27 October 2013

Rambling about this and that

GEEZ. This has taken me a whole week to write. Busy, busy Luna.

I went back to the Option Institute for another course in the Son-Rise Program. Last week [week before last, now], I flew to New York (via Vancouver and Toronto) and then took a bus and then a cab to get there. It was a massive pain in the ass and the wallet. And it was worth every minute and every cent. I've been back for three days, and already Crackle is making better eye contact. Not kidding. Even the employees have mentioned it.

Maximum Impact, the name of the course I took, is amazing. It's about transforming myself into a force of nature, someone who can make anything happen. Watch the fuck out, Dr. Fuckface (see previous post). It was very freeing and very empowering. It seems like common sense, and to some extent it is, but breaking it down in to tiny steps is seriously useful. They did that very well, and I walked away from it feeling much calmer, more relaxed, and just plain sure of myself.

My favourite part is remembering that I can be happy about anything, and that it's okay if I'm not. But if I want to be, I CAN. And that's really, really empowering. So many lessons though. "Love First, Act Second" might be my new words to live by.

And you know what's really truly cool? The lessons we got at church last week and this week fit in perfectly with the Son-Rise program principles. Today, the scripture was the story of the Samaritan woman whom Jesus approached at the well and asked for a drink of water (*gasp*). He knew her for who she was, an outcast among outcasts, and loved her. Not despite it. But for who she was. How very much like the teachings at Max Impact. To love people as they are, for who they are, not despite who they are. To accept them wholeheartedly.

And last week, the story of the woman who came begging for healing for her daughter, someone afflicted by demons (which, by the way, is what some people still believe autism is. I'm not kidding. SMH.) Jesus sent her away and then changed his mind when she said that even dogs are fed by the crumbs their masters drop. Damn skippy. That's a lady who can fight for her kid. MY lesson was that a mother's love can change anything, even the mind of Jesus. But I think the message was supposed to be that Jesus decided there and then that God's love was for everyone.

You know what's kind of awesome? I didn't get angry this week. Not once. Oh sure, plenty of crap happened that I didn't like, but I didn't choose to be angry about any of it. Not Duffy/Wallin/Brazeau/Stevil. Not the rapes at UBC. Not the "Oh, we're not telling you how that law will affect you until after it's passed" thing that Clement came up with this week. None of it. I just decided that a) I'd do what I could, which was very little except boosting the signal; b) My anger wouldn't help anyone, including myself, so nope, not doing it. Not that it would be bad or something if I did. I just didn't want to, so I didn't. I like that.

I have learned that anger comes from fear. Every. Single. Time. Though, I'm openminded enough to work through an example that someone thinks is something else. Not to prove I'm right, but to see where I'm wrong. If you'd asked me a year ago what scared me, I'd say "dentistry and rats". Nothing else. I wasn't scared of anything, and fuck you if you said otherwise. Then ask me what makes me angry. The list is much much longer. I could go on for hours about shit I was mad about.

I'm angry with Dr. Fuckface, for example, because I'm afraid for my Mom's life, and I'm afraid of what he's doing to other people. I'm angry with Stevil because I'm afraid of what he's doing to Canada. I know I won't like it, and I'm afraid to live in the awful dystopia he seems to be creating. I'm angry with Crackle (not anymore, but I was) because I was afraid that his noises would mean I would lose my hearing, or my sanity. Or first one, then the other. Etc. This is simplified, by the way. It's much more complex. But this is the boiled down version. And so screw it. I'm deciding not to be as afraid as I used to be. If Stevil wrecks Canada, I'll live. If my Mom dies, it'll suck, but I'll live. If Crackle never stops screaming, I'll wear earplugs and miss the UPS guy, but I'll be okay. And in the meantime, I'll work my ass off to see that none of these things happen. But I'm not going to fear them any more.

11 October 2013

Throat Punch Thursday (a day late): Doctors. Again.

Dear Mom's Doctor (henceforth to be called Dr. Fuckface),

Dr. Fuckface, you have been my Mom's doctor for over 40 years. For many years, until the pelvic that made me cry, you were my doctor. I hate you. I hate you with the fury of the fire of a thousand suns. I hate your children. I hate your parents. If I could go back in time and wipe out your entire family line, I would. I hate you that much.

I know I'm supposed to be embracing happiness, and I can definitely talk the talk, but I'm mad, so fuck you. Maybe this letter will help.

Right, so I hate you. I mean, I really fucking despise you, your stupid accent that should have gone away by now, your stupid face. And why? Other than the aforementioned pelvic from hell? Other than totally missing that I had Celiac Disease for years? Other than declaring my favourite uncle in perfect health the day before he died of a massive coronary? Other than telling my Dad, who had heart disease, that he didn't need to be on a special diet? Other than all that? Because you suck. You suck as a doctor. You suck as a human.

When my Dad died, of totally preventable heart disease (that you also missed), you phoned my Mom on the day of the funeral. I was almost ready to forgive you then, but then it turned out you were calling to offer her anti-depressants, not condolence. Fuck off. She was grieving. Not clinically depressed. You shill.

When she was getting sicker and sicker, her kidneys failing, you blamed it on grief. You never once noticed that she was losing weight. Until she told you. And you said, "That's normal, dear. You need to eat more." When Mom told you she was eating fine, thank you, you literally guffawed at her. You condescending assclown.

When Mom was down 1/3 of her body weight, it finally clued in that she might be sick. By then it was too late. The cancer had destroyed her kidneys. Of course, you and your band of fucknuts didn't know it was cancer yet then. But had you done a simple blood test back when she first complained, you'd have seen what her kidneys were doing. Oh, and I'm no doctor, but even I know that peripheral edema is a great big warning sign. But you told her it was hot outside, and she should sit down more. And you know what else? This is your fault. Because you missed it. And you know why you missed it? Because you refuse to listen to more than one "complaint" per visit. Do you not see how fucking asinine that is? You cannot ever see the big picture if you won't listen to your patient tell you how she's feeling! But you want people to come back over and over, to make you more money. You sleazy pusbag. What's worse is that there's a 6 week wait to get in. There's simply no way you can be an effective doctor for someone who is actually sick. Not the sniffles. Sick. You slimy, greedy, motherfucker.

So Mom went on dialysis. And got test after test to get a transplant. Which she was never qualified for, but that's a letter to another rectal wart of a doctor. And you continued to do nothing but her annual physical and the odd sinus infection. That's fine. That's your job. To do the things I could do if they let me. Never once did you apologise to her for the predicament you got her into. Never once did you even talk to her about what was going on.

Except for the original test. Oh, that was fun. You told Mom over the phone what it said on the test. You literally read the test result to her, without interpretation. You said, "... and that could be from your lymphoma or..." And Mom thought she had lymphoma. She called all her family to tell them. I came out from BC to be with her. I came to her next appointment and asked about that last test. And that's when I figured out she didn't have the cancer you told her she had! Because of your casual use of the word "your", Mom thought she had cancer. Even after you read it again, she would have thought that had I not been there. Just for that, Dr. Fuckface, I hope you are misdiagnosed with something so you can feel the fear and then the embarrassment you put my Mom through. You insensitive, heartless, ratbastard.

And what actually prompted this letter of love today? Mom went to you for her annual exam. God knows why, since her nephrologist and oncologist basically handle all her care, but she went. And she brought the info about the cancer, since just last week did the oncologist decide it was time for chemo. She had a simple question about a lab, and just needed to talk for a second. And you told her to put it away. You interrupted her in her first sentence to tell her you would not talk about that. At all. You wouldn't even let her tell you she was scared. She's been seeing you for over 40 years. And you wouldn't let her talk for 5 minutes. You son of a syphilitic pig fucker.

I hope when you die, you die alone and in pain. Confused and lonely. Because apparently you think that's good enough for your patients.

All my love (which is precisely none for you),