Let this sink in. It explains a lot I think. From where comes a lot of my rage against society.
Let me tell you why I'm so bitter. Because my mother is going to risk surgery,—which just recently killed my sister—she's so broken and nearly unable to work her job. Only in order that she can return to that same job,—which is very likely the exact cause of needing the surgery in the first place—because she must finacially.
And it's Mother's Day to-day. And the step dad is all grumpy, yelling at the nephew for nothing at all really. And just generally in a shit mood. All day he's been, while my mother sleeps after having returned home from the job this morning, which she worked all last night.
And let me tell you why he's in such a shit mood, the step dad. He doesn't even know why himself. But I do.
Because he failed my mother. Because he is making her risk her life to get surgery only in order that she can return to her job, in order that she can continue to help pay for the bills, they live so far beyond their means, like most the rest of the States. Because he's financially unable to do it himself, pay for their way-of-life, in order to allow her to stay home from the job. It's come much sooner than he had expected.
After dinner we were sitting outside a bit before the rain began, my mother and I. The nephew was chasing round the damn dog in the yard. Her mind was elsewhere, I could see it in her face, my mother's.
I'd tried to explain this to her about a week ago. That surgery should be an absolute last option. "It is my last option," she'd said. Which I could only reply in shock, at how complacent she is, how resolved she is to risk her life before all other options are exhausted.
She doesn't understand me. I have to speak simply. To spell-it-out simply for her so that she can comprehend what I mean.
And I am failing her now.
You can sell the house, I said. Get a ranch, so that you don't have to climb stairs up and down every day. And you might as well consider yourself retired from the job too. Which is the cause of the problem in the first place. If you need money, you must find another way to make it.
"The doctor says I'll be able to return to work in 4 to 6 weeks," she says. "I hope it doesn't take 6." But wasn't the other doctor saying that it'll take 3 months to recover? "Which is why he's the old doctor," she says.
And I just feel like shaking her, I swear to god. Even in the face of destruction, we latch onto these damn jobs to which we've become so accustomed. The foolishness is astounding. It's tragic really.
What would you rather have? Your job? Or your health? your life?
"Don't say that," she says. "You'll scare me." What, because these doctors are butchers? You know it and I know it. Quit the job. Sell the house. Re-mold your life how you need to. Have you even tried marijuana? They say one of the main things it helps is arthritis.
And she hasn't even tried marijuana, the most simplest of these solutions. On she marches, instead, to surgery, to her date with destiny. Without exhausting all other options. For one, because the step dad has been such a strong opponent again marijuana—him again, yeah. Because it's a "drug." And his brother died over-dosing on drugs. Which has had to have effected my mother's desire to try it herself. Though she'd take whatever else the doctor suggested.
But I've failed my mother myself. I must admit. That I'm unable to take her from this slave driver, her husband, the step dad, and provide for her myself than ship her off to risk her life at the hands of the butcher.
And here they are, sitting downstairs in front of the TV watching and discussing "American Idol," or whatever the hell it is they're watching. The delusion-box of their generation, the damn television. If only they'd get up off their asses and try to get some money some other way, to save their own lives.
If only I could figure-it-out in time myself.