What is Up With Me, Part 3

I haven’t been posting because my writing brain is clogged by being dumped by my friend in September.  I’ve wanted to write about it while simultaneously putting it off. On the one hand, I don’t want to seem like I am soliciting sympathy because that would be gauche.  On the other hand, there’s all these things I want to say and can’t say to her since she cut off communication before I could respond.  Perhaps the biggest issue is writing about it and possibly exposing her identity. I am somewhat concerned about hurting her in a malicious way but also, if you, my friends, see me break someone’s confidence, even someone who betrayed me, you’ll think that I will do that to you. And your trust is extremely important to me.

With all that in mind, I am going to write about this break-up in an attempt to express to you what she would not allow me to express to her. I will do my best not to let her identity out of the bag.  I am not planning on being nasty nor will I attempt to drum up support for me by bringing her down. But I won’t promise to be nice. Because while I am trying to be a decent person, I am also angry.

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Stacy (not her real name, obviously) claimed in her break-up email (Seriously. An email.) that I wasn’t a good friend to her during a particularly difficult year. (She had some medical issues that kept recurring and her doctors couldn’t figure out what was going on.) She also claimed that I am too negative for her.

Now, I can see how this would turn her off. It would turn me off, too. Except that neither of these things are true. Stacy said I was not caring, sensitive or compassionate regarding her medical problems. Funny, because I recall being quite attentive to her when the problems began. But as the year went on, she rebuffed my attempts to be there for her with, “I’m fine,” or “I’m good, I’m staying focused on work.” I trusted that.  I believe that people are capable of asking for what they need. I won’t shake that belief just because Stacy wasn’t able to do that. In fact, in her break-up email (Yup. I said it again.), she admitted that even though she might have said she was fine, she wasn’t. And I was supposed to know that. Right.

In reality, if Stacy had asked me months before she made up her mind to end our friendship what my reaction was to her medical situation, she would have found out that I was concerned for her, that I felt badly and that I didn’t know what she needed. I was staying quiet about her health because I thought bringing it up would remind her of something upsetting. When Stacy said she was going “underground” to think for a while, I left her alone. I sent her a few emails that focused on some things I was dealing with because I was trying to make her laugh. I believe she thought I was needing her and that needing her when she was so unhappy was insensitive. But she never asked.

In my response email (that I am confident she deleted before reading), I told her that she sent mixed signals. But I was wrong. She told me exactly what to do – let her be. I am angry that Stacy implied I am a self-centered person based on directions she gave me on how to be a friend to her. That’s kind of messed up.

Regarding being a downer, well, I was for a while. But I think this complaint is more a reflection of her envy of my life and accompanying annoyance that I was depressed when I had it easier than she did. There. I said it. I think she was jealous of me.

Now, let’s get something clear about that statement. If say “She’s just jealous,” then that implies that I am worth jealousy, and that is arrogant. I think of it this way: jealousy is a human condition. I am guilty of envy, too. The cost of this envy has been great. How I deal with it now is I face it – I admit it to someone, usually my husband. This way, I can work through it as an emotion, not reality. I am not looking down on her envy; I am trying to call it like I see it.

Also, I am basing the accusation of jealousy on times I have shared myself and her reaction hasn’t been terribly supportive. Not necessarily cutting me down but commenting how “different” her life is.  And there was one specific conversation about where I buy my face cream that has lingered, even with her apology.

I believe, if I’m right about the envy, that it had little to do with me and more to do with a family member she had issues with (as so many of us do). And if that is the case, then I wasn’t a healthy friend for her. But that kind of realization would have been closer to the truth than the bullshit she wrote in her break-up email. (Yup. I’m still appalled she wrote an email.)

As I wrote previously, I went through a rough spot in the Fall. But Stacy didn’t know what was going on with me other than reading my blog, my Twitter stream and my Facebook updates. Now, I’m truthful in all of these communications but they can never replace a person to person conversation. And I purposely didn’t call Stacy about my issues because I didn’t want to bother her with my life – she had enough to deal with. Apparently, she read all of my “moments” and concluded I am too much of a downer for her. She even took a tweet I wrote when I really frustrated with Lillian (“I’m over motherhood.”) and put it in her goodbye letter as an example of what a negative person I am. I dig, I suppose.  What kind of person does that? It would be laughable if it weren’t so disrespectful.

A few miscellaneous things:

• Stacy had a thing about being “honest.”  My response? Honesty needn’t trump good manners or thoughtfulness.  Sometimes, Stacy would be honest at a time or in a way that was inconsiderate. I won’t miss that part of our friendship.
• I don’t think she liked my daughter. I met Stacy when L was at her worst with the tantrums, so I can get her concern. I’m glad that she didn’t tell me the truth about that.
• Because of several of L’s outbursts and Stacy’s subsequent uneasiness about L, I felt that she judged my parenting. More often than not she would say that I was being too easy on L or that she was being manipulative and I didn’t see it.  Her comments made me question my motherhood. That isn’t healthy.
• I am a competitive person. Stacy is highly driven. Her drive brought out my competitive nature and I spent a lot of time trying to be as successful as she was in a career. I asked for her help and she gave it (I am thankful for that). But I don’t need to work as hard as she does in a job. I have my own path to follow and if I am comparing myself to her, then I am not following that path. Stacy brought out something negative in me, and that isn’t her fault. But that does make her an unhealthy friend for me.

The hardest part of it all, though, is that Stacy took away my ability to communicate to her. The end of her email said, “Good luck.” No invitation to listen to my side of the story, to let me feel the same closure as she apparently felt. Communication is the one thing that makes me feel whole, healthy and alive. When she took away listening to me, she took away my power. Writing this to you will never be the same as saying it to her over the phone and getting to a place where we can say good-bye and good luck with real honesty. I know that I could get to that point if we were speaking face to face. I’m not a vindictive person, and I am not cruel.

Apparently, she doesn’t live by the same standards.

As a result of this break-up, if I walk into my gym after 9am I nervously look at women who are around 5′4″ to see if they are her, terrified we might run into each other. I have less of a reason to hang around Twitter, a social networking tool she told me about and got me started on. I wonder how I am going to get an Etsy marketing business going without her connections, which she generously shared.  I slowly go through my Obama notecards she made for me because I know once they are gone, they are gone. Once and a while, something funny happens and I think, “Stacy would think that’s hilarious.”

But I don’t feel a real hole in my life, like I would of a close friend who ended our friendship. I guess because she wasn’t much of a friend for so long, the transition was made before she wrote her email.

What Is Up With Me, Part 2

(Please note: this post is not about anything but my personal experience. If you want to have a child at 46, don’t want to have any children or you have 7 of them, that is your privilege and I applaud you. But this post is about me and what I am going through. Please: don’t take it personally.)

I got my period this month.

That’s a good thing for two people NOT trying to have a baby. But for someone who doesn’t want to make that decision final, it isn’t so good. Sort of.

This business of having or not having another child is complex. Because of emotions. If it were only up to, let’s say, the meltdown of the global economic system or how much college education will cost us in 2021, not complex. If it were solely up to how old my husband and I are and that we don’t want to be 60 when our 2nd child graduates from high school, not complex. Or if based on how much parenting in the first year of our child’s life sucked, NOT COMPLEX.

Emotions are screwing it all up. I loved being pregnant and I loved giving birth. LOVED IT! And I didn’t use any pain medication either. (Yes, I am bragging.)  I would be very happy to get pregnant and give birth again. Then hand the screaming, crying, never-sleeping infant to someone else for the year while visiting occasionally. Not sure how we would work out breastfeeding (also LOVED) but that’s a problem to be solved later.

We love our child. We love being parents. Won’t having more kids just be more of that love? We sometimes feel guilty for not giving L a brother or sister because, in many cases, siblings create a bond not found elsewhere. But to have a child just so ours will have a sibling doesn’t make much sense to us, given the factors already mentioned. Besides, one of my favorite people in the world is an Only Child and she is AWESOME!

I also have this deep, deep sadness about not having another child, like I got cheated somehow or punished for being so screwed up in my 20’s that I couldn’t manage to get married early enough to have more than one child. I know, I know…then I wouldn’t have married J and wouldn’t have had L, etc., etc., Remember, we are talking emotions here, not logic. The female desire to have children defies logic. It must, because I have been wrestling with this question for 5 years and don’t feel any more resolved about it. Just older.

Bottom line is: I don’t want to have any more children but I’m resisting.

Conflicting thoughts continue.

Meanwhile, my husband and I would like to have sex without a condom. (Please, no advice on other kinds of female birth control. I’ve read all the information and I have rejected them. I’m not going to explain why, though. Just not for me.) Sex without is better, evidenced by the number of surprise babies, right? I mean, have you ever heard a man or woman complain, “We didn’t use a condom and the sex just wasn’t that great.”?

So, if we are in our 40’s and not having any more kids, then it is time to make this lifestyle permanent, something J is willing to do. You know, take one for the team, so to speak. At our 5th anniversary dinner in 2006, I confronted J about having another child and the discussion ended in tears. (Not because we were fighting – we both felt the same way. It was the sadness.) Last weekend, almost to our 8th anniversary, I announced that I have been putting off agreeing to a vasectomy because I don’t want to make that kind of decision. I have been avoiding it and hoping that each time we have sex and don’t use a condom right away, maybe the decision will be made for me. But then I’m left worrying that I am pregnant and how upset J will be about it and how our lives will go back to the baby life that I found so hard, and how much I loved breastfeeding L. I don’t feel relieved, I feel more stressed.

Finally, I told him it was time.  “I suspect that making the hard decision will be easier than not making one at all.”

My husband went to the doctor today, got questions answered, got a pamphlet full of helpful information (“A vasectomy will not solve relationship problems.” Who knew?) and received papers to sign. My husband sat down and while we talked about his recovery, etc., he signed the papers.

“You are doing that pretty quickly,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

I then sat down in my office and he followed, laying the papers on the desk for me. “I’ll leave these here for you sign, when you are ready.”

The final decision. Once I sign those papers, we are then talking about dates for the procedure and he’s making the appointment. It is up to me. I just need to sign those papers.

Conflicted feelings ensue.

What’s Up With Me, Part 1 or “Fuck You! I AM Happy!”

Recently, someone who is no longer my friend said I was too negative for her.  (More on the “someone who is no longer my friend” part in a later blog post.)

I found this characteristic surprising. Granted, I don’t know if she was trying to say I am negative in general or lately or what because she wasn’t open to speaking directly to me about ending our friendship. I couldn’t ask questions or get clarifications. Apparently, since we hadn’t spoken in several weeks, she was reading my tweets, updates and posts and decided that I am in too negative a frame of mind right now. She can’t deal with my issues because of her issues. (Again, more on that later.)

I am taking this viewpoint to heart, and kind of agree.  I HAVE been negative, at least from August 24th to about a week ago. Bottom line, when my daughter began Kindergarten, I was incredibly lonely. So lonely, I spent most of my time sleeping, reading depressing news articles and ranting about them online and watching season 1 of Lost.  The title of the show is an appropriate word for how I felt – I described myself as lost.  L was in school, my husband was working 12-14 hour days so was never around, and all my friends were taking care of their kids who were going back to school. I spoke to no one except my child and my husband for 5 days, minus 30 minutes of her ballet class on a Thursday. I felt like I was sinking.

Normally, I reach out to people and ask for help, especially when things are of an emotional nature. This time, I felt embarrassed to ask for support. “I’m a housewife. I don’t need to work. I can do anything I want. I don’t have the right to be depressed about, of all things, free time,” was the jist of my conversation with myself. I hid in my house, I complained to my husband, I called a couple of people and didn’t reach them.  That was about it. I just sulked.

Here’s the thing, though: I trusted myself to find my way out. I know me – I wasn’t going to stay depressed forever. I just needed to go through that space in order to find what I wanted to do with my time. Writing wasn’t it – that would put me deeper into alone mode. I needed to find things where I would be around people but not a job.  And I did. I researched, called around, weighed options, and found some shit to do.

1. I am taking an art class. I have always wanted to draw and now I am learning how. I am almost done with a chair that looks like a 3-dimensional chair, for realz, and can’t wait to be done.  Also, I am around a small group of women who are enjoying themselves.

Here is a photo of my very first drawing.

2. I am taking an adult jazz dance class. I love to dance, have done it all my life. If I’m not dancing, or don’t have a regular dance outlet, you might as well encase my feet in concrete.  Not all the women are experienced, some are beginners. But they like to talk and have fun. I could take the class every night if they offered it.

3. The political group has worked itself out, I am still the Chair and it is a lot more fun. We have a big training coming up that we are all organizing together and it is keeping me busy and talking to people.

4. I will begin a volunteer stint at Planned Parenthood of North Texas tomorrow. Once a week for 4 hours with my friend Linda. Again, an opportunity to talk to people while helping out a needed non-profit. I guess we are going to deal with old charts or something. Sounds appropriately boring – I am not in it for the interesting work, I am in it to be social and make good use of my time.

So now you know. I had a really dark period there for a while and I turned it around. All by myself. Sorry for not keeping you posted on my progress, or for leaving you thinking that I am an angry person in general. I get passionate but I am a positive person. I believe that about me and I hope that now, you do, too.

Total Eclipse of Logic, Apparently

This is why I love Youtube.  It is kind of long but it is worth watching the whole thing.

My Grandmother is Dying. Maybe

My Grandma Selma has a brain tumor. She had it operated on once but they couldn’t get it all.  Now the tumor is paralyzing her on one side.  She can’t make full sentences easily, so mostly she responds with “yes” or “no.”

But I wouldn’t know because we don’t talk and we probably won’t before she dies.

I know this sounds interminably sad but it isn’t. I am telling you the end of this story (possibly) but I have lived the whole thing. I am not angry at my grandmother for cutting off communication, at least not now. At first I was really mad because I thought it meant something about my child and her family experience.

But my dad’s family has never been our family. I have fought this for years. I wanted it to be different. I wanted to have a relationship with them and say, “I triumphed over the past!” For a while, I did.  But even if I can let go of the past – or get beyond it since I wasn’t involved in the family fighting directly – that doesn’t mean that others can. My dad’s sister just couldn’t stop putting her feelings about my dad onto his kids and that caused tension. Eventually, it killed my relationship with my grandmother.

My grandmother has this philosophy that people who do well need to be cut down and people who don’t do well need a LOT of building up. And excuses about why they fail.  In this scenario: Dad has done well for himself, his sisters have not.  My grandmother, then, brags and brags about how hard her daughters work and how wonderful her other great grandchildren are while I am sitting there with one of her great grandchildren (on the did well side). After years of this strange philosophy, I got tired of it. Visiting her was only for her, and even then I wasn’t sure why I was going. If she thought her other great grandkids were better than mine, why was I there?

So I stopped visiting. I felt badly but my dad was okay with it. He understood that my grandmother wasn’t the loving kind and had heard her go on and on about his sister’s family while she never even asked about his. He got it.

Then, during a visit to me and my brother in California, my dad came to his mother’s to pick her up and bring her by to see 4 of his grandchildren. Grandma Selma answered the door and promptly told my dad that she never wanted to see nor speak to his children (that would be me, my brother and my sister) again because they never came to visit her. But she would talk to him; that was okay.  My dad replied, “Well, mother, that is your choice. But I came to town to see my grandchildren and that is where I am going right now.  I will see you another time.”  She was pretty floored, apparently.

This is why I love my dad – he stuck up for us.  It wasn’t my grandmother’s idea, I know. It was my aunt’s, who holds a grudge with my dad. And perhaps the tumor makes Selma unstable so she was easily swayed. But honestly, Grandma Selma only has two modes: communicating and cutting off communication.

Like I said: I was mad at first because I thought she was taking something away from my daughter. But Selma was never interested in her so we are really breaking even. My kid doesn’t know that this woman exists. I feel badly for my dad, who only wanted his mother to say, “You are a great son, a wonderful husband, and the best father.” Because he is all of those things. And I feel badly for my grandmother who can’t be the Matriarch she thinks she deserves to be.

Oh. And why is she “maybe” dying? Well, she is definitely in a bad place.  It all depends on when she decides to stop eating and let herself die. My aunts are, of course, heartbroken. My dad is more open about it (she’s 95 years old) but he doesn’t live with her and doesn’t have to watch her die. It is a sad situation all around.

I think about writing her a letter but my motivation isn’t clear. It wouldn’t be a nasty one because I’m not mad.  What would it say? “Hi, Grandma. Too bad you missed my kid’s life. And now you are dying. It is really a shame.”  Besides, I have no guarantee that my aunt would give it to her. Likely she’d throw it out unopened.

The word “grandmother” has an aura around it, an assumption of unconditional love and unrelenting generosity. But that is a myth. Grandmothers are people with personalities. Once we realize that, then we can stop blaming them for not living up to the myth. Grandma Selma has the right to be whatever kind of grandmother she wants to be, or at least the kind she is capable of.

I wish her peace during this time and trust that she will be surrounded by those who love her and have cared for her.

Silliness Personified

Like Craig Ferguson, love They Might Be Giants.

This is My Michael Jackson Post

That's me in my MJ-like leather jacket.

My mind can’t help but be full of Michael Jackson. His death is everywhere I hang out – mostly the internet. I’ve been reading other people’s comments on Twitter – the good, the bad and the tasteless.  And I have formed a few of my own opinions about the whole ordeal.

First: I am not mourning Michael Jackson’s death.  I was surprised by it, certainly. I feel sad for his family. But I am not emotionally effected by his passing.

Second: I am not mourning the death of Michael Jackson’s music.  His music rode the waves of fame and martyrdom over the years.  How else can his high record sales numbers be explained?  His “hit” songs were not that great, and today, pop hits are made by The Suits anyway. Doesn’t mean the songs are any good.  Jackson’s best musical years were way behind him and they were way behind me, too.

Third: Michael Jackson’s contributions to black history were hidden because of Jackson himself. Hearing that he broke down racial barriers was a surprise to me and I don’t think it is because I am unaware of recent historical African American breakthroughs. I imagine that the press touted Jackson’s contribution to breaking down racial barriers through the years, but over time talk about his important moments was overshadowed by his strange activity.

Fame’s everlasting question “But what have you done lately?” gets answered one way or another.  A smart celebrity (ie: Angelina Jolie) learns that question quickly and manages the answer. Jackson wasn’t one of those celebrities. Or perhaps he wanted it both ways – he wanted to do whatever he wanted, act however he wanted but with total forgiveness by his fans and the press.  The more his sanity was questioned, the more he blasted against the reality of fame. Meanwhile, he allowed the media and the general public to answer the question, “What have you done lately?” with the term “Wacko-Jacko.”

Fourth: I feel sad for his kids and I believe that they think he was the best dad. But he wasn’t a great father because he didn’t take care of himself.  His death was clearly due to self-induced starvation coupled with high levels of prescription medication. His death wasn’t an accident, like falling off a ladder. He didn’t have his kids in mind with these choices and I find that inexcusible. He is not martyr.

Fifth: I have respect for Jackson the Artist but none for Jackson the Person. I am good with those two worlds being separate. I will never know an famous Artist as a Person. Normally, I have respect for one while knowing the other is out of my orbit. Sometimes, I have respect for both because the Person becomes known through philanthropic activity, for example. With all I learned about Jackson the Person (multiple plastic surgeries, whitening his skin, multiple and brief marriages, close relationships with young boys, owning a pet chimp, wearing masks in public, hanging his baby over a balcony, and the list goes on) the less I respected him.

I believe he had a difficult life. His father seems to be a real ass. Being a child star is difficult – adults putting all of their dreams into him, not knowing who was telling the truth, world adulation with no one else who can relate (no wonder his best friend was Diana Ross) – and I don’t blame him for that difficulty. But as an adult, he knew what a normal reaction to all the stress was and what was absurd. Outside of the box is one thing – outside of reality is another.

Ultimately, I believe (and mind you I am not a professional, um, anything) that Michael Jackson didn’t know who he was. He was lost – all that talent but not able to connect at a human level with anyone because he couldn’t connect with himself. That is why I think he had these “close” relationships with boys (I use quotes because how emotionally close could he be with an 8 year old? And I am not accusing him of being a pedophile since he was acquitted of the charges). He was trying to get to know himself as a child  since that part of his life disappeared with his rising fame. And if he could know himself as a child, maybe he would know himself as a man.  That never came to pass, and now he is dead.

After saying all this, I could say that I’m ready to move on.

Only, I moved on from Michael Jackson a long time ago.

A Quickie

Hi. Thanks for checking out my blog.

My mom is doing much better after heart surgery. It took 4 weeks and several doctor appointments to figure out the cough she had wasn’t from her lungs but from a nerve in her vocal chords. She sounds infinitely more confident about her health now.

Unfortunately for me, I am having a bad reaction to some medication. I was planning on updating my blog this week but now I just feel like hell.

As soon as I can, I will write something new. It is going to be about my Dad and it might make you cry.

Aunt Bernadine – Our family’s oldest feminist

As you know, my Great Aunt Bernadine died last week.  (If you don’t, see this post.)  At her funeral, I learned some things about her that I wanted to share.  I don’t think I adequately, or at this point fairly, described her.  My experience of Aunt Bernadine was based mostly on what others said to me about her and my small experience of being with her.  We never spent time alone together and I didn’t get a chance to ask her questions about her life.  Now that I know more, I think it is the right thing to do to share what I learned.

• Aunt Bernadine was 94, not 92, when she died.
• She had 5 sisters and 1 brother, total of kids coming to 7!
• Bernadine, along with all of her siblings, graduated from the University of Michigan.  That would have been around 1934.
• Bernadine was married and divorced before she met my Uncle Ned.  Divorced in the 1930’s!!  Can you believe it?
• My uncle was a very nervous fellow while my aunt was much more laid back.  My cousin thinks that is why they made a good couple. Apparently her philosophy was, “Tomorrow is another day.”  I now see why my Nana had such a hard time with my aunt – my Nana was the biggest worrier I knew.  Must have really rattled her chains!  Hilarious.
• I knew this but forgot to mention it: after my Uncle Ned died, Aunt Bernadine took the QE2 (the premier cruise ship of the Cunard line) to England and then flew back on the Concord.  By herself!  Because she wanted to!

My aunt most certainly would have been one of the millions of professional women working today if she had been born later.  I don’t think she was on the front lines of feminism but rather quietly telling her daughter, who is now the epitome of the career woman in all the best ways, that she could be anything she wanted to be.  I respect my Aunt Bernadine more than I ever had.

PS: In the Jewish tradition, anyone attending a funeral can drop a bit of dirt on the lowered casket, a way of signifying that we are caring for our dead.  When my cousin dropped her little bit of dirt on top, she said with a smile, “Toodle-loo, Bernadine!” If if Aunt Bernadine was listening, I am sure she got a good chuckle out of it.

Aunt Bernadine

My great aunt is dying.  She is 92.

Aunt Bernadine is the last of my relatives in her generation, and she is not my blood relative.  She married my Nana’s brother, Uncle Ned.  My family was very close with Uncle Ned – brunch every Sunday, always holidays and birthdays together – but Aunt Bernadine wasn’t always around.  She was a bit of a recluse.  For as much as Uncle Ned was normal, Aunt Bernadine was a little on the kooky side.

Aunt Bernadine didn’t dress flamboyantly, she wasn’t into the arts or something cool like pagan rituals.  She never dispensed interesting or thoughtful advice, and she wasn’t the person I went to when I didn’t know how to talk to my parents.  Rather, she was kind of self-focused and not real loving, even to her only daughter.  My great aunt came from a family history of mental illness so even if she didn’t have a large dose of that, her family influenced how she interacted with others.  Certainly not an influence one might prefer.

But I loved her.  Yes, she was not to great to my Nana, but I came along well after all the fighting happened.  I saw this quirky, nice lady who smiled when I said hello to her and would listen to me when I had some story to tell (which was often).  I loved my Uncle Ned so I naturally loved my Aunt Bernadine.  When you’re 7, that’s just how it works.  Even as I got older and learned that she wasn’t the sweet old lady I thought she was, I didn’t care much.  Water under the bridge to me.

Once, when I was at college, Aunt Bernadine mailed me some poems she wrote.  I was touched that she thought to send them to me.  Aunt Bernadine seemed to know me as me – a writer, an artist – not just as one of her great-nieces.  I don’t know where those poems are, but I don’t think I threw them away.  In the event that I find them, they will certainly be framed.

As the last of the truly Elder generation, I worked hard for my daughter to meet Aunt Bernadine.  With L’s dancing and running around the lobby of the Assisted Living center, Aunt Bernadine would laugh or smile as best she could.  I doubt L will remember my aunt, and that makes me sad.  Sometimes I regret that I didn’t have children earlier so that my kids could enjoy as much of my family as possible (of course, who the father would have been I have no idea!).  My family, although strewn out all over the U.S., is the focus of my life.  I never thought I’d say that, but there it is.

Yes, Aunt Bernadine lived a long life.  Yes, her quality of life in the past 6 months or so hasn’t been so good.  Yes, everyone dies.  But I am taking this time (a day, maybe two) to just be really sad as we wait for her to die.  Kooky or not, Aunt Bernadine is a part of my family, and I love her.

**UPDATE**  After writing this post, I remembered that Aunt Bernadine used to say things to us that sounded like non-sequiturs but apparently were completely logical to her since what she said often made her chuckle.  I also remembered that she would end conversations with “Toodle-loo!”  We thought that was so silly.  But it made her unique.

Aunt Bernadine died tonight, March 18, around 9:30pm EST.   Toodle-loo, Aunt Bernadine.  Toodle-loo.