The Election Did This to Me

This week has been the longest month ever. I’ve been angry in my life, but only experienced true rage once before, when someone hurt one of my children. Anger has been percolating… building… I feel like I may turn into the female version of the Hulk… the Karen.

I’ll start with the first incident on this week’s rainy Monday. After occupational therapy, (I’m recuperating from another surgery.) cast back on my hand and wrist, I had to buy food because my 90-year-old mother eats.

I had chosen a cart with a defective wheel. It was too crowded to turn around, so I lived with my mistake. Gripped with one hand and trying to steer with my body, I avoided using my ornamental claw.

Wonky wheeled cart loaded, every item on the list checked. I chose to self-checkout because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I proceed to have that same imaginary conversation with myself:

“Did you find everything okay?” “Have you tried these before? Are they any good?” “Still raining?” “Did you do anything fun over the weekend?” 

I am annoying. 

The torrent hasn’t let up. Dragging my defective, loaded cart out of the store, despite my obvious struggles, two men flanked me, to ask for charitable donations. One, official looking, the other, not so much. They cancel each other out. I smile and keep shuffling, grunting under the weight of the wagon, directing it with one hand and my shoulder, rain pelting down. 

I gave pause to the realization that this was my reenactment of the rain scene from the film “The Notebook,” the cart is my lover. I continue to push my loaded metal boyfriend toward my car, trying not to swerve into parked cars with the bad wheel. 

Looking up through the deluge, I see the silhouette of a large man, over 6-feet tall, up ahead, slowly walking toward me (or the store.) Unencumbered with purchases because he’s heading in, I realize he’s playing chicken. He wants me to go around him, and I’m about to throw his ass down.

Mind you, I’m small, but rage has given me superpowers. I keep trudging. I am not slowing my snail’s pace. He finally steps aside, muttering a curse in another language. Listen, people, don’t try this at home; this isn’t my first rodeo. I can say “f*ck you” in five languages without thinking: I muttered, like he did, to myself, but despite the rain and clanking wheel, he still heard me. “What did you say to me?”

Did I use English?

I should have cursed in Greek, damn it. I ignored him and stayed the course with my full wondering wheeled cart, through puddles, all the while expecting to be attacked. Half hoping he’d give me a reason to kick his ass, I was ready, feeling an adrenaline rush, wanting to be challenged. Swords or pistols against this big bully. This urge has haunted me for a couple of weeks. It’s inexplicable.

It was dusk. There would have been witnesses, and I just don’t care anymore. Hit me. See what happens. I’m not sure what would happen, but I’m willing to find out. He did not come after me. I unloaded the cart and drove home, stopping to get my mother her flame grilled cow sandwich. (I’m vegan, so the cow smell defiling my car adds another layer of brood to my mood.)

On Tuesday, I shop with my daughter for a used car. It didn’t go as you would expect. The finance guy, a very handsome and put together, early middle-aged man, (wearing a wedding ring) asked me what happened to my hand. I offer him my short answer (not the fictional pickleball tournament gone wrong story I want to invent) I have arthritis. His eyes lit up, and he asks what kind. “Osteo.” Showing me his mangled hands, he says, “rheumatoid.” I pretended I hadn’t noticed. We bond over arthritis. I shared my entire medical history, starting with an injury in 2017. He assisted me by writing out the check for me because I’m left-handed, as he described his future surgery. Then looked me in the eye and said, “it’s defeating, isn’t it?” 

I nodded in agreement, trying not to cry… for him. I see a light at the end of my tunnel. Our types of arthritis are not the same. He wins that game of one-upmanship. I felt guilty when he offered sincere regret for my health problems. His is the more aggressive and debilitating autoimmune disorder, and I was heartbroken for him, but also thankful to have osteoporosis. I spent the day thinking about how lucky I am.

Wednesday means occupational therapy again. On my way out, I saw a text from my adult son asking for help. He had ignored my advice for two weeks to call someone for his ear pain. Now it was so bad he couldn’t sleep, eat, drink, or even drive himself to the doctor. I’ll make this short. I drove him to urgent care. My son waited inside the exam area, I remained in the lobby… forever, leaving an indelible butt dent in the new vinyl chair. We texted the entire time. The man, empowered by a medical certificate, spent two minutes with Thing-3. He told him he didn’t see any pink, then left the examination room.

Thing-3 appeared, waving at me to leave. As we walked out, he informed me they did nothing. The discharge notes advised him to schedule an appointment with an ear nose and throat specialist. That would take weeks. Isn’t this “URGENT CARE?”

Grrr. My son tried to stop me. I went back to the receptionist and said “HE NEEDS ANTIBIOTICS! I want to talk to the doctor.”

A few minutes later the nurse came out with a bodyguard. I smirked at them both because I knew what this was. To them, I was Karen. I repeated: he’s been suffering for two weeks. 

“The doctor said he should take Tylenol.” 

He has been. He can’t eat, drink, sleep, or drive because he is in pain. It’s an infection! 

“The doctor did not see any pink.” 

I was Dorothy trying to see The Wizard of Oz. I showed them my teeth, said thank you, and we left.

We went directly to another urgent care center, where my son was diagnosed with an acute inner ear infection and an acute middle ear infection. He had a fever. He got his antibiotics- pills and drops. Thing-3 spent that night on my couch. 

I don’t recognize what day it is anymore. Matt Gaetz took himself out of the running for attorney general, but…

Mama bear spent all night writing letters and bad reviews. Yelp, Google, WebMD, corporate headquarters for the hospital. I used the M word once. (Malpractice)

I have raised three people and I recognize an ear infection. I was a fight attendant for over 25 years, and have experienced ruptured ear drums. Nothing makes me angrier than someone minimizing me or my children. 

I cleaned a bedroom for Thing-2 who is flying home for Thanksgiving. 

Today is Friday, and I’m emotionally wiped. I told one of my “Things” I think there is something wrong with me. I’m so angry, and it’s directed towards men. Thing said hmm… what happened two weeks ago to make you feel this way?

The election did this to me.