Fuck it.
My dad was in the hospital over the weekend. He'd been having a lot of problems with his kidneys, and I guess it got bad enough that he went in on Friday afternoon. For my dad to actually seek medical assistance, even now that he has cancer, is a fairly big deal. This is the man who poured an entire Fry Daddy of hot grease over his hand and said "hm....hon - could you get me a beer?" In the dictionary, next to the phrase "Typical Man" is a picture of my dad, smiling, splinting his own leg.
Anyway
He went in and after hours, literally, of waiting and starving the man and screwing up whether he needed and x-ray or a CT-scan, they took him into surgery and put stints in and let him go on Monday. (Yes, there was more, but that's the gist, wait wait wait, misinform, starve, wait wait, procedure, go home.)
He called me on Friday to let me know he was in the hospital and such. He sounded tired, but OK. We joked around a bit, and then we hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, my stepmother called me and told me that my dad had asked the doctor, point blank, how much time he has left and the doctor told him "a few more months."
So - there's that. And I've cried about it, and I'm starting to cry now that I see the words on the screen, and I'll cry again.
And I'd love to be a better writer, the type who could maybe find some sort of sense or nobility or peace or whatever in this. I'd love to be a poet. But I'm not. I'm just an annoying woman with a pain-in-the-ass kid and a talkative boyfriend and an obnoxious ex and two cats who shed all over her black clothing and a tenuous grasp on her job and a dad who's going to die, painfully, in a few months.
The Pollyanna in me tells me to find a bright side - at least this, and better off that. Fuck you, Pollyanna. Fuck you right in your stupid positive ass. I don't want to find a bright side. I want to cry and yell and stomp and pout and wail and gnash. I want to stand in the middle of Congress Avenue and scream at the top of my lungs, "FUCK YOU, GOD!" I want to drink until I'm numb. I want to run until my legs give out and my lungs burn and I pass out from exhaustion. I want to crawl under my bed and hide for 10 years. I want to wallow.
Bright side my ass.
Things suck right now. Period. Pass the wine.
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5 comments:
Jesus. That's really awful. I'm sorry.
Thank you. I felt really weird posting about this, but it's just what came out when I hit the keyboard. Feh.
Cancer! Bah!!!
I'm really sorry for your pain. And I understand what you are feeling. My sis died at 32, leaving 3 sweet, tiny children and I've been pissed at God about it for 19 years now.
Kel
i have been reading ur stuff for a while now and never said anything. i think ur a very funny sweet lady and all i can say is i'm so sorry, really there are no "right" words to say at a time like this. i wish i could give u a big hug. hugs always make me feel better, or at least make me feel like i'm not alone and i would try and make u laugh. laugh helps us get through the tough times as well. many thoughs and prayers are with you and your family.
Carrie
HONEEEEE! I'm so sorry. Let's meet up in San Marcos and I'll buy you some college-bar shots.
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