Requiem for a dream?

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross described seven stages of grief. I would say that I went through a grieving process the "death" of my Italy dream. I'm not sure if I'm ready to move on yet, but I definitely feel less like I'm at an Irish wake if you catch my meaning and I'm sure you do.

The seven (some list five) stages of grief go like this: Shock or Disbelief, Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Guilt, Depression, Acceptance and Hope.

1. Shock or Disbelief. When I opened the email from my aunt, my breath literally began to come in little pants, and my mouth went dry as my heart banged away in my chest. I don't think I've ever experienced a more palpably physical shock from just reading something.
   
2. Denial. I remember thinking it was like a mistranslation, or something a friend wrote for them in English. That was before I got the letter directly from my aunt, in all its Italianate melodramatic glory.
   
3. Anger. Denise got angry for me, as I recall, and then I got mad at her for rushing me through the Seven Stages when I had just settled into Denial...
   
4. Bargaining. I wrote perhaps the best off-the-cuff composition I've ever written in Italian. straight through from beginning to end without recourse to dictionary or conjugation lists. I gave it my all, though I held back from reminding her what our branch of the family did for their branch of the family after the war.
   
5. Guilt. I blamed myself, beyond what was reasonable, for the misunderstanding. I chalked it up to cultural differences, my own assholishness, anythibng other than a cranky old aunt who more than once had the ovaries to suggest we weren't really related.
   
6. Depression. And many bottles of wine.
   
7. Acceptance and Hope. Am I there yet? I don't really know. I still have pangs when I read Italian, and I'm still not comfortable writing more than a few words in the language. I blame Berlusconi for Totti's injury and my aunt for Berlusconi.
   

In short, I'm bitter at a whole nation of fifty million because of a disagreement with relatives. That is, pretty much, what passes for Acceptance in my family, and I'm OK with it. For now.