...and that is not the word I wanted to use here, but my dad did ask me to clean up the language, and as I've put a card or two of his late in the mail (in the past, thank you!), I figured that I could help make it up to him with a curse-free blog entry. You're welcome, Dad; hope you like it.
But I really am a jerk (insert foul language of your choosing here). I have had a busy week. The job demands at a vet practice can be rough. Little things that irk me become giant things that infuriate me when there are busy exam room doors, admits, anesthetics, treatments, all with a skeleton crew. Furry patients sometimes do not want to cooperate; fragile veins sometimes don't, either. Put a fragile vein into an angry furry beast & you have a flustered vet tech wannabe who starts to question every single one of her skills despite previous success. My lower back is screaming; my feet are, too. My right knee joined in the bitter chorus today, just to remind me that I am not a kid anymore, and that the physicality of pup-and-kit wrangling is tougher now than it was before, and bound to get tougher still as time stops for no man, beast, or stunning brunette with a Peter Pan complex.
I have some new scars-one actually looks like a zipper down the inside of my left forearm. I've never been into tattoos (having a father with a dozen of them takes away from their mystique), but I've been looking at my scars from vet medicine and thinking that I might just tattoo the names of the offending patient next to each one. Hey, if Walter's bite mark (Walter!) or Scout's claw marks are embedded into my skin for life, why not a stylized version of their names to go with them? Or maybe a paw pad? Or a smiling canine face (is he smiling? Or snarling?)? Mmm, must ponder.
What was my point? Oh, yeah, the jerk thing.
So, there is a Chicago-based writer with whom I am vaguely acquainted. I saw her perform at my first poetry slam at the Green Mill Lounge on my 30th birthday. She was fantastic. I saw her again when I went to another slam a couple of years later. We spoke briefly, and I was intrigued by her confidence, her talent. I would love to see her perform again, and I would love the chance to let her know that I admire her work.
I may not get that chance. I've recently found out that this very gifted woman, newly married, younger than me, is in the hospital. She had her large intestine removed as it was irreparably diseased. Her post-op experience has been described to me, and it is too horrifying to repeat here, or maybe anywhere. To make things worse, complications have developed, in the form of infections, blood clots, inert internal structures. Yet, through all of it, this person has maintained such a sense of optimism & strength that I can only stand in awe of her.
In awe, and greatly ashamed. Ashamed that I allow minor stresses to give rise to temper tantrums. Ashamed that I complain of joint pain when my intestines function fine even when I throw junk food at them. Ashamed that I cannot find a moment in a hectic day to be grateful that I made it to the age of 35 with the only scars on my skin having come from working in a profession that I love, not from withering disease or major invasive surgery. Maybe I will have another bad day tomorrow, maybe I will not be able to hit a vein, maybe a thousand little things will get me going because I haven't yet figured out how to balance my passion against my ego. But I'll be able to get up from my bed, eat a breakfast of solid food, swallow without agony, and go to the bathroom without waiting for 4-6 months to heal.
Fuck it. Sorry, Dad, but your curse-free blog entry/present will have to wait. It's time to call it like it is: I am an enormous asshole.
-C.
10 years ago
3 comments:
Okay, first off, this will be really long. Prepare yourself and induldge me.
Second, you are way too hard on yourself. You should never compare your sorrow, grief, bad day, or whatever to someone else's. Regardless of how petty your problems seem compared to someone else's they are still yours and your feelings are still valid.
A brief story on how I learned this lesson: Brian was really sick in April, May and June. The doctors could not figure out what was wrong with him, and we still do not know. He is not 100% better, but he is no where near as bad as he was then. I spent April and May in a bit of a daze, on auto-pilot. I was scared. More scared than I have ever been in my life. My husband and best friend was sick, really sick and nothing the doctors did made him better. We had to face some tough realities at that point. Then, at the end of May, dear dear friend of ours lost their daughter in a car accident. Syd was 12 and beautiful and good and truly an amazing young woman. I still had my husband and my children. Our friends lost their oldest daughter and their life was torn apart. I thought to myself, shame on me, my grief is nothing compared to theirs.
About three weeks after Syd passed away I was sitting with my friend, and she asked how Brian was doing. I told her that he is fine. We are fine, and I tried to change th subject to how she is doing. She looked at me square in the eye and said, "Kathy do not make this about me. You are going through a tough time, let me be there for you." She went on to say that I whatever each of our trials may be they are ours, comparing trials will do nothing to make us feel better, comparing trials will not take our trials away, it will only make us feel worse. I was humbled by the charity and compassion of my friend. I continue to be humbled by her strength. It is hard not to compare sorrows, but she reminds me that we should not.
So my dear, dear friend and cousin, you had a bad day; you are not a jerk. You are compassionate and considerate, and, again, most certainly not a jerk. I love you.
Kat-Thanks for your story. I had read about the trials with Brian and I sincerely hope that a solution can be fully discovered. And my heart goes out to your friend; I cannot imagine greater heartache than having to bury a child.
But now, take a look at the finer points of my blog entry:
"I allow minor stresses to give way to temper tantrums"
"I complain of joint pain"
"I cannot find a moment in a hectic day to be grateful"
Yes, we are entitled to bad moments; even though I am, as you said, hard on myself, this I understand and accept. But my problem is that, in my passion for excellence, I allow my ego to take over the bad moments and stretch them into bad days. When stressed, I tend to indulge in "catastrophic" thinking, making bad moments stretch into bad days, or weeks, or even months. I indulge in self-pity, which is never useful. And I am short-tempered with those around me, which I have battled my whole life and will no doubt have to continue to for the rest of it.
My point is, despite any bad moments that I am entitled to have, I could make my own life easier by being grateful for all that I do have. This woman that I refer to does exactly that, and I would be wise & happy to follow her example.
This is a lot to get into on a blog. Email me if you want to discuss this further. (Maybe we'll have a little time this weekend?_
Point taken. I will keep this brief. I understand the "in my passion for excellence, I allow my ego to take over the bad moments and stretch them into bad days." I am guilty of that, too. Just so long as you know that you are too hard on yourself. :-)
Post a Comment