Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, February 24, 2006
Bill Murray came back a few nights ago. He came to my compartment and I made him tofu tacos. He liked them. He liked how I put the cheese in the shell before the tofu because it made the cheese all melty on the shell. Which is why I make tacos that way. It just seems obvious to me and I never understand why people always put the cheese on top of tacos. I think I said pretty much that exact thing to Bill and he felt it was symptomatic of the decay of and decline of creativity, everything's prepackaged or ready to assemble and people don't bother to think about the actual best way to do something. He liked that I used real cheese instead of soy cheese. I told him sometimes I use soy cheese and when I was vegan I didn't bother with soy cheese because it's gross and not cheese at all and that's finally why I didn't make it as a vegan because I missed real cheese. He seemed to understand and approve. He stood and looked out my living room window drinking a bottle of Vernor's for a really long time. The forward momentum in this dream is that it's the first time Bill appeared somewhere I recognized. Not only did I recognize the location, it was my own compartment. Surely that Means Something. After dreams set in unrecognized locations, this one was in my apartment. Bill was in my compartment. Having tofu tacos. Oh, and the cheese thing has got to be pulled from Broken Flowers. I think that's good. Something that's really just more of a memory from one of Bill's movies as opposed to some weirdo emotional concoction I've literally dreamt up makes me feel better about my psyche. I'm trying to think of this as a break through and maybe soon I'll dream about something or someone other than Bill Murray.
Anyway, Bill was really depressed and he just kept standing there looking out the window into space. It was one of those moments when the silence wasn't uncomfortable, but I was wishing I was a wiser person better at saying the exact right thing without having it come out like a smarmy platitude. But I didn't know what to say and I knew it didn't really matter because Bill just wanted silence and really, so did I.
Then he was taking a bath. A really, really hot bath in my bathroom. No. Not sexy hot. Hot hot. Temperature hot. My entire compartment was filled with steam. The windows were fogged. I couldn't see anything. Furry Creature meowed and I tried to follow the sound of his meow to find him. I'd call him, he'd meow, and he'd be farther away. I was panicking because my compartment's not that big but Furry Creature sounded like he was getting really, really far away from me and I couldn't see anything because of all that steam pouring out of the bathroom from Bill Murray's hot bath.
And the next thing I remember after that Bill was telling me how much he liked my Lush Veganese hair conditioner.
Later I slipped a new bottle I'd just bought into Bill's messenger bag. Yes. He carries a messenger bag sometimes. At least in the dreams he does. I dunno. I guess he's got a lot of stuff. I saw an iPod Nano in his bag and I thought it was weird Bill Murray's only got a Nano. But I couldn't say anything because I didn't want him to think I was going through his stuff when in fact I was merely slipping a bottle of hair conditioner in his bag as a surprise for later.
Then I worried that when he found the conditioner in his bag he'd know I saw in his bag and he'd know I know he only has a Nano and maybe he'd think I saw other stuff, too, and he might be really embarrassed and upset instead of happy about the surprise of the conditioner in his bag.
Hey, you know I'm a mess. What do you expect from my dreams? Fluid streams of brilliance unrivaled? If so, you're at the wrong blog.
I'm messed up bad and I want my mother.
The irony in that plea is that she's laying right in front of me.
Or. Well. Her body's there. Or what's left of it. The "food" she gets via a feeding tube, while "packed with nutrients!" and keeping her alive, is not exactly bulking her up to a weight anywhere near normal or healthy. Even by Hollywood and advertising female weight standards she's too thin. But hey, she's alive. Maybe it's easier to keep less of her alive. The real time display of her vital stats assures me that she's still alive. I take a lot of comfort in those stats because sometimes she scares me. Her face which is normally full of expression is now gaunt and, well, lifeless. I know it's my mother but, well, I would have difficulty picking her out of a lineup at this point. That thought simultaneously scares and confuses me. It's my mother for crying out loud. No matter what I should be able to recognize her. But I don't. Sometimes when I've spent nonstop hours at her bedside I get kind of, I don't know, disoriented. I half forget why I'm here and what's happening. I have to remind myself that's my mother laying there attached to all that medical equipment.
Call it coincidence or the supernatural power of the maternal bond, but it's almost always at those moments that she'll snap alive into a moment of lucidity. Which is nice for me but I think scary and confusing for her. And that really stinks. Ever have anyone grab your hand with desperation and fear? Ever have anyone on life support do this to you? Ever have your mother on life support do this to you? I hope not. I really hope not. But if you have, you've got my strongest sympathies.
I thought, "Hey, Trill, you've been through a lot, you've endured a lot, you've had your emotions hurt and abused so badly you developed a coping technique wherein you voided all emotions from yourself. I mean, c'mon. If anyone should be siting here dealing with this it's you. Who better? You're an experienced and trained professional when it comes to dealing with pain and suffering."
"Yeah. Well," I thought back at myself, "nothing prepares you for this It's my mother we're talking about here. My mother."
"Ha! Not so tough are you now, Emotionless Girl," I thought back at myself.
True. All true. Not so tough. Not so emotionless. Not so able to cope. I want my mother.
Yes. I'm running like a sissy girl to my mummy. Except she's not there. Well. She's there. But not there. There's a woman laying there who has a tag with her name and birth date, and every now and then she responds to her name. So. You know. I guess she's there. I keep pretending for her sake and what's left of my sanity that she's there just like always. But I dunno. Maybe that's annoying her. Maybe she's laying there thinking, "You stupid girl, I'm obviously not normal, here. Why are you talking to me as if there's nothing wrong? All the nurses talk in that condescending baby voice for a reason. This is ICU. This is not normal. Placate me, will ya?"
The doctors and nurses look at her but talk to me. Like I'm her interpreter. Or because they think I'm conscious and cognitive. I'm not the one on life support so you know, it's all relative. But. I don't feel conscious and cognitive. In fact I feel like I could benefit from a couple of days on life support myself. I'm good at sleep deprivation. I've been deprived of sleep since, well, forever. So it's not the lack of sleep. It's the hours upon hours of time spent sitting in an ICU room waiting for something. I don't know what I'm waiting for until it happens, but mainly I wait for my mother to show some sign of consciousness which might result in her having an increasingly rare moment of lucidity. In those moments she's afraid or confused. I try to calm her and explain stuff to her. She can't talk but she mouths words and pleads with her eyes.
A few days ago I completely misunderstood what she was trying to say, and when I said, "Agnes can't believe what, Mum?" My mother actually laughed. Not a big guffaw or anything, but, you know, a laugh. Turns out she was trying to say "I just can't breath well." Which made the fact that I made her laugh with my misunderstanding beyond bittersweet. Sometimes when she's "awake" she cracks her eyes open a little and just smiles at me. On a really strong day she'll try to raise her hand and point a finger at me and then at the window. That's her way of telling me to go home. She once mouthed Furry Creature and tried to point to a photo of him.
There are a few good signs, a few glimmers of hope. I cling to those. Delusional though it may be, little bits of hope is all I've got.
My parents know a lot of people. Lots of friends. Very involved in their community. Church people. This is good. Except. The ICU is allowing my mother to have some visitors. One or two at a time for a few hours a day. So friends have organized visitation schedules. Again, very nice, thoughtful, you know, great. That's what friends are for and all that. But. These people parade in, cock their heads in that beatific funeral kind of way, sigh, pat my hand and say, "She looks peaceful/at rest/calm."
Okay.
Um.
She's not actually dead.
But every time this happens I find my gaze rushing to her vital stat monitor thinking these guests know something I don't.
I know it's difficult to find words at times like these.
I wouldn't know what to say to me. I wouldn't know what to say at all.
But.
Even if I thought, "Wow. She looks peaceful/at rest/calm," I think/hope I would have the common sense/courtesy to not say the funeral clichés in front of her or in front of her daughter. Maybe I would. I know sometimes words just slip out before people realize they're talking like they're at a funeral. But. You know. Worried and upset daughter at her mother's ICU bedside, here. Just a little scared. A little jumpy. Might wanna not frighten the poor girl more than she already is.
But people continue this funeral speak. I really want my mother to recover. I want her to be well. Mainly for her sake. And my father's. And mine. But mainly for hers. Because her very recovery and consciousness will spite all these funeral cliché talkers. She probably won't know how they effectively wrote her off, but they'll know and maybe they'll wonder if she remembers how they talked about her when she was in intensive care.
Yeah yeah, vengeance isn't healthy or even fun. I know. But it's so irksome and rude of these people to talk this way. If that's what friends are for I'm going to have to rethink this friend business.
Makes me kind of glad I'm leading an increasingly isolated life. If it comes to this point for me at least there won't be people parading by and saying funeral clichés at me when I'm clinging to life on life support.
And about this peaceful/at rest/calm thing. Sometimes my mother really does look restful and calm. But a lot of times she looks uncomfortable and afraid.
I wonder why no one ever says, "Wow. She looks so panicked," or "She doesn't look she's at peace?" I know people say these things in an attempt to make everyone feel okay about what's happening, but the fact is that it's not okay. We all know that. So why pussyfoot around the obvious? No, I don't expect or even want anyone to say, "Whoa. Trill. Your mother looks really bad. Waddaya think, a week, two tops?" In fact I have no idea what I want people to say. I guess nothing. Or whatever they'd normally say. Nag me about the woeful state of my life. I'd welcome an innuendo laden "still not married, eh Trill?" at this point. I'd enthusiastically join into a conversation about my lack of home, car and major appliance ownership. But no. Instead they come in, do the beatific head cock and smile, pat my hand and say, "She looks so restful/at peace/calm."
Want to say: "Um, she's not actually dead and she's far from calm or at peace. She's scared and confused and so doped up she doesn't know up from down. She's got machines performing every bodily function for her and do not get me started on how uncomfortable that bed is. So wipe that smarmy beatific smile off that cocked face of yours and deal with her reality. She might get better, she might not. Hold you comments for the end, okay? Because it's not helping anyone now."
Say instead, "Yes, she's having a nice sleep."
And then there are the ones who come in, plop themselves down and spend a couple of hours talking about what they or their cousin or their spouse went through before they died. Detailed descriptions of procedures and bodily functions and medical anomalies all of which inevitably end in disaster. "'Course, it was too late, lost him the next day," "Made it through the surgery but came down with a staph infection and died two weeks later." "You remember Carole, she was on life support for four months before they finally pulled the plug and let her go in peace."
Yes. People have said these things to me and in front of my mother who's on life support.
Hell is other people.
Yes.
Hell.
God. Heaven. Hell.
One of the few reasons I allow some wonder about a supreme deity is that life can be so crappy for some people that it makes me wonder if this is in fact Hell. There can't be a Hell without a God and therefore, at Hellish times like these I think, "Yeah, maybe there's a God because this sure seems like Hell."
And the thing that's really put me on an existential bent is that fact that I've been sitting here in the ICU of a large hospital off and on for several weeks. My mother is in the second to highest critical care room. The only higher care room is across the hall. I've learned why it's the highest care room and why it's placed where it is. It's the last chance room. It took me a few days to figure this out. But after the fourth Code Blue and everyone running to that room, lots of hubbub and then uncharacteristically quiet hallways I realized: That's the scary bad last chance room. I didn't keep track at first, but somewhere in all of this I started an unconscious tally of doom. There have been 24 Code Blues since I started unconsciously keeping track. One of those was my mother. (She's been Code Blue twice, but only once since the unconscious conscious tally of doom began) The rest were all in the room across the hall. Unfortunately for them, most of those have not ended well for the patients. Or. I don't know. Maybe it was a good ending for them. Maybe they were in pain and suffering. But the thing is, it's not a calm way to go. It's frantic and noisy and desperate. Healthcare professionals are great, you know, really great. They save lives, care for sick people, I mean, I have no words for how great most of these people are. But. Imagine laying there, you know, dying, and having alarms ringing and people in smocks running all around you and beating on you and injecting you frantically trying to keep you alive. But if it's your time, all the medical care in the world isn't going to do a thing. I'm not saying they should just give up on people, but you know, it's just not a very calm or peaceful way to leave.
I’m learning a lot. Mainly I’m learning a lot about how I don’t want to die. I mean, I’m okay with dying. I’m ready. I just don’t want to do it in a hospital. I want to be DOA. No life support, no friends visiting and making funeral comments before I’m even dead, no Code Blues, no alarms or people rushing around trying to save me. Nope. Not for me. DOA is definitely the way to go.
I know. I know. I need to get out more. I need to not spend so much time hanging around an ICU ward. It messes with your mind. If you’re not actually sick, spend a day or two in ICU and you’ll be sick and in need of therapy. Which makes me wonder about the people who choose to work in intensive care units. I mean, you know, glad there are people who make this choice, hats off to them. But. Still. I’m just visiting and I’m getting seriously sick, physically and mentally. I cannot even begin to imagine what it’s like to work in this environment. I hate my job but it’s looking like a fun day at the park compared to what these people deal with on a daily basis.
Speaking of work, you know what stinks? I have to leave my mother and go back to work. “Trill I know this is a bad time for you, but you know that Big Project? Yeah. Well. The client wants it now instead of next month so could you come into the office for a few days?”
Okay. I realize the world doesn’t stop because my mother’s in ICU. I realize this will probably go on a long, long time and I cannot possibly be with her until she gets better or, well. The other thing. I have job. I have a responsibility to that job. It’s not more important than my mother or my responsibility to her. But. It’s a responsibility nonetheless. I’m almost out of vacation and sick days so I’ll have to go on family leave, which means I don’t get paid which means I can’t pay rent which means I end up living on the street or in the ICU but they don’t allow cats in ICU so that’s a problem, so yeah. I have to back to work. I have to leave my mother. Like this. Now. In her condition. It’s wrong. It’s absolutey wrong. But I have to make the choice.
“Travel! See the world! Be independant!” All the things my mother wanted me to do. Grow up, move away, live my life. Okay, check, check, check. But now she needs me and all that moving away and living my life business is causing huge conflicts. I can’t be with her and live my life.
I’m scared to leave. I’m afraid “something” will happen when I’m gone. I’ve seen what happens here when there’s a Code Blue. They pull me out of the room so fast I don’t even know I’m gone. So if “something” happened I wouldn’t actually be at her side anyway. But. Still. I wouldn’t be six hours away, either.
The nurses and doctors tell me this is a good time for me to take a break. She’s critcal but stable. Critical doesn’t sound at all stable to me. Critical sounds critical to me.
My boss said the Big Project deadline is critical. That annoyed me. Lady, you don’t know what critical means.
Mother in critical condition. Job in critical condition. What do people do in these situations? To me, there’s no choice. My mother is more important than any project or job.
But business is business. And if I can’t manage my personal life, if it’s interfering with my job, then I have a problem.
Monday, February 13, 2006
So my mother's really sick and now she's delirious and delusional. She can't speak but over the past few days she's been able to write. Which is great, you know, she can communicate.
Except that she's on some major dope and the things she's writing are drug induced paranoid and depressed messages of confusion, fear and despair.
I know my mother's in there somewhere. Every now and then I catch a hint of her in her eyes. I'm sure I saw her flash me a knowing smirk when a new nurse named Barbie came in and introduced herself as, well, Barbie. (I know, not Babs, not Barb, not Barbara, but Barbie. Whatever lady, it's your life.) Another day she wrote me a note to remember my cousin's birthday next week. One night I showed her a dress in a magazine and she pointed to the neckline, a cut she's usually fond of wearing. She wrote "$$$? or ¢¢¢?" on her notepad.
Those are the few good moments.
The rest of the time her eyes are dull and vacant or alert but fearful. She sees things that aren't actually there. She hears things when all is silent. She thinks frightening and disturbing thoughts. Basically, she's on a really bad acid trip.
The doctors say this is normal. They tell us we should be grateful she's even conscious. They tell us if she gets better and back to normal and she won't remember anything about this. I trust them. I think/hope they're right. It's that if that concerns me.
Because if she doesn't get better she's going to live out her mortal days in fear and depression, captive in a hospital tethered to machines which pump stuff in and suck stuff out of her. I realize no one wants this to happen to someone they love. I realize a lot of people spend their final days like this. And that stinks. I don't know about all those other people, but I know my mother is not a paranoid, fearful and depressed person. I know she doesn't normally think the things she's thinking. I know she does not hallucinate. I know she doesn't hear things, voices, sounds, that aren't there. I know none of this is her, it's the drugs.
But. That's the point. She's not in her right mind. In fact she's barely in her mind at all. She drifts in and out of consciousness. I wish I knew where she goes when she's not conscious. I hope when she's unconscious she's escaping to her right mind. But I don't know. No one knows. Based on her fluctuating blood pressure I assume it's not always a pleasant place for her.
So yeah.
Fun times. Good times.
Times which make me think: This is all one huge waste of time. Spend your life being a good person, a nice, kind, tirelessly giving, thoughtful, caring, funny, sincere person and what happens? Drug induced fear, paranoia and depression.
Gee. Some great reward that is. Makes me want to run right out and be a better person.
I know, I know, there's no dignity or justice in sickness and death. The great equalizers and all that. I get it. And no, I don't think my mother's any more special than anyone else's mother. (Well. Actually. She is better than a lot of mothers.)
I knew my parents would die some day, and since last year I've felt relieved and lucky to still have my mother around at all. But that's part of the sick joke. "Ah, well, Trillian, you can have your mother for a few more months, just long enough to lull you into a false sense of security..." and then blam! "Bwa ha ha. Psych! Even funnier joke on you! And now we're going to add the fun of mental anguishing your mother! You of all people, Trillian, know better than to get too comfortable. It's not about you, it's about taking away the few people you actually like and love and doing so in cruel and unusual ways. Bwa ha ha."
My mother hates this. I know she does. Who wouldn't? The issue of the if for all of us, is whether or not she hates it enough to just let go and leave us.
I'm not ready for her to die. I know. I know. It's not about me. It's not. But. I have a bazillion things I need to do with her. We all know my life is an unmitigated disaster. My mother's the only one who can sort me out or at least make me not feel so bad about the disastrous mess I've made of my life. That unconditional love and understanding thing good mothers are so good at dispensing and all that. She's always been really understanding about the failures. I'd really like for her to see me succeed at something. I know she always worries about me. She doesn't say it but I know she's worried that I'm not married. I know it upsets her that I'm alone. I know she thinks I'm missing out on the motherhood thing. She doesn't nag or even talk about it because she's a good mother and doesn't want to make me feel worse about all that. She knows these are not choices I've actively pursued. She knows I wanted something very different, too. But. You know. It hasn't worked out that way for me. The one thing that has kept me going, albeit perhaps not the best reason, was that I wanted to succeed at something, a career, a marriage, something big and important, so that my mother wouldn't worry about me so much. I wanted her to finally enjoy a success instead of dealing with another failure. I didn't want her to go to her grave worrying about me. I know, I know, that's what mother's do, or at least the good ones, anyway. But you know. It's my mother. And it's me. And let's face it: Being my mother is not exactly easy. I'd like to give her a break on the worry thing at least once.
I don't think she's ready to die. It certainly wasn't on her agenda for this year. I know that because at Christmas she sat down with her new calendar and wrote in everything going on this year, all the events she would attend and all the cards she would send. She had plans. She bought cards. And two rolls of stamps at the new rate. People who are ready to die do not buy two rolls of stamps at the new rate several weeks before the rate takes effect. People who are ready to die do not care about postal rate increases.
But then there she is: Suspiciously eyeing one of the nurses. Blinking her eyes and wincing at something only she sees and hears. Paranoia, hallucinations and depression certainly weren't on her agenda, either. I would have noticed those on her calendar. I would have told her in that case let's not worry about getting stamps at the new rate.
Nope. All I saw were birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, grandkids' school events, some church stuff, a couple of trips, a few doctor appointments, the oil change dates...nothing about whatever it is that's happening to her now.
You can't plan life, I know. She knows that, too. But I'm hanging onto the hope that she's not accepting this change of plan. When she's lucid she seems, you know, okay. Ish. Considering.
I use these fleeting moments of semi-clarity to quickly try to explain to her what I learned from the doctors, hoping that if she understands everything that's happening she'll feel more in control when she's not exactly in control of herself. So far that theory's not really standing up to clinical testing. So I've been adding more stuff like dresses in magazines and gossip from the church ladies and putting the "good" lotion from home on the few bits of her hands which are not covered in IVs and "good" lip balm (also from home) on her lips. I have to make sure she sees me hide these in the closet when I'm finished, though, because even in her most lucid moments she fears someone will "borrow" her good lotion and balm and not return them. I have to admit, that's not paranoia but rational precaution. The personal grooming products in hospitals are seriously lacking, um, well, quality. Not that anyone expects spa products, but still. You'd think they'd give patients hand lotion which actually soothes and moisturizes, or hypoallergenic soap which doesn't dry skin to a chaffed leather state, or lip balm which soothes lips, not turn them into dry sponges. I'm just trying to make her feel as normal as possible.
When I was young and interested in biology I toyed with the idea of a career in medicine. Research, DNA, that sort of thing. My mother, as usual, encouraged me to pursue it, check it out, see if it fit. My mother's always saying that about everything. "Try it on, see if it fits you."
Obviously a career in medicine didn't fit me. I'd gotten out of actual dissections with conscientious compassionate objection notes and subsequent lengthy reports written from text books explaining more than I ever would have learned in those dissection lessons.
But then in another biology class I was told the time had come for me to decide if I was going to face the fact that biology is not always pretty and always involves dead things which were once alive or run like a sissy girl to my mother because I didn't want to cut open a dead animal.
I ran like a sissy girl to my mother.
I was in college. Living a long way away from my mother. It was not exactly a proud moment for anyone involved. My mother didn't care that I'd wasted a lot of money on a college course in biology because I couldn't stomach dissecting a cat which was already dead. My mother understood. She told me to try to drop that course and add that photography lab I enjoyed so much. "Formaldehyde, stop bath, you can still get your hands dirty and breathe in toxic fumes," she said. My mother knows a lot about a lot and she's really practical. I was always glad she didn't get mad at me for dropping that class and wasting the money on what I always knew deep down I couldn't do.
Now I'm regretting being such a sissy girl and running to my mother. If I'd toughed it out I would have gone into genetic research. I would have learned about DNA. I would have tried to find ways to prevent icky diseases. I would have been able to help my mother. But I didn't. Because I'm a sissy girl who runs to my mother. And she has to get through this because I haven't quite got the hang of life and I still need to run like a sissy girl to my mother. Yes. I'm scared and paranoid and confused and depressed.
Like mother, like daughter.
Except my mother has a good excuse. Her emotional issues are drug induced. I'm just completely inept.
Which is probably the core of her concerns about me. So I spend the time I have when she's resting trying to formulate some sort of plan for being more adept. Or at least less inept. Give her something to ease her mind about me. So far I'm not coming up with much. That career in medicine is not exactly appealing right now. Oh sure, there are some cool gadgets and now more than ever DNA is cool and funding is high, but, um, well, you know. Med school. It takes a lot of time and money. Oh. And. Brains. And animal dissections. And yeah. No. I don't think that's the way forward for me. I( tried it on and it didn't fit. I could marry a doctor. Actually, no, I probably couldn't. Doctors always marry really cute nurses or at least really cute girls. And do I really want to face a guy every day knowing I married him because I couldn't be a doctor myself and figured this was the closest I was going to get to a career in medicine? Oh sure, the medical journals and academic conferences would be fun, but do I want a husband or a subscription to the New England Journal of Medicine?
And there we go. Right straight back to the paranoia, fear, confusion and depression. I can't even figure out a plan for being less inept much less actually be less inept.
Meanwhile, my mother's not getting any younger and the drugs aren't getting any weaker. And I'm still a failure causing her concern and worry.
Oh sure, it's possible my ineptitude is keeping her going. "I can't die, my inept daughter can't even figure out how to be less inept. Where did I go wrong? Surely by now she should have succeeded at something. But no. She can't even find a man to marry her. What's she going to do? What will become of her? I can't die, who's that sissy baby going to run to when I'm gone? I created that monster and I need to stick around and deal with it." In which case my ineptitude is actually aptitude at keeping my mother alive. But I'm not that clever. Totally accidental if that's what's going on inside her head.
This is why they tell you to take breaks from the bedside of a sick loved one.
Monday, February 06, 2006
ordeal
Main Entry: or·deal
Pronunciation: or-'dE(-&)l, 'or-"
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English ordal, from Old English ordAl; akin to Old
High German urteil judgment, Old English dAl division
1 : a primitive means used to determine guilt or innocence by submitting the
accused to dangerous or painful tests believed to be under supernatural
control ordeal by fire
2 : a severe trial or experience
My mother's going through an ordeal. I was trying to find a word for what she's enduring. It needed to be a word conveying vast magnitude and injustice and pain. I couldn't come up with anything to adequately describe what's happening to her. I was trying to explain the most recent procedure to someone when I said, "It's quite an ordeal." And I thought, "no really, it's an actual bona fide ordeal. Forget everything you thought you knew about ordeals because this is the definition of an ordeal."
She's getting great care and all of that. But it's my mother. Human suffering is bad enough, you know, in general, but when it's your mother it's like nothing you can imagine experiencing. You don't know her, but you'd like her. Everyone does. She makes friends and melts hearts everywhere she goes. She is the kindest, funniest, smartest, classiest person I've ever known and other people feel the same way. People look at her with awe and respect.
Watching her going through a painful and difficult health situation confirms my shaky opinion of this "God" everyone's always going on about.
It stinks a lot. It stinks like stink's stink. No one should have to go what she's going through. It's cruel. It's cruel to her, it's cruel to my father, it's cruel to me.
We all know our parents are going to die at some point. Losing parents is the course and curse of life. Circle of life, and all that. But having to see them ravaged and tormented and indignified in every possible way is cruel and unusual punishment to people whose only offense was to be born to great parents. Bambi and all that.
My father's not taking any of this well. No one could expect him to take it well. No one expects anything from him. Except, well, I mean no one expects him to get in the way of my mother's care.
But he is. Not intentionally. But he's scared and frustrated and helpless. And as a result he's lashing out at her health care providers. He thinks the doctors don't know anything and the nurses don't care about my mother. I'm sitting right there next to him and my mother. I hear and see the same things he does. And yet I feel my mother is getting excellent care. I feel her doctors are doing everything they possibly can for her. I see the nurses gently administering the never ending treatments and medications. I hear them giving her positive encouragement. I see them tirelessly put in 12 hour shifts.
Why the huge difference of opinion between us?
My parents have worked out a system of dealing with life. They've sorted out their individual strengths and weaknesses and they divvy up life's challenges based on their strengths. My dad covers math, knot tying merit badges and auto maintanance. Health and emotional reality have always been my mother's turf. When my dad gets angry my mother sorts out the cause, applies her gentle reasoning persuasions and makes him understand he's not angry at me for my latest life disaster, but that he's actually worried and sad that I'm once again failing miserably. She sorts out his feelings for him and they proceed on an emotionally adjusted course of action.
And she's not able to sort him out right now and so he's unable to proceed on an emotionally adjusted course of action.
Just as well I'm a relationship failure because I can see the torture he's going through with this. At least by being a lone loser I won't have to watch my partner suffer. There we go, turning that negative into a positive! Sure, I'll spend my life alone but think of all the emotional suffering I'll be spared. Atta girl. Turn that frown upside down. Spin it and smile like you mean it.
But I've got an immediate issue with my parents. My father's been reprimanded by the hospital staff. Counselors have been sent to help him but they're not making any progress. The situation's getting worse, not better. So the chief of staff has prevailed upon "us" to remove my father from the hospital.
The "us" I'm talking about includes three grown children. Two of whom are conspicuously absent from their mother's side but eager to dispense advice from afar.
They've got families and responsibilities. I understand. I really do. They're doing the best they can, they'd do more if they could. And besides, I have no spouse or children, no real responsibilities, so of course I'm the one who should be there. My sister. She's great at pointing out the obvious failures in my life at the most inappropriate times. Then again, is there ever an appropriate time to point out obvious life failures? No. So why not wait for stressful family situation to bring up a family member's short comings and failures in life?
I'm a single child-free loser who has no responsibilities so I'm the one at my mother's bedside. And a vote was taken among the siblings, spouses and children and I was the one who won the privilege of telling my father he's effectively been kicked out of the hospital "for his own good and the health and well being of my mother."
Yeah.
Um.
Right.
Can I get a little help here? Someone? Anyone?
This is a what I've come up with so far. It stinks. I stink. No wonder I'm a loser with no spouse or children. I suck at the big stuff like reprimanding my father for loving my mother "too much."
Hi Dad.
Remember when you and Mum taught me about words and how to read and write and what a wonderful thing communication is?
Well, um, yeah. See. Here's the thing. I know, I know, you taught me better than to talk like that. Sorry. It's sloppy and makes me look and sound stupid. I know. Sorry. You taught me how to communicate by proper use of language and I should be grateful and respectful enough to use the tools you gave me. But yeah. About communication.
You may have lived long enough to regret that.
I don't think you're going to like some of the words I need to communicate to you.
It's about Mum.
I know you love her. Everyone knows you love her. There's never been a second of doubt about your feelings for her. We all know you asked her to marry her the night you met her and though she needed persuading you got the girl no one else could get near. Obviously your feelings were and are sincere.
I know you want to protect her. I know you don't want her to suffer. I know seeing her like this is killing you with a slow drip of emotional torture. Which is painful for the rest of us. We know how you feel. We feel it, too. And we see and feel what this is doing to you and that hurts and concerns us, too.
But here's the thing: Mum senses your anxiety and the tension you create among hospital staff. Your old school Marine training of showing no emotion but anger is causing a lot of negativity. Most of us realize what looks like anger is actually fear, concern, frustration, confusion and love. But. Lashing out at nurses and doctors helps no one. And until you can smile like you mean it at the hospital you're not allowed near Mum.
I'm sorry, Dad, really, I am so sorry to have to say this to you. Never in my wildest Bill Murray dreams could I have imagined it would come to this. It's awkward and weird and, well, I mean Dad, you're Dad.You discipline me. Remember when you incessantly quizzed me for school entry exams? No, not math, which by the way I have yet to use in real life, but in those word definition simile things. Father is to daughter as punishment is to perpetrator.
It's not supposed to be this way, it's not the natural order of things. But apparently you don't realize what you're doing. You're creating a tense vibe and general anger and negativity that's prevailing in the intensive care ward.
So for some bizarre and as yet unexplained reason, the burden of disciplining you, baring the bad news, is falling on my shoulders. I thought this sort of thing was squarely in eldest son territory. Or even eldest and most favored daughter territory. I have no idea why I, the youngest of the children, the baby of all people, the swutting black sheep, should have to be the one to do this. You want to talk about confusion and resentment and frustration and yes, a little anger? Yeah, well, let me tell you a few things about your oldest children. They're wusses and cowards who boss me around and convince me I'm best suited for this conversation. What they mean is that they're not touching this with a ten foot pole but it needs to be said and done and they feel I have the least to lose and they know I'll actually say it whereas they might back out at the first sign of danger. Somehow, somewhere, some way I became the responsible one of your children. I know. That scares me, too. A lot. They've reproduced and are raising children and yet I'm the responsible one. I don't get it either. Maybe some time when things are more calm you can try to explain that to me.
Because you're really good at explaining things to me. You taught me how to be resourceful and respectful and to seek knowledge instead of sitting there powerless. You could have just told me how to spell words but instead you showed me how to use a dictionary. When I went through that geology phase you could have guided me toward a more useful interest like cheerleading, but no, you indulged me and bought me a rock tumbler and encouraged me to learn all I could about, well, rocks. You taught me to seek knowledge, Dad. "Leave no stone unturned or untumbled, har har," you said. When I was curious about pre-war German abstract expressionism you and Mum took me to museums and helped me find books and even sent me to college to learn more about it.
I know you didn't expect to have such a dork for a daughter, I know you were cool and popular and not socially awkward so, yes, I'm aware I was a challenge for you to raise. Or at least not quite what you had in mind when you thought about having children. But remember how you told me to politely ask questions and more importantly, you and Mum taught me to listen to the answers? Remember how you and Mum taught me good manners and respect for other peoples' feelings are what separates us from the lower forms of life? Remember how you taught me to respect and learn from other people and cultures? Those were good lessons you taught me. And you and Mum lead by good example. You walked the walk.
Until, well, now. Dad, I know it's really difficult and all that, but this is exactly the sort of situation you told me where manners and respect are most important. Grace under pressure, Dad. Respect for the professionals, Dad. Raise your hand and politely ask questions and really listen to the answers, Dad. Learn everything you can so you understand and act appropriately and responsibly.
It's not that we want to do this. It's not that you're the bad guy. We don't think less of you. We're not disappointed in you. We know how upsetting this is to you. It's upsetting to us, too. And if you think for one minute I want to sit here alone with Mum while you're exiled from the hospital, guess again and study better for the next test, Dad. Because I don't want to be the responsible one and I don't want to be here alone with Mum. We're a family and we're supposed to be together at "times like these." I have no one except you and Mum, and I need you here with me.
But. I don't need you to ignore the doctors. I don't need you tell the nurses they don't know what they're doing. I don't need you to upset Mum.
I don't want to hear a lot of what they're telling us, either, Dad, but we've got to hear it. Knowledge is power, Dad. Manners and respect matter, Dad. And that goes for pouting and scowling, too. Geeze. You used to send me to my room without books or crayons when I did that. Smile in the face of adversity, you told me. It'll still be bad but people will admire your positive attitude and remember that about you and that can come in handy down the road. It's easy to lose your temper but hard to gain respect.
I suppose it's difficult to hear your words thrown back at you. All those fatherly platitudes which sound so trite probably sting when recited back at you by your own daughter. I wish I didn't have to resort to that but the fact is they're good words and good lessons and I can't come up with any better ideas than the ones you taught me. Which means you're really smart or I'm really dumb, or both. I'm willing to accept both. Maybe one of your other children could do a better job, but they nominated me for this and ran like cowards and this is the best I can do.
So yeah, Dad, the point here is that I've been tasked with revoking your visitation privileges.
This hurts me more than it hurts you. But it's for your own good. I can't expect you to understand this now but someday you'll appreciate and respect me for it.
This should feel good. This should be one of the moments us kids live to experience. Getting back at our parents with their own words. There should be some smug satisfaction for me. But there's not. It's just making a sad and miserable situation a gazillion times worse. And it's my mother who will suffer from this. She's only semi conscious but I know she knows what's going on a lot of the time. I know she feels the tension and is frustrated, too. I know she needs me to do this difficult thing and I know she'll understand. Because she's my mother and she's really good at understanding. It's her thing. Still, it doesn't make it better or easier. "Yeah, I kicked Dad outta here because he's an angry old git, bwa ha ha..." is how I feel about this.
I thought my role as youngest and most troubled child exempted me from responsibility for The Big Parental Care Decisions. I thought I was supposed to be powerless and misunderstood. I thought I was supposed to be the one everyone babies and coddles. I thought I was supposed to struggle with being taken seriously as an adult and never given any real responsibility in the family. Not that I want any of that but right now being trapped in the throes of typical family birth order behavior stereotypes sounds good to me.
Having to face A Very Special Episode with my father wherein I have to have a serious grown-up talk to him about his "problem" while my mother is laying there fighting for life is not exactly my idea of a good way to prove my adult capabilities to the rest of the family.
There's a lot of irony here but one in particular is plaguing me. I spent my entire youth and a lot of my young adulthood behaving and being a good girl, doing as I was taught because that's who I was and also because I was afraid of the trouble I'd get into with my parents if I misbehaved or got into trouble. I didn't dread the punishment, heck, punishment was the easy part. My parents were very democratic in their familial judicial procedure. We were always made to explain ourselves and our side of the situation before a fair ruling and subsequent punishment was given. The thought of having A Discussion wherein I'd have to explain myself, my rationale and my misbehavior to my parents filled me with such dread that every time I was confronted with an option for misbehaving I'd quickly and without hesitation do the right thing. Easier to be responsible for myself than have to explain my stupidity, selfishness or lack of respect to my parents.
And yet, now here I am having to have A Discussion with my father about his irresponsibility and bad behavior.
There's a lot of poetic injustice in there, but that's not something I'm going to point out to my father at this juncture. He won't see the humor in the irony. My mother will, she'll get a laugh out of it, if and when she can laugh again. And when she laughs about it she'll make my dad laugh about it. So she's got to get better so my dad can laugh at me.
One huge ball of ironic confusion as a result of an ordeal. An ordeal begetting another ordeal. Oh sure, compared to what my mother's going through it's nothing. Oh sure, my father and I will get through this. We got through multiplication tables and fractions and even Calculous. If we can get through Calculous still speaking to each other we can get through anything. I hated Calculous but I hate this more. My mother was there to prevent my father from insisting I wasn't trying hard enough and insinuating I was one step up from primordial ooze when I struggled with math. But she's not able to buffer us from each other this time.
Dad, remember when you thought I was on drugs or brain damaged because I couldn't grasp Calculous and Mum explained that I wasn't actually smoking crack or handicapped but just differently abled? Remember how she pointed out to you that because I even bothered to spend the time to try to figure it out that I was in fact trying hard enough?
Yeah, well, maybe we can apply that logic here. Let's say you're you and I'm me and your emotional "problem" is Calculous. The hospital chief of staff represents Mum in this equation.
I'm trying really hard to understand "Calculous." I spend a lot of time trying to sort out the variables and theories. Sometimes I think I've finally figured it out and feel pretty good about my understanding. Sometimes I even come up with the right answer. But a lot of times I spend a lot of time doing a lot of work and end up with the wrong answer. I come to you for help understanding "Calculous" and you try to help me.
But I don't think the way you do and you can't make my brain work like yours and you get frustrated and worried about my actual capabilities and start thinking maybe you shouldn't have drank and smoked so much when you were younger because it resulted in a brain damaged child who you'll end up taking care of all your life because she's incompetent and unable to manage life because she can't even sort out "Calculous." You don't want to spend your life taking care of me because you're really looking forward to turning my room into a sewing room for Mum so she won't leave her projects out all over your den.
And you want me to have a successful life and enjoy the benefits of a good marriage and children like yours, or well, at least a marriage and kids like a couple of yours. You worry about my life and Mum's sewing room. A lot is riding on "Calculous." The more you try to help me understand, the seemingly more stoned or handicapped I become.
And just at the point where you think, "she's a lost cause, I might as well just paint the den pink," "Mum" comes along and says, "You need to take a step back and see how hard she's trying and understand not everyone thinks like you. She's doing the best she can. She won't fail for lack of trying and real effort," and then she points out all the success and abilities I have in other areas and "Calculous" might not be an indication of any future success or failure in life and maybe everything will work out okay after all and really, "Calculous" isn't really all that important.
Again, more proof it's a good thing I haven't married or reproduced. Can you imagine me trying to explain sex to a child? Or worse, Calculus?
One of the down sides to being a person type of animal is that we’re capable of reasoning and capable of making choices. And we’re capable of choosing to behaving badly, to treat our co-humans badly.
I’ve long suspected it’s me, that I bring out the worst in people.
That otherwise polite and well behaved people are moved to strong (negative) reactions to me.
If it’s not just me, if I’m not responsible for bringing out the worst in people, there are a lot of really horribly rude and bad behaving people sharing our planet.
Oh sure, even if I do bring out the worst in people there’s no excuse for some of the behavior I have thrown at me, but if it’s my fault I have to take rudeness assaults in stride. And I usually do. It’s a way of life for me. No, I don’t feel victimized. I feel that peoples’ natural reaction to me is rudeness. No, I don’t go around bullying or purposely inciting angry mobs. I try to keep as much to myself as possible and when I do have to interact with other people I try to be as polite and friendly as I know how to be, I’ve been known to paste on a happy face and smile like I really mean it in a lot of situations where other people would not even consider it.
I was raised to be polite. Which is fine. I have no problem with that. Because being rude or mean never solves anything but almost always makes things a lot worse. I’m trying so hard to feel nothing, no emotions, but I still care about other peoples’ emotions. I don’t want an emotionless society, and I don’t advocate going commando on the emotion front for most people. I want other people to feel emotions. I want other people to be normal. So yes. I go around faking a lot of emotions lately. Smile like I mean it, pretend to feel an appropriate feeling and consequential reaction. I even fake cried a few weeks ago. It didn’t feel good and it didn’t feel bad. It didn’t feel any way at all. Maybe deep down in there I was upset and the tears were a physical response to some deeply buried emotion. But in my conscience they were crocodile tears. I felt nothing but I produced tears. Which is fine, the situation warranted tears and so I performed the expected duty of response. I dunno. I don’t like who I’ve become but I didn’t like the old me, either, so really, at least I’m not crying real tears over upsetting facets of my life anymore so for me that’s an improvement. I like not welling with tears every time I think of HWNMNBS. It’s a huge improvement for me. I think it’s a good step down the road of apathy. I only well with tears over him sometimes now. It used to be all the time. Any thought of him, no matter how good, bad or fleeting, would produce watery eyes. Period. I just typed that, thinking of him, and my eyes are only slightly more fluid than usual. I still have problems with the bigger stuff, the memories or thoughts which still cause my heart to skip a beat and then ache still produce major tears, oops, right there, like that. Oh brother, here we go. I don’t know why I do this to myself either. I’m an idiot and a stupid girl, too. The whole thing is still, always, I guess, overwhelmingly sad for me. And you know, I miss him a lot. Oh be quiet. It’s my baggage and I’ll carry it until it kills me or gets lost.
Right. Okay. No emotions allowed.
I’ve had a hole in my heart for so long I try to fake it and just smile along.
Big stuff is still an issue but the rest of time I’m doing pretty darned good at feeling nothing and faking it when necessary.
Which is where being raised with good manners comes in handy. I know how to be polite which even for normal emotion feeling people often requires a great deal of faking it and smiling like you mean it. In fact being polite at it’s core is nothing more than smiling like you mean it. Faking it.
Because that’s what you do when you’re polite. You don’t hurt other peoples’ feelings. You act and react in the least offensive and most kind and caring way you can muster. Save your true feelings for behind blogged doors where you only offend or upset people who willingly choose to read what you honestly think.
Wanted to say....Said instead...
See? I’ve been faking it a really long time.
I’m not saying that’s good or an aspirational pinnacle of emotional health, but, given the choice of being polite or rude, the polite high road is almost always the better way to go for me. I don’t get what I want anyway, so, better to walk away politely than being rude. The only who looks and feels bad is the person who’s rude. If nothing else being polite should score karma points and judgment day points for those who worry about scoring those kinds of points.
I know. So enlightened of me. Such a good Girl Scout.Not really. When I’m bad I’m awful. So I try to make myself behave properly, politely, as a way of keeping the awfulness at a controllable level when it does rear it’s ugly head. There again, the lack of emotion is helping with that, too.
Smile like I mean it.
There’s this girl/woman/person who lives in my building. She and I have a schedule thing going where we cross paths a lot. I see her at least a couple of times a week. I’ve lived in my compartment for a year. Every week for a year I’ve been crossing paths with this girl. And every time, yes, every single time our paths cross she’s on her mobile phone yelling at the person on the other end. The person on the other end is often her mother. I know this because at a very high volume my yelling neighbor will say things like: “MOM! YOU’RE NOT HELPING THE SITUATION! THAT’S A STUPID IDEA! WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS GIVING ME SUCH STUPID ADVICE?! BARK BARK BARK GOD YOU’RE HORRIBLE! BARK BARK BARK! SHUT UP, MOM, JUST SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE! BARK BARK BARK! YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT! YOU’RE STUPID AND UNHELPFUL! BARK BARK BARK!” One day several people were waiting for the elevator. Yelling girl was naturally on her mobile yelling. “NO MOM! I’M NOT DOING THAT! THAT’S THE DUMBEST THING YOU’VE EVER THOUGHT OF, GOD YOU’RE STUPID. BARK BARK BARK NO THAT’S DUMB JUST SEND ME THE MONEY. BARK BARK BARK I NEED IT NOW NOT NEXT WEEK! BARK BARK BARK! NO! F#*K YOU MOM, F#*K YOU!!” Most of us were trying to busy ourselves with whatever we had available to busy ourselves. I found the new postal meter stamp very interesting for a very long time. One of the other people waiting for the elevator was an older lady. When the offensive swearing occurred some of the other people and especially the older lady were shocked and offended. I wasn’t. I’d heard this from yelling girl in the past. I knew it was probably coming and was braced for it. The older lady who probably doesn’t hear that sort of language very often stood there gape mouthed and wide eyed. The yelling girl said, “MIND YOUR OWN F#*KING BUSINESS!” to the older lady. One of the guys waiting said, calmly, “We’re trying to mind our own business but It’s impossible with you yelling and swearing in the lobby.”
‘F#*K YOU TOO!” she responded.
Older lady, just now able to speak, said “You should be ashamed of yourself. No one should speak to anyone like that, especially their mother.”
“I TOLD YOU TO MIND YOUR OWN F#*KING BUSINESS! F#*K YOU B!TCH!”
“Okay, that’s it, I’m calling security,” the calm guy said, motioning through the lobby to the door man.
At that point the elevator arrived and yelling girl sped onto it and started jabbing the buttons. Another woman jumped into the elevator and hit the “hold door” button. Another elevator arrived. The door man arrived. Calm guy relayed what had occurred. The door man said, “(Yelling Girl) come on, I have to write you up again.”
Again.
Ah. Okay. It’s not just me who finds this woman intolerably rude and offensive.
And yet she continues to go around being rude and offensive.
I know she’s like this outside the confines of our building, too.
One evening I stopped at the grocery on the way home from work. The grocery door is kind of weird. It’s not automatic open and there’s a gate type of thing to keep grocery trolleys in the store and off the street. (For the unurban dwellers: shopping trolleys are high theft items in cities. Stores take great pains and expense to keep the trolleys in the stores and off the streets.) This particular door is particularly weird and difficult to navigate. There’s almost always a line of people waiting to get in and out of the door. Not a huge deal. Really. One evening I was waiting to enter the store behind another woman. There were several people waiting to get out of the store.
I heard her before I saw her.
“GET OUT OF THE F#*KING WAY YOU STUPID C%NT!”
Ahhh. Just like home. Yelling girl.
Sure enough, plowing through the otherwise patient lines of people at the door was my yelling neighbor.
As she cut through the line and reached the door, the woman ahead of me made the near fatal mistake of reaching for the door. Out burst yelling girl. She looked the woman ahead of me straight in the eye, made serious eye contact, and said, “YOU STUPID B!TCH GET OUT OF THE F#*KING WAY!” and whipped her plastic bag of groceries over the trolley gate really fast so that they whipped the woman ahead of me in the arm. Yes. Yelling girl accosted a complete stranger with a bag of groceries. And stormed off yelling profanity at all of us.
The woman was thankfully okay (I, being polite, asked her if she was okay). We all waited our turn entered the store and that was that.
Yes. Yelling Girl is a case of rudeness on steroids. Clearly there are anger management issues there. I can see why people would react rudely to her. I can see how she could incite angry mobs. I can see how she could bring out the worst in a person. I involuntarily physically tense up the second I see her or hear her voice. She’s not only rude she’s unpleasant and causes negative responses. Heck, she’s apparently routinely written up by building security.
And yet she continues to behave this way. I’m sure she doesn’t see herself as rude. I’m sure she pins adjectives like ‘take charge’ and ‘bold’ and ‘confident’ onto herself. She doesn’t see a difference between assertive and aggressive. It’s her problem but she makes it other peoples’ problem.
She’s rude.
But I regularly see her bringing home a bevy of handsome and seemingly well adjusted men. And no, she’s not on good behavior around them. She’s yelling, swearing and screaming on her mobile phone in one hand and draped around these men with the other arm and hand. And the men are passively walking along with her as if she were behaving politely or at least normally. Oh sure, I rarely see her with the same man twice, and frankly I’m a little concerned with what she might be doing to them behind closed doors. Darnedest thing, I never see her with a man leaving the building. But she’s behaving that way and still managing to do quite well for herself on the man front. I will not connect dots about this, I’ll leave that up to you and your own opinions of men and what part of their anatomy controls their lives.
If behaving like Yelling Girl is what it takes to interest a man, that’s not the sort of confidence I want. I’ll happily spend the rest of my life alone before I behave that way. Swut. I try to be on my best behavior and I bring out the worst in people. It scares me to think of what might happen if I behaved like her. Then again, who knows? Maybe people would be so afraid of me they’d treat me really well.
But somehow I doubt it. What is apparently working for her would never work for me.
So, I met this guy. We’ve been emailing and talking on the phone. Don’t get all excited for me. He’s not Mr. Right for Me, but he speaks in complete sentences sometimes containing words longer than one syllable and seems to be in possession of a sense of humor. Hmmm. Maybe he could be as close to Mr. Right for Me as I’ll get. The first in-person meeting has been dragged out longer than I like, but he travels a lot for work and I’ve been really busy at work so, you know, it’s just taking a little longer with him.
We had a date set for a few nights ago. I was looking forward to finally meeting him in person so he could reject me on sight so I could move on with my life without the false hope that this guy might be different. I don’t like to invest too much time with men before meeting them in person. Getting to know them and starting to like them before meeting face to face makes the rejection a lot more difficult to take.
The day before our first in-person meeting I had one of those drop everything and run phone calls. No, the long arm of the law or the ASPCA didn’t finally catch up with me. (Furry Creature’s fur is fine and you can hardly tell where he was waxed.) There was one of those family emergencies where you don’t think, just go.
Unfortunately for me, I did think about a few things while I was mad dash panic packing. One of them was my date with Mr. Not Quite Right.
I bothered to do the polite thing and took the time to call him to cancel the date.
“Hi Mr. Not Quite Right.”
“Hi Trillian, I’m just standing here wondering what to wear tomorrow. I hope you’re not calling to cancel our date, har har.”
Why, oh why did he have to choose that line?
“Oh dear. Well, erm, um, I’m sor—”
“Oh no. If you’re canceling you can forget about me and don’t bother to email or call. We’ve had this planned a long time.”
“There’s a family emergency and I have to leave town in about an hour, I’m really sorry, Mr. Not Quite Right, really. My mother’s in intensive care and I have to go to be with her.”
“You expect me to believe your mother’s in intensive care and you’re bothering to call me to cancel a date? You’re either a saint or a horrible liar, and I don’t believe in saints so that makes you a bad liar.”
Me, pondering if it would be better or okay with him if I were a good liar. “Look, I’m really sorry to cancel on short notice and I’m really sorry you think so little of me that you think I’m lying.”
“Forget it Trillian. Go take care of your mother. Don’t give me a second thought. Seriously. Don’t bother to think about me again because I’m not interested any more.” click.
He hung up on me.
Now.
Up to this point Mr. Not Quite Right had not displayed any signs of rude, selfish or childish behavior. But in not giving me the benefit of doubt he gave me benefit of huge insight into his personality. Which is ultimately good. Disappointing, but good. It’s probably me bringing out the worst in someone again, but better to find out now than after life commitments have been made, emotions invested, an entire future life not to mention a wedding planned.
(Smiling like I mean it, smiling like I mean it, smiling like I mean it...)
Weird and bizarre stuff happens to me. I am plagued with bad timing. I know this and accept it. Everyone who knows me soon realizes this and either wants nothing to do with me or sticks around for the comedic aspect of the weird things that happen in my life and the bad timing bestowed upon my trips around the Sun. Anyone who gets involved with me has to learn to live with it. On the plus side, never a dull moment. On the negative side, well, never a dull moment.
And my family is really important to me. Um. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, but isn’t family supposed to matter? Aren’t we supposed to care about our family? Isn’t that normal? If it’s an issue for him and if his family isn’t important to him we’re better off apart. I mean, who wouldn’t do everything possible to rush to their ailing mother’s side in intensive care? Who the swut is he to not respect my feelings about my mother and, who is he to not respect my mother and her health?
Don’t believe in saints, eh mister? Yeah, well, you never met my mother. And I’ll tell you another thing, she wouldn’t like the way you talked to me and the lack of respect you showed for me and my feelings. (She doesn't know I'm voiding all emotions from my life because she's in the inner circle where I allow emotions, but that doesn't invalidate her assumed opinion.)
Rude, inconsiderate, hurtful and just plain weird. That’s what my saintlike mother would think of him. Raspberries to him.
Speaking of childish behavior.
Still. How can he be so rude? I know, I know, I’m so much better off learning this about him now. And he and his behavior are meaningless, insignificant, in my life and the much more important issue of my mother.
I didn’t give it or him too much more thought.
I’ve spent the last few days in a hospital with my mother.
Then I checked my email. What to my wondering eyes should appear but three emails from Mr. Not Quite Right.
“Ah. Well,” thought I, “Okay. He’s calmed down and realized he was a gross selfish jerk. I can forgive him. He was disappointed which after all is sort of a compliment. He was actually disappointed I canceled the date and he couldn’t meet me in person. I mean, the disappointment says something about him.”
Email 1, sent shortly after The Phone Call, contained a few brief sentences dripping in sarcasm about my mother’s health and some rude name calling.
Email 2, sent the day after The Phone Call, was a lengthy rant against me and all women. He’s glad he found out “about me” now (gee, you too?), that I’m (get this) “just like every other woman” because I’m “lying, manipulative and controlling” and “just like every other woman” I put my “family ahead of my relationship with my boyfriend.” (Boyfriend? I have a relationship and a boyfriend? Wow. I had no idea seven emails and three phone calls constituted a relationship and boyfriend. Even though we never met in person. I’ve had lots of boyfriends and relationships over the past few years if that’s the case. I’m doing a lot better than I thought!)
Email 3, sent the day after email 2, told me that he was going to block my email.
Um, isn’t that just assumed? Still, he’s being polite and letting me know I needn’t bother sending all those emails I was writing begging for forgiveness and another chance. Offering myself to him if could just help me not be like every other woman. That I’d completely disown my family altogether and make him the center of my Universe if he’d just give me a chance.
But since he’s blocked me I can go along attending to my mother’s health crisis.
I don’t have to worry about not doing whatever I did to bring out the worst in him. And he can consider himself lucky to dodge a fatal bullet with another woman, like all the others, who lies, manipulates and controls him.
