After a brief hospital visit on Saturday, I was discharged home with a directive to make an appointment with my nephrologist, a small bottle of narcotic pain medication, a hole in my arm from IV fluid administration, and relentless attendant nausea and pain. I slept pretty well that evening – eventually – but the last few days have been rough.
In the shower this morning I cough and gag. I have steered clear of the narcotic pain medication as it makes me ill. Instead I load up on ibuprofen; only problem is, I’m supposed to eat when I take this stuff, and the nausea makes food difficult. I struggle some cereal down; hop in the car for my first day back at work..
I had a tidy two months off, and the time flew by. I’m surprised to find myself cheerful as I walk into the little government office where I work. I work with women who function as clerks; today I witness a man trying to bully one. He leaves, then comes back a few minutes later. In the meantime, my coworker has called for a bit of backup. Nothing dangerous but still. Unpleasant. “Ugly behavior,” I say, when he leaves. My coworkers cope with this sort of thing with a lot of dignity. They inspire me, because I’ve been disrespected recently and, even though I behaved myself, it still stings.
It’s beautiful out: stormy, but the sun breaking through now and then. Home from work (then yoga); my partner is searing garlic in a pan. My children are playing at their own enterprises; today was my daughter’s last-ever quiz in Biology so she’s happy. “Pay attention to me!” my son suddenly says, from the couch. He comes over and wraps me in his arms. “I love you. I missed you. Why were you gone so long?”
Why the hell do I give any good goddamn about how anyone else treats me, is what I’m wondering.
Why indeed? I’ve been struggling to remember this. People can be mean or judgmental, but my friends are not. My friends are lovely and amazing and why don’t I see myself the way they see me?
It took me almost seven decades to reach the place where “slings and arrows” don’t hurt as much as they used to. As a child raised with consistent parental criticism from one of my “parental unit,” I did NOT like to be criticized and lived in fear of the next criticism or insult.
I’m glad some younger women are reaching the realization sooner than I did, that what other people think is not usually a correct conclusion. I mean, who knows YOU better than YOU? No one!!