We put the "fun" in dysfunctional

If you've been a reader of my blog for a number of years, you know that my family does things in their own way. I prefer to label it as "style." At one point in time I bought a very cute card that a grade school child wrote. The cover of the card said, "I wish our family would quit pretending we are normal." I haven't had the heart to use it because I just plain like it too much. My family embraces and celebrates the fact that we aren't normal.

Last night I had the urge to call my Mom. There were a number of things that I wanted to talk with her about, but my sense of urgency was a bit odd. I called cell phones, home lines, etc until finally my father answered. He let me know that Mom was "rushing Ginny to the hospital" and "it could be the end." Now, my father has a flair for the dramatic (although I was always labeled the drama queen, I must have learned it from somewhere). This tendency has gotten more pronounced with Chuckles has he's gotten older. I actually find it rather endearing and charming. However, I was a bit freaked out (understandably).

Ginny is THE matriarch. She is one of my living legends of how to approach life. She's no-nonsense, takes things as they are, and always has the tag line of "If you don't want to know, don't ask me." Its kind of a disclaimer statement for whatever is going to follow out of her mouth. She is the grandmother who taught me how to play poker, how to appreciate herb gardens, stray animals, homemade jam and quilts, and how to make a mean martini. Whenever my cousins and I were fighting she would simply say, "Hey, you two, knock it off," and you knew she meant business. Many family disputes got resolved with that one line. She was also the only relative who had enough balls to ask me how the sex was with my husband....in front of the family...at the dinner table. She wasn't doing it to embarress me. She was genuinely interested.

As Chuckles depicted the picture of doom and gloom, I immediately called my Mom who was now just getting pissed she had to keep leaving the ER to go answer her cell phone. She was worried because it looked like "death had warmed over" (never really knew what the hell that phrase meant) and they asked about advanced directives. Ok, well if that was what was so concerning I felt immediately better. 1) All hospitals are required by JCAHO to ask about advance directives upon admission, 2) Ginny's primary care doc is a gerontologist and if she isn't asking, then I'd have a bigger problem, and 3) they weren't rushing her to the ICU, then its a good sign. At this point in time I had other family members text me worried about Ginny and I was trying to give them the info.

I'll admit, I sobbed a bit once I got off the phone with Mom simply because I'm not ready for Ginny to die. Yes, she has COPD. Yes, I know its progressive. But, dammit, I'm still not ready. The woman is quick as a whip and as spicy as a pepper. As I was doing a brief Internet airfare search it also dawned on me that Pop, my grandfather, died on October 23rd just a few years back. I hate anniversaries as they have a bit of a strange psychic connection for repeating patterns.

Dad called me again about an hour later "going crazy because he hasn't heard from your mother" - also known as his wife. Mom called a bit later, quite happy. Turns out Ginny was admitted to the floor, was given some steroids, decided that the oxygen mask was obnoxious and took it off, was much more comfortable, etc. (J remarked that medical noncompliance and stubborn rebellion obviously runs in the family.)

My cousins had shown up to the hospital with items ready for a cocktail party. They brought good gin, olives, and snackies. This really isn't unusual behavior for our family. When Pop was in his last two days, the females of our clan (Ginny, aunt, mom, cousins, me) all went to lunch but brought our own bottles of wine plus met up the morning of his death to have cheap Bloody Marys, a signature thing of Pop. He used to buy cheap vodka and put it into empty expensive vodka bottles when entertaining.

However, I will say that as a medical person I do understand how a cocktail party in a hospital room seems a bit uncouth. We also had a cocktail party when Ginny pulled her back out moving pots and was admitted to the hospital. (Ok, just as I typed this I realized this is exactly what I did back in May and then last week...perhaps J is right about that stubborn rebellion.) While Ginny declined a good Bombay martini, everyone else had a nice time once she was admitted. I have to say, I was a bit jealous and sad I wasn't there. If I had the money, I would simply buy a plane ticket just to go join the hospital cocktail parties.

The "style" I'm referring to really reminds me of the Ya Ya Sisterhood book where a good Bloody Mary was a remedy at any life crisis. Yes, its dysfunctional, but its also our family and I wouldn't trade it for the world.