This is a reprint of a Facebook post I wrote three years ago.  Teddy turned 14 on February 23rd and I struggled to write something meaningful that I hadn’t already said in the past few years. So I decided to repost two of my past entries because they still seem significant, timely, and entertaining.  I’ll post the next one tomorrow.  I hope you enjoy.  As always, thanks for reading.  

Eleven years ago YESTERDAY my water broke. Of course we called all the requisite people to let them know there would be a baby soon.

“I’m gonna win the pool” my brother-in-law stated.

“Ummm..noooo…you picked TOMORROW as the day” I replied.

“It could happen.”

It was 9am. To this day I blame him for my 15 hours of labor. I hope he enjoyed his $20.

Like any true Greek girl my biggest concern of the day was eating. The one thing I did remember from the countless books and classes was that once we got started there would be no food allowed. I should eat. Should I eat? What should I eat? They won’t let me eat! I’m starving! If my dad were around he would have said (like he always did to me and my sisters when we complained we were starving), “You girls could go three weeks without eating and you’d be fine.”  Clearly this “new age” idea that dads had an influence on daughters’ body image was not for him.

Midway through a day of nothing but boredom, Ted exclaimed with a sigh, “I’m so hungry!” I don’t think I need to explain what happened next, but unbelievably it ended with him bringing a hearty meal back to the labor room and eating it right in front of me.

The day passed with nothing happening and the hours drifting by.  They gave me pitocin and nothing happened.  I had an epidural and nothing happened. Shift-one nurse left and shift-two nurse arrived. Ted decided to risk his life again by complaining at about 4pm that he was “tired.”  One look from me and he realized that if he wanted to be alive to see his child born it was a good idea for him to just stop talking altogether.

Things finally started to happen when the second nurse left and the head of the Gestapo arrived. Third-shift nurse was terrifying. Apparently she thought that by screaming at me that baby would come out faster. When she raised her hands and they were covered in blood like some sort of horror flick she finally decided it was time to call the doctor.

“Looks like we’re going to have to do a C-section. Your hips are just too small for a baby to come through.”

Hips. Too. Small. Was I delirious?

Woo hoo! I have small hips! Can I get that in writing please?

But then the cold chill of reality hit. No, not that I was going to be cut open. But that my hips were small. INTERNALLY. I was not “big-boned.”  Which could mean only one thing about my hips EXTERNALLY: My dad was right. I really could go three weeks without eating and not starve.

Panic set in. A C-section? This was not in the plan. I had at NO POINT considered a C-section as even a possibility. My sisters’ had seven babies between them and hadn’t even needed epidurals. For crying out loud, one doctor had actually told Chris to reach over and pull her own baby out! Why did this stuff only happen to me? First braces, then glasses, now this!

I looked at Ted and shouted “They never told us what to do about a C-section!!”

“Yes they did. You just always skipped over those parts in the books and videos.”  Dear Lord, did he really just say that? This man was either the bravest or stupidest man who ever lived. I vowed right then and there to raise my new son differently. He will NOT make stupid comments when his wife is in labor or at any other time of his marriage.

It was 11:35pm. This doctor had 25 minutes to get this baby out so Bill would NOT win this pool and come out on top. Well, obviously it took longer. And I’m sure that at this point I am supposed to say that “all the bad memories of the day were wiped away.” But as you have just read, clearly they were not.

But what I will say is that he was beautiful and perfect and worth the day and every horrible and wonderful day since then. Happy birthday my dear, sweet, sarcastic, must-have-the-last-word first-born: This is the story of your birth.

Okay…maybe not silently.

If you know me, then you know my disdain for poor grammar.  I realize that makes me sound snobby.  I will even concede that there are times when I am not always perfect.  But I try, readers. I try very hard. ( I also realize that just writing a blog about grammar is going to trigger some of my journalist/writer friends who can have whole conversations about their loyalty to the Oxford comma and how to sign your name on a Christmas card).

I also have a hard time refraining from correcting others. My mom was an English teacher and it shows.  What is interesting is that while my mom was teaching me that “forte” is pronounced “fort” not “for-tay” (Yes! Unless you are referring to music, this is really how you are supposed to say it!), my dad was asking me to make him a sangwich or hangabur. I once saw a list he made where he spelled breakfast “breakface.”

I am the person other people roll their eyes behind.  I’m sorry.  I like English and writing and reading and grammar and all sorts of things to do with language. Here we go…

Language: Grammar

This topic comes up for me especially around Valentine’s Day. It is amazing to me how many grown adults say Valentime’s Day. I do not understand this. I do not understand how educated and intelligent people say things like “supposably.”  Supposably is not a word, no matter what Joey from Friends thinks. After you read this blog you may be disoriented but I guarantee you will not be DISORIENTATED. (By the way, spell check on this entry has been a nightmare).

“I should of ordered an expresso.” Actually, you SHOULD HAVE ordered an ESPRESSO…. so you DIDN’T look like a DUMBASS.  “Him and I will have the orange sherbert.” Nope. Him won’t be ordering anything I’m afraid. Especially a SHERBERT. How about a SHERBET instead? Listen, it is never ever ok to say Him and I.  Never ever ever. I don’t care what Halsey says. I mean, it’s a catchy tune, but a GRAMMATICALLY INCORRECT catchy tune. Conversely, don’t throw in an “I” just to do it. “He wanted to take Jill and I to the store.”  Nope again. I’m sorry. You don’t sound intelligent you sound like Jethro trying to fit in around Beverly Hills.

Language: Corporate Speak

This is something that has gone too far. Can we stop with the corporate speak?   It’s annoying to me and I don’t even have a job where I have to endure it every day.

Circle the wagons? Dude, you make $200K and work in the Willis Tower, you don’t even know what a wagon looks like.

You have to get your ducks in a row?  What exactly is this a reference to? Carnivals?  Are we going hunting?  Does PETA know about this?

Ping her.  This one is my favorite. I mean, come on.  Is ping that much faster to say than text? Did we really need an alternative? Aren’t you just trying to sound cool at this point?

Low hanging fruit.  This makes me imagine something low and hanging all right but it’s not fruit. I can’t even say what it is in this blog.

I STILL don’t know what “put a deck” together means. For some reason, I have this vision of Isaac and Gopher on the Lido deck shuffling cards.

Don’t tell me something isn’t in your wheelhouse.  Just tell me “I’m no good at that.”

Brick and Mortar.  Fancy fancy fancy.  I mean, really? How many of these executives know anything about actual construction? How about just saying “building.” Plus, I just confuse this with pestle and mortar.

B to B?  Back to Bed? Bed and breakfast? Who knows?

Do you know how long it took me to understand that my friends who are in high level corporate jobs were not actually operating at Sea Level? Or were working in a Sea Suite at their company?

When did bandwidth become a word for the general public and not just for the Nick your company computer guy?

Let’s think outside the box..why? What’s in the box? WHAT’S IN THE BOX?!!

Language: Regional Dialect and Laziness

Now, I realize that some mispronunciations are just regional idiosyncrasies.  I have lived in Michigan, Boston, and Chicago; and everywhere is different.  After a couple of years on the East Coast it’s very easy to pick up what I refer to as “lazy speak.”  I started leaving the “r” off of a lot of words because it was just easier. Whatevah.  Whenevah.

I never realized Michiganders had an accent until I lived in other states and people started pointing it out to me.  (I mean, let’s face it.  We are not known for our accents.  You’ve never seen a SNL game show skit about the guy with the hilarious Michigan accent.)  We are hard on our As and smoosh a lot of words together in our own lazy way. garage=grage    mirror=meer   did you=didja  clothes=cloze

In Michigan we go to the bathroom.  In Chicago they use the washroom.  We drink Faygo and get beer at the “party store.” In Boston they drink soder and get beeyah at the packie. Shockingly, you can only order a Boston Cooler at a Michigan Dairy Queen.  I dare you to find it elsewhere.  It’s Vernors pop (Yes..we say “pop”) and vanilla ice cream.  When you ask us where we’re from, we show you on our hand.  Not because we want to, but because we know you expect us to.

We all wear different things on our feet: Chicagoans wear da gym shoes on der feet. Michiganders wear tennishoes.  Bostonians whair wicked awesome sneakahs.

But the biggest difference I’ve seen is how natives give directions:

Giving directions in Michigan: 

Go down Woodward and tayka Michigan left past tha Coney on tha corner.  It’s right next tah Krogers.  It’s about 10 minutes away.

In Boston:

Take a hahd right at the rotary and go pahst the Dunkin Donuts.  Bang a right. 

In Chicago: (except I still haven’t figured this place out yet) I’m in pink:

Hi.  Can you tell me how to get to Jewel?  

The Jewels?  Sure. Take the Eisenhower east—-Okay wait.  Which one is that?  Is that 88?  Can you just tell me the numbers?  I don’t see that name on my map anywhere.   No. That’s the Reagan.  The 290 is the Eisenhower.  Take that about 5 miles.  Okay..like how long is that?  Like when do I know when to look for it?  Is that like five minutes?  No, maybe like 45 minutes? Five miles will be 45 minutes??!!  Yeah.  You gotta go through the Hillside strangler.  There’s a bottleneck.  After you get off the exit go south. Can you just tell me which way to turn?  Is that a right or a left?  I don’t understand “south.” Well the Lake is east. OK which lake? THE Lake!! Ok ok, but there are a lot of tall buildings and I can’t see THE Lake.  Well, first find the Sears Tower.   You mean the Willis Tower?

Thankfully, I have adjusted after 20 years here. There are phones with apps to tell me where to go and where to park. I get to live vicariously through my kids during their English and Reading homework.  It feels like home.

And the corporate speak? Ted uses it often in basic conversation. I find it amusing but also annoying. It just seems a bit pretentious.  But what am I going to do? Ask him to stop? I mean, it’s irritating; but quite frankly, it’s not the hill I want to die on.  🙂

*Clarkston, Michigan.  Home. 

“I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12.  Jesus, does anyone?”

                                            —–Stand by Me

Who decided that our soul mate has to be a romantic partner? Besides my sisters, I can count on one hand the women in my life that I know will be with me forever. No matter what. Time. Distance. Circumstance.  These four women are the people I consider my soul mates.  I see them as an extension of myself.  A reflection back to me of who I am; and usually the best of who I am.

Everyone has that first best friend.  If she’s still there when you’re 50, consider yourself lucky. I don’t remember actually meeting my first best friend.  She went to my church, which in the Greek community means she was basically family by that fact alone.  We grew up together. A girl with only brothers that became the fourth sister in my family and spent many a night at my house.

When you are 10 or 12, your best friend is your lifeline.  Adolescence and puberty suck, and you need a partner to help you get through it. She was that lifeline for me. We talked about boys, complained about our parents, borrowed each other’s clothes, and went on fad diets together.  We hung out in my bedroom waiting for our favorite song to come on the radio so we could record it on our cassette players.  We argued about who was going to marry Rob Lowe, put Sun-In on our hair, and listened to the same REO Speedwagon records over and over.

We took care of each other in complementary ways.  For as sheltered as I was, my upbringing was nothing compared to her protective immigrant parents.  I taught her all the things a girl who was going through adolescence should know. She taught me how to cook and clean.  Well, not really.  But she tried. She did once make an entire dinner at my apartment so I could pass it off as my own to my boyfriend at the time.

She was one of six people in the room when my mom died.

Your first best friend is like your first love.  You just never forget the details. That girl has stuck with me forever.  Soul mate material.

Coincidentally, I met another Greek girl around this same time also at church. Our grandparents are from the same village, which is a big deal in the Greek culture. I have laughed more with this girl than probably anyone else I know.  Something always seems to go awry when we are together.  When I am with her I know to buckle up because something crazy is going to happen, most of which I can’t print here.

But I don’t discount fun as a less important part of my life.  Our escapades have revolved around some of my most important and influential life events.  And she was there to experience them with me.  The formative things that happened to me before I was married, most of them involving faith and friendship, all occurred with her by my side. We have seen the best of each other and the worst.  We can share the most embarrassing things with each with no judgement.  There are occasions in my life that only she would understand because she was there.   And when someone shares such significant events with you, that is a bond that cannot ever be broken.  Definition of soul mate.

Believe it or not, I actually have some non-Greek friends, too!  On the first day of Jr. High as I was walking to class I noticed a really cute boy in the hallway.  I mean REALLY cute.  Enough so to say to a random group of girls in the classroom, “There is a completely gorgeous guy in the hallway!”   Well, a petite, talkative, extroverted girl went running to check him out and suddenly exclaimed while laughing, “THAT’S MY BROTHER!!!”  And at that point I knew we just HAD to be friends.

Her family became my family.  We spent a lot of time at her house, and hanging with her mom and dad was as normal and fun as hanging with my mom and dad. This one I put on a pedestal that she doesn’t think she belongs on, but she does.  She is always happy.  Always. She adjusts to everything with ease and never feels sorry for herself.  I have never heard her complain once.  She is the example of what your life can be like if you have a grateful and positive spirit.  She is radiant inside and out.  And years ago when I was going through a hard time, she dropped everything and left her three kids to fly across the country to take care of me.

See? Soul mate.

Although I am book smart, I am not so common sense smart.  And on that same first day of school, I realized I didn’t know how to open my locker. Luckily, a freckle-faced girl had the locker right next to mine. Instead of asking her to teach me, for the first few days I just waited for her in between every class so she could do it for me. This is how we became friends.

This one has been with me through everything.  She is the one I admit things to that I don’t even want to say out loud.  She loves me more than I love me.  She sees the best in me.  She makes me feel like I’m worth something.  She ALWAYS knows what to say.  I just feel better talking to her.  And as I struggle to impress how significant she is to me, I can only assume this is because our relationship is such a part of my survival that I can’t even write about it.  It’s like trying to write why your mom is important or why you love your children.  Words cheapen it.  All I can say is she makes me feel safe.  And isn’t that how you would describe a soul mate?

I am forever grateful for these four women.   Through the ups and downs of life, and the friendships that come and go, these girls have been a constant for me.  And I’ll be honest, there is something special and comforting to me knowing they knew my parents.  Because how can anyone really know you if they’ve never known where you come from?   These girls know ALL of me.  And even with all of that, they still love me.

Oh, and in case you were wondering…that brother? Still gorgeous.

If you have ever read The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman, you will understand what I mean when I say that my love language is “gifts.”  I’m not going to recap the whole book, but his theory is that there are five “love languages” and we all have a primary and secondary one.  If you can figure out what love language your partner speaks, you now know how to make him/her happy in the way he/she appreciates.

As I stated, my love language is gifts.  (I do not have time or space to address the fact that this could possibly make me look superficial. I choose to believe that if there is an entire theory built around gifts, this validates me.)   Unfortunately, the problem with equating the giving and receiving of gifts with love is that you are almost always disappointed. This is why I don’t get that excited about my birthday or Christmas. Because quite honestly, there is a good chance I am not going to like what you get me.  Don’t feel bad:  it’s me, not you.  My standards are just too high.  (Okay, that part might make me look superficial.)

On the other hand…sometimes certain gifts are just universally bad ideas. That necktie made completely out of rhinestones….is your wife a country singer? A professional ice skater? A “dancer?” If the answer is no to these questions, then keep looking.

What about a ruby-red slipper that holds rings and plays Somewhere Over the Rainbow? Well, does your wife have a particular fondness for the Wizard of Oz?   Is she a fortune-teller by day and needs a place to store all her rings at bedtime?  No?  Then maybe pass on this one.

If you go to Greece for a work trip and you see a door plaque that says “Welcome to Thessaloniki,” think about whether or not the recipient LIVES in Thessaloniki.  If the answer is no, then this is not a good souvenir.  Ask yourself, would I bring my cousin who live in Thessaloniki a sign that says “Welcome to Downers Grove” for his house?  No. No you wouldn’t.  Move along now.

Not that I have any experience receiving gifts like these.

Which brings me to this truth: It is rare that your significant other shares the same love language as you.  I am sorry, it is just a fact.  For example, Ted’s love language is Physical Touch. (This is NOT the same thing as sex. Otherwise I can probably guarantee that it would be EVERY man’s love language.) In the early years, oftentimes when we were walking together, if I stopped too fast he would run into me.  There were times where I would have to point out to him that our couch was a sectional, not a cozy chair-and-a-half.  Learning each other’s language took a long time to work out in our marriage.  I will say that Ted has done a tremendous job of trying to learn what I like and paying attention.  It did not start out that way, however, and occasionally he has a misstep.  But because he tries so hard, I, on occasion, allow him to invade my personal space.

When we first got married Ted worked for a jewelry chain.  He would consistently get me pretty things, but did not understand that when your love language is gifts, you like to get exactly what you want.  Yes, I know it sounds selfish and unappreciative. I can’t help it.  It is my curse.  I do not like surprises.  For example, if I say “I want plain diamond stud earrings” do not answer “I have something better in mind.” I repeat, do not say this.  Because when I open the box of large dangly clusters of flowered-shaped diamond earrings it will be hard for me to contain my disappointment.  Believe me, I know this makes me sound like a horribly unappreciative person.  But why make things complicated for yourself when I tell you EXACTLY what I want?  If you told me that you wanted a pari of Levi 501’s I would not say to you, “Don’t worry I have a better idea,”  and get you bedazzled boot-cut jeans.  Pay attention to the cues, people.

One year he got me a gorgeous sapphire ring.  I guess I should say he PAID FOR a gorgeous sapphire ring that I picked out.  But somehow he Ted-ified it by having some strange numerical inscription engraved inside that even he could barely explain.  It was the year we met + our wedding date x the years we were married + my current weight.  Not really, but I think the guy was trying to solve the equation from Good Will Hunting in there.

This might have been the same year he got me the birthday cake oozing with strawberry filling.  I don’t like fruit in my cake.  I like chocolate.  If you are married to me you might notice this.  Even my kids were like “Why did you get that?  Mom hates fruit in her cake.”  Guess who ate my birthday cake?  The person WHO LIKES FRUIT IN THEIR CAKE.   (In hindsight I am wondering if this was a “mistake” after all.)

The idea for this blog came to me when someone asked me about Christmas stockings.  Opening my stocking was the highlight of Christmas morning when I was growing up. I loved spilling out the random goodies: toothpaste, lip gloss, marbles, chocolates, all sorts of fun trinkets.  The more the better; it didn’t have to be fancy or expensive. When Ted and I got married, we started a tradition of filling each other’s stockings.  It took a while for Ted to understand how stockings worked.

I have divided the past 20 years into three separate eras:

Stage One: The “Meager and Confused” years.  If I remember correctly, there were maybe three things inside my stocking and they were the kind of gifts that should have been under the tree.  Maybe a CD and some gloves.  And they were WRAPPED.  No no no. That is not how stockings work.  I referred him to his own stocking that I had filled, overflowing with socks, coffee, travel tissues, and flashlights.

Stage Two: The “Office Depot” years.  Quantity went up,  but quality went down.   This was when he would get all my stuffers from, you guessed it, Office Depot. This is not a joke.  I must have asked for a paper clip one day and he never forgot.  I grew to dread his Christmas Eve jaunt to the local office supply store.  This finally ended when I couldn’t possibly need anymore rubber bands and post-it notes.  I actually think this was one of the main factors for me to quit working;  it was the only way I could think of to get him to stop getting me office supplies.  Why, you ask, didn’t he just look inside his own stocking the first year, the second year, or even the THIRD YEAR and realize that’s how you fill a stocking?  I don’t know, readers.  I don’t know.  It is a question I have asked myself many times. If you find out please let me know.  I don’t know why it took so many years of guidance.

However, now I will say that we have arrived at Stage Three: The “Fruitful Years.”   In fact, I think he does a better job filling my stocking than I do filling his.  There is a great assortment of things inside and I am always impressed and happy to open it on Christmas morning.

Look, I’m not going to get into the entire theory of love languages.  If you’re interested read the book.  But I will tell you that it is rare that you are lucky enough to find someone who has the same one as you. Which means until the two of you learn to speak each other’s language, don’t be surprised if you are presented with a God-awful strawberry-filled cake while he is trying to hug you from behind as you brush your teeth.

Not that that ever happened to me.

Above left: Dorothy’s slipper that plays Somewhere Over The Rainbow and holds rings.  Not a great choice for a person who is lukewarm about The Wizard of Oz.

Above right: The infamous jeweled tie.  Ted says he was talked into this by a vendor at a craft fair.  I believe him.

Below: This was my Mother’s Day gift one year.  As you can see from the picture above, this is a giant check a la Publisher’s Clearing House.  Because just what you want when you are a stay-at-home mom is to be reminded how much you could be getting paid if you were working.  Side note about me...If I don’t like a gift from Ted I will immediately ask how much it was to see how mad I should be.  This fake check made me very, very mad.

Tomorrow my mom will have been gone 25 years.  I have officially been without her in my life longer than I was with her.  Which is weird.  And sad.  And sometimes it’s just nothing.

There are times when I can’t really remember what she was like in the everyday sense.  I have an image of her sashaying into a room, running a hand through her auburn hair and smiling as if she owned the room.  And she did.

She had what we kids called the “Dody strut.” We would tease her about the way she’d walk; as if she were on a runway, head held high, working the room.

I was in my freshman year of college when she was diagnosed with colon cancer.  She was 53. At the time she was diagnosed the doctors said she had a few months to live.  She survived for six more years due to sheer willpower.  At least that’s what I believe.  She fought that disease with her strength and faith until her last dying day.  By the time she passed away that tumor was literally growing outside of her body.

She complained once to her doctor, asking him why she had to go through chemo and radiation, countless surgeries and mildly succesful experimental treatments, more so than other patients it seemed to her.  He answered her point-blank, “Because my other patients are dead.”  She didn’t complain again.

To be able to be positive and feel lucky while going through such suffering is a gift.  And she had it.  She made cancer look easy.  She ingrained that idea so much into the four of us it was difficult to accept she was actually sick. When you are in the midst of an illness it is hard to see it clearly.  My mom had been so strong for so long that near the end none of us realized it WAS the end. And when your mom tells you she’s going to be okay, you believe her; it doesn’t matter how old you are.  It’s still your mom and you just believe her.  When she went on hospice I was more in shock than you should be when your mom has been slowly dying for six years.  But it’s hard to see the truth so close up.

Here is the truth I do know:

She was competitive.  Like, annoyingly competitive.  Like, let’s-check-the-dictionary-and-then-the-official-rules-to-the-game-so-we-can-prove-that-I-am-right-and-won-the-game sort of competitive.  She would have loved Google.

She had a great sense of humor.  Not only did she appreciate the humor of someone else, she could be funny herself, which wasn’t easy when you were married to someone as quick-witted as my dad.

She spoke her mind without worrying about the consequences.  She would stand up for what she believed in even if it wasn’t the popular thing to do.  She didn’t go along with the crowd.

She took 45 minutes to tell a three-minute story.  Even now when family members start to digress or give too many details you are interrupted with a terse, “Okay, Dody” and you immediately know to move on. She dominated the conversation with her stories.

She liked to be the first one to get the new gadget, but she was also cheap.  Which meant we had the first “car phone,” but weren’t allowed to use it.  (I do remember the one “emergency”: We called to ask if we could pick up a pizza on the way home).

After she would go grocery shopping she would come home and cross-check the receipt and the food and make sure she got everything she paid for.

Sometimes we would run out of milk and then she would “make milk” for us.  Which was instant dry milk powder that you mixed with water that ended up being a lumpy warm cloudy substance.  It was disgusting and my memories of this have made me wonder why she didn’t just buy more milk on a weekly basis.

She was a terrible cook.  I don’t know how she missed the “Greek mom” cooking gene but she did.  Everything was dry and overcooked, just like my dad liked it.

She was the first of her generation of Greek women to go to college.  When she applied to Michigan State University she noticed the brochure included pictures of co-eds frolicking on campus playing tennis.  At the end of her application the last question asked “Is there anything else you think we should know about you?”  “Yes,” she answered worried, “I do not play tennis.”

She was smart.  And she expected us to be smart.  And not just be smart but to be the smartest.  She was hard on me and expected me to succeed.  I once argued with her that she should be happy I wasn’t doing drugs or sneaking out like other kids.  “I EXPECT you to not do all of those things.  You aren’t getting praise for that,” she retorted.  And that was that.

She was creative with ideas and great at execution.  She could make a seven layer Jell-O, bake and decorate an R2-D2 cake, sew a bridesmaid gown and wallpaper the bathroom, all at the same time and usually at the 11th hour.

She could iron a shirt like nobody’s business.  She would stack those dress shirts of my  dads and work all day on the sleeves, the collar, the front and the back.

She liked to correct your grammar.  And she did it often.  Hers was impeccable.

She was the life of the party.

I remember when she died thinking “I will never truly be happy again.”  And in some ways that was an exaggeration, and in some ways it was true.  Somehow it was a loss of hope, or naiveté, or this sudden worldliness that was on my shoulders that I didn’t ask for and didn’t want.  How can you ever be truly content without your mother?  All the fun was gone.

All through her illness she would tell us that she was going to be okay. In fact, a day or so before she slipped away she said to me, “What are you worried about? I’m going to be okay.” Looking back, though, her definition of okay was different from ours.

I was there when she died; and the look of peace on her face told me that, yes, she was going to be okay.  I’m just not sure about the rest of us.