And then there was rage...
I'm enraged right now, for reasons that I'm not sure my mother would be happy about me posting on the internet.
My mother has cancer, and this is no secret from anyone. I've been very open and honest with everyone I know regarding her condition: It sucks. She has cancer. But we found it early and we are currently undergoing radiation in hopes of deterring a recurrence.
My rage is not directed at cancer, exactly. Of course, if this had never happened, I'd never have to deal with this type of rage to begin with. But she does and life is the way it is. I learned young that you can't change circumstance, although you can say no to that last shot of tequila which can change curcumstance altogether.
My mother's doctors have been a bunch of assholes. I'm tyically very patient with people who are providing life-saving therapies for the people I love the most, but in this case, I just need to vent.
The surgeon was a complete and total fuckwit. If I knew what kind of car he drove and what a distributor cap looked like, his would be completely fucked up right now. We are done with him, thankfully, and once we were done with him I was glad to move on to the next set.
The oncologist, however, has not been any better. I have not met the woman in person, and from the stories I hear about her I am fairly glad. I'm pretty sure that if I did meet her, I would turn into a shrieking mass of hysteria, hair and run-on sentences abound in her office. I'd also surely mess up my 'breathe' and 'breath' while screaming to her about how I'm running out of breath. Or breathe. Whichever.
The problem is that I have all this rage in regards to the treatment these people have given my mother, and no one to direct it to. I don't know who to call and yell into the phone at, until I'm out of breath (breathe?) and my face turns blue; until my chest infection turns me into a dry heaving mass of confusion who no one can understand.
I only wish I were the type of person to write letters and make phone calls and yell into phones in my spare time. The problem is that my years in customer service have made me terrified to direct my rage at the innocent person behind the counter.
And so, instead of doing anything productive with the anger that lies inside me, I sit and I smoke and I drink beer and I wait for this period in my life to be over.
And my inability to provide comfort and stand up for the person I love the most only enrages me more.
My mother has cancer, and this is no secret from anyone. I've been very open and honest with everyone I know regarding her condition: It sucks. She has cancer. But we found it early and we are currently undergoing radiation in hopes of deterring a recurrence.
My rage is not directed at cancer, exactly. Of course, if this had never happened, I'd never have to deal with this type of rage to begin with. But she does and life is the way it is. I learned young that you can't change circumstance, although you can say no to that last shot of tequila which can change curcumstance altogether.
My mother's doctors have been a bunch of assholes. I'm tyically very patient with people who are providing life-saving therapies for the people I love the most, but in this case, I just need to vent.
The surgeon was a complete and total fuckwit. If I knew what kind of car he drove and what a distributor cap looked like, his would be completely fucked up right now. We are done with him, thankfully, and once we were done with him I was glad to move on to the next set.
The oncologist, however, has not been any better. I have not met the woman in person, and from the stories I hear about her I am fairly glad. I'm pretty sure that if I did meet her, I would turn into a shrieking mass of hysteria, hair and run-on sentences abound in her office. I'd also surely mess up my 'breathe' and 'breath' while screaming to her about how I'm running out of breath. Or breathe. Whichever.
The problem is that I have all this rage in regards to the treatment these people have given my mother, and no one to direct it to. I don't know who to call and yell into the phone at, until I'm out of breath (breathe?) and my face turns blue; until my chest infection turns me into a dry heaving mass of confusion who no one can understand.
I only wish I were the type of person to write letters and make phone calls and yell into phones in my spare time. The problem is that my years in customer service have made me terrified to direct my rage at the innocent person behind the counter.
And so, instead of doing anything productive with the anger that lies inside me, I sit and I smoke and I drink beer and I wait for this period in my life to be over.
And my inability to provide comfort and stand up for the person I love the most only enrages me more.
Labels: bad at being a woman, Cancer, Life
posted by Amanda at 21:44
2 Comments:
aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
*greatbigbearhugs*
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