Anger. It’s How I Deal
So my grandfather up and died.
In recent years he has had been falling down a lot. It is scary to see your grandfather walking along and then suddenly drop to the ground. He would always calmly get up and then look at me like I’m an idiot for being so freaked out about it. Every time it happened, I would wonder how he had not yet broken a bone.
And then he did.
He fell and broke his arm. My grandmother took him to the hospital where he then had a heart attack and died. In the fucking hospital!
Only in my one-horse, podunk town could a man have a heart attack in the hospital and not survive. I mean, does logic not dictate that a hospital would be the safest and best place to be if you just happen to have a heart attack? Well, not in my town. In fact, it probably decreased his chances. No wonder none of the citizens of that community want to go to the hospital when shit happens.
When I was a little kid, I stepped on a nail. It went through my foot and out the other end. I didn’t want to get in trouble so I didn’t tell anyone. I just wrapped my foot in toilet paper, stuffed it into a shoe and limped around until it got so infected that my parents could not help but discover the wound. Did they take me to the hospital? No. They held me down on the table while my great grandmother poked through the partially healed skin with a needle and then dumped peroxide in it until all of the puss foamed and bubbled out. Sounds painful and cruel, right? I thought so at the time. In fact, that is when my parents found out just how extensive my vocabulary of curse words happened to be. Turns out, though, my parents were probably saving my life by keeping me away from a death trap that poses as a hospital slash nursing home slash hospice. And all this time I’ve been carting around feelings of ill will over the lack of nurturing environment during my youth. Well not anymore. Now I just hold bitterness towards the nameless faces who run the facade of a hospital in a town full of people who have learned through experience and upbringing to take care of themselves.
Thank you, oh webisphere, for letting me rant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must pack my first aid kit should disaster strike on the way to my grandpa’s funeral*.
Folks, I know how kind and thoughtful each of you are but please don’t offer condolences in the comments section. I’m afraid I’m too angry (and perhaps tipsy) to respond to each one appropriately.
*I will not actually be packing for the funeral until next week.