.  Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk TALK TALK TALK TALKIETALKTALK.

So you’d think when I get in a funk like the one I’m currently in that the gates to never-ending verbal diarrhea would just burst open, right?  Right.

No.

Often, I think about finding a psychologist.  A psychiatrist.  Someone.  Someone to talk to.  Just…I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, per se.  Just someone to talk to who will listen to what I have to say and who won’t leave me feeling guilty because, hi, I’ve just made a horrible mess of that pretty white shirt with all the verbal spewage and here, let me just KEEP TALKING because it’s all about me, doncha know?

I’ve gone to “talk therapy” twice in my life.  The first time, I was in high school and deeply depressed.  The world was NOT my oyster and I was CERTAINLY not a pearl.  I was everybody’s annoying little grain of sand, and they weren’t very shy about letting me know.  Also I was running a little low on seratonin.  So I got plucked in a group therapy session with one girl who had a drug problem, one who had attempted suicide multiple times, and one who, if you asked me, should have been in the loony bin around The Bend.  I went.  I sat.  I listened.  I internally rolled my eyes.  I never talked.  My problems were nothing compared to theirs.  I was a dork, a nerd, a bit of an outcast with a few issues.  They had PROBLEMS.  My depression was largely chemical.  There’s was earned.

The second time, I started talking to the therapist - pardon me, the “Wellness Facilitator” - over the phone.  I had hit a bit of a rough patch at 22 and still in college and wanting so much out of life but being too lazy to go get it.  I talked to her for a few months before I finally met her in person.  She came to the door with bobbed black hair, a tight sweater, a leather mini-skirt, and black leather knee boots.  I immediately started looking for the whip because, hello, dominatrix.  Not that she was.  She was very nice.  But…well…we’ll just say that anytime you stop working with a “wellness facilitator” because SHE stops returning YOUR phone calls?  Yeah.  It’s not a good thing.  And that was just the tip of the boot.

So every time I consider talking to someone now, my mind immediately goes to worst case scenarios.  I’m SO gun shy.  I don’t want someone who’s going to screw my head up even further.  I just want someone to TALK to.  Someone who will sit there and let me spew all over them for an hour and then close their door and forget everything I’ve told them.  Someone who won’t tell me I’m insane or drug me up or tell me just to buck up and deal, but someone who will help me with a bit of REAL advice.  A bit of REAL encouragement.  Someone who will pull the honesty from me and not leave me feeling cheapened.  Someone who will let me tell them I’m a freak and a geek while believing with me the whole time that I’m not.

But until I overcome the fear and find someone, I will continue to shut down and have these weird moods and close myself up in my office with Very Loud Showtunes until the funk passes.

It’s been long enough since I was here that I actually FORGOT my password.  Which is even worse because I’ve had the same password here since I’ve had this domain (and, YES, I just changed it because, holy hackers, I don’t want to get hacked).

Since I really don’t know where to start:
I can say that I am working again on a new documentary that’s gotten a couple of major boosts in the past week or so. 
I can say that I can now nod my head in sympathy when other parents talk about sick kids and hospital stays (The G’s was 3 nights for pneumonia). 
I can say I’ve lost seven inches (nine if you count BOTH thighs) since the last time I wrote here. 
I can say I was there when Pat Summitt won her 1000th game on February 5. 
I can say I spend way too much time on Facebook.
I can say I have been hit again by the writing bug.
And I can say that Hubby and I have now been married five fabulous years.
I could say a lot more, but there is space to consider.  And time.  I should be working. 

There are some changes coming here.  I’m thinking of stealing Leslie‘s memoir concept.  I have a beloved aunt on her deathbed right now, and it’s put a lot of things into perspective for me, the least of which has been that I’m afraid my daughter will be left with no knowledge of my incredible family (on both sides) if I don’t put some effort into writing it down. 

So if you’re still with me, bear with me a bit longer.  I thought about leaving for a while, but I’ve been blogging since the beginning of the millennium.  Its become an old friend, even if I don’t visit it all that often.  It still feels comfortable.  And with that in mind, is it really worth leaving? 

Not just yet

So many many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea,
Was a group of dramatified ladies who were as crazy as can be,
And these ladies they lived with no other thought
Than to cause drama and chaos, you see.

Okay.  Apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.  Sometimes, I have no explanation for where these things come from.

See, a lifetime ago, I was friends with this group of ladies/women/girls/bitches/whatever you think we should all be called.  There was drama.  Lots of it.  There was laughter.  Lots of it.  There was anger.  Lots of it.  There was backstabbing.  Lots of it.  There was a soap opera.  Lots of it.  There was traveling.  Lots of it.  There was the internet.  LOTS of it.

Honestly, we made the soap opera we all followed look tame, normal, and downright boring.

We all came together in, say, ‘96 maybe?  Online, of course, as we were scattered all over the country and, for one, the globe.  And for about four or five years…well, I won’t say things were “great” because the whole group never was.  There were certainly shining moments, a lot of sharing, a lot of genuine friendship, but to say we were all beyond screwed up is giving us ALL too much credit.  I’d recount a few tales, but I really just don’t remember anymore.  Nor do I think I’d want to if I did.  I behaved horribly, they behaved horribly, we were all absolutely incorrigible, and someone should have taken away both our internet and our high school drama queen tiaras that we all walked around like we deserved above all others.

(To the ones who may or may not be reading now, stop shaking your head.  You KNOW I am right.)

In 2000, if not before, it all started imploding.  For a group of eight females, we splintered off in about as many different combinations as you can imagine.  These two would start IMing and bashing this one, then that one and another would get together and bash the first one, then the first one and another would get together and turn on someone else.  It was just simply a royal, true MESS.  But we all also purported to still be friends for the most part. 

Ha-friggen-ha.

Sometime in 2001/2002, I know I personally threw my hands up, sent an email to the whole lot of them, and said, “I’m done.  I don’t want to hear from any of you insane people again. The End.”

There was more to the story than that, but we won’t go there.

Anyhoo.

I’d email with one or two of them once every third blue moon, mostly still masking vitriol and reading between the lines to find theirs.  It wasn’t a pretty sight at all.

Then somewhere along the line, I got married and had a kid.  One of the girls moved back to her beloved LA and got a dream job.  Another settled down with a great guy and a couple of dogs.  Yet another had some eye-opening life experiences and started setting her sights on a family of her own.  And another moved to England and found the love of her life and the social life she’s always wanted.  One of them is still pretty wacky, but then, I wouldn’t expect any less.

The fact of the matter is, we’re all completely different people now than we were then.  Life happened along the way and our perspectives shift.  And today, as I was laughing at a thread some of us have started over an old picture on Facebook when I saw one of the names I’ve avoided for eight years pop up in the conversation, I started thinking.

What, really, is the point of a grudge when you no longer remember what the grudge was over in the first place? 

The New Year rang in and I wrote here for a couple of days and then the crickets set in, didn’t they? 

Yeah.  Consider yourself lucky you’ve been hearing crickets around here.  You could have been hearing what I’ve been hearing.  An average of 4-6 hours a day of mind-numbing, ear-drum-blowing, top-o-the-lungs, neighbors-calling-the-cops-about-the-happening-right-now-murder-next-door screaming.

The G has been having panic attacks, for lack of a better terms, and let me just tell you, they have been stellarly impressive.  Who knew my child had lungs like that? 

It started about three weeks ago with typical, 3-year-old monster dreams.  She’d come into our room about 4 in the morning, climb into our bed, tremble a little, and go right back to sleep.  There was no screaming, no crying, no dramatics.  Just “i wanna sleep with you” snuggle snuggle.  She was still going to bed like she has always gone to bed (yes, hate me now, but only for a brief moment) - without a fuss at all.  No tears, no excuses, no hemming or hawing or begging for another 15 minutes.  Pajamas, teeth, books, birdies, bed, sleep.  Wham bam, thankeemaam.

Then on Sunday (Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!!!!), I was taking a shower and she was watching, I don’t know, Higglytown Heroes or something?, in my bed.  I got out of the shower and found her under the covers, curled up in a fetal position, and absolutely sobbing her eyes out.  Two hours later, she calmed down enough to tell me it was monsters and she could hear stomping.  Something was stomping!  Mommy make the stomping stop!!

It was tramatic.  For all of us.  And Mama was too tired to deal with it, so, hey kid, come on and sleep in our bed tonight.  We’ll keep you safe.

That was a mistake, FYI.

The rest of the week was chock full of these two hour long “panic attacks” bad enough I at one point jokingly asked for an exorcist, only I wasn’t completely joking.  And she refused to even go IN her own bedroom, much less sleep in there, one night telling me her bed was “too fun!  It’s too silly!” in wracking sobs.  We went to the doctor to check her ears about the stomping (one loose ear tube floating around the ear canal pulled out with an ear spoon - no more complaints about the stomping), anxiety (was given the number of a child psychologist - haven’t called), and finally, reflux.

See, one night, she got upset enough that she started coughing.  And even after she went to sleep, she was still coughing.  And threw up her dinner from 4 hours earlier completely undigested.  And then dry heaved until bile started coming up.  And lightbulbs went off EVERYWHERE.  Oh, hai, didn’t this kid have reflux when she was an infant?  What if it’s back??  What if these aren’t panic attacks, but HEARTBURN that’s scaring the hell out of her?? 

So we took all of this to her pediatrician who was all, “Like, oh my god, that could explain why she had pneumonia twice in a month last year.  The reflux could have, like, ASPIRATED!  Like, DUH!”

What?  Your grandfatherly, bow-tie-wearing pediatrician doesn’t frequently give his diagnoses in valley girl speak?

Anyhoo.

Turns out in her coughing/vomiting fit the night before, he believes she aspirated some stomach acid which is now sounding like asthma.  We were sent on our merry way with an asthma inhaler, an inhaled steroid, a prescription for Zantac, and directions to give her Maalox and see if that helps.

And guess what?

She slept in her own bed last night.  Until 4, at which point she came in, climbed into our bed, trembled a little, and fell back to sleep until 8:30.

3-year-old monster dreams I can deal with.  Those won’t make me insane with worry for my child.  I can comfort those.  I can Supernanny those. 

It’s been a week of absolute hell around here, but things are looking up.  Here’s hoping for normal to return very, very soon.