The Weird Kid
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Something scarier than becoming your mother
My sister called to ask me, haltingly, if I'd go out with her on her birthday, for a drink. If I had time, if I wanted to. I know it is mostly because there will be no one else, never is anyone else. And I want to gather her up and dust her off and give her a blanket but instead I keep shouting.
No lectures, she asked, referencing our last meal out, where I began shouting in front of the waitress that Mr. Pibb sits comfortably high on the List of Things Insulin Dependent Diabetics Cannot Have.
"You choke down cheap sugar-free chocolate but drink two glasses of sugar soda??? You don't even have to chew before the sugar goes into your blood! Are you just done with kidneys?"
Now she is sick, with a cold, gone to see Mom's doctor, and I shouted again. My mother's doctor is actually, very actually, 85 years old, and tired, and loves to give out all kinds of pills. But my sister said that her sickness shouldn't prevent us from coming to Mom's for Thanksgiving because she went on antibiotics the day she felt sick.
I shouted, "You're taking antibiotics for a head cold??? You're the reason antibiotic-resistant strains of disease are felling the lower classes!!"
My sister said, "You're a real joy to talk too," and sounded hurt. Our mother took the phone and told me it was heading for her chest. All colds that begin like my sister's head for the chest and end up needing antibiotics.
I said, "I'm sorry Mother, I've forgotten what medical school your degree is from. University of My Talking Makes It True? I haven't taken antibiotics for five years."
And I hung up disgusted.
And now, I write it all down and find out, holy shit. What a snotty bitch.
I'm the difficult relative. I'm the pain. I'm the one they are obligated to love despite the tension I create. And that tension? The tension that makes them stammer their words and sound defeated? That's ME? I made that?
It's how they talked to Dad. And did they think they were free, when he died?
The really bad part is my five year old self is standing with her hands on her hips and saying, "Teach you to push me around. In 25 years it'll just take a phone call from me will make you all feel small and judged. Shoulda been nicer when you had the chance."
Happy Holidays.
No lectures, she asked, referencing our last meal out, where I began shouting in front of the waitress that Mr. Pibb sits comfortably high on the List of Things Insulin Dependent Diabetics Cannot Have.
"You choke down cheap sugar-free chocolate but drink two glasses of sugar soda??? You don't even have to chew before the sugar goes into your blood! Are you just done with kidneys?"
Now she is sick, with a cold, gone to see Mom's doctor, and I shouted again. My mother's doctor is actually, very actually, 85 years old, and tired, and loves to give out all kinds of pills. But my sister said that her sickness shouldn't prevent us from coming to Mom's for Thanksgiving because she went on antibiotics the day she felt sick.
I shouted, "You're taking antibiotics for a head cold??? You're the reason antibiotic-resistant strains of disease are felling the lower classes!!"
My sister said, "You're a real joy to talk too," and sounded hurt. Our mother took the phone and told me it was heading for her chest. All colds that begin like my sister's head for the chest and end up needing antibiotics.
I said, "I'm sorry Mother, I've forgotten what medical school your degree is from. University of My Talking Makes It True? I haven't taken antibiotics for five years."
And I hung up disgusted.
And now, I write it all down and find out, holy shit. What a snotty bitch.
I'm the difficult relative. I'm the pain. I'm the one they are obligated to love despite the tension I create. And that tension? The tension that makes them stammer their words and sound defeated? That's ME? I made that?
It's how they talked to Dad. And did they think they were free, when he died?
The really bad part is my five year old self is standing with her hands on her hips and saying, "Teach you to push me around. In 25 years it'll just take a phone call from me will make you all feel small and judged. Shoulda been nicer when you had the chance."
Happy Holidays.
posted by Imez at 9:29 PM
2 Comments:
When my dad died, I was sad, but I was happy that we wouldn't need to listen to his negative, critical, ignorant comments. It was only about six months before I realized that Dad had found his way into my brother Tim's body. That sucks. The beauty for you is that you're self-aware. You can change it. Tim denies that he's an asshole, soaked in sarcasm and repressed anger. I could easily love him if he wasn't so pigheaded and would admit when he's been a jerk.
Boy am I enjoying your blog, but boy am I seeing myself in some of your posts - for better or worse.
And if they'd all stop doing stupid shit, guess what? You wouldn't have to be the snotty bitch that reminds them that diabetics shouldn't slurp down Pibb and that pills don't solve everything.
I guess I'm not so self-aware...
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