Of Tonsillectomies and Tongues

When we got home that night, the entire bathroom looked like something out of a horror film: blood on the mirror, the walls, the counter, the toilet, everywhere.

Ever spent hours as a little kid crying, cradling your arm, and being told you're seeking attention, then go to the doctor to find out one of your half-siblings negligently broke your arm in three places?

Ever have your parents moan and groan about how difficult it'll be to keep the cast away from water for months?

I have.

Fast forward.

Ever had your mother tell you she'd "rather you have raped a child," when she finds out you tried—was it weed? Might've been LSD—, you get angry, tell her that was disgusting, don't speak for months and the first thing you hear when you speak again is, "I don't even remember what it was you were so angry about."

Fast forward. 

Ever had a tonsillectomy? 

Ever noticed something didn’t feel right back there afterward, begged multiple people, even mom as a last, desperate resort for help getting to the hospital* and been told no because QFC had a good deal on produce and it was the last day of the ad?

Ever been rushed to the ER for it because it’d been neglected since childhood to save on costs (I'd have to pay after 18!) and the stitches or whatever used initially didn’t take? 

It was a lot of blood, the kind of thing you'd think might rank ahead of "produce sale" when it comes to priorities.

The doctor told me afterward the surgery should've been handled about fifteen or sixteen years earlier because it being neglected had led to intense scarring, thus a lifetime of tonsil stones, and that intense scarring meant the surgery would likely have complications. I would consider losing this much blood and a cauterization a "complication."

Ever had to be put under so it can be cauterized and waking up to someone telling you, “Guess who’s here” and panic as your then-partner tells you your mother’s lurking around in the waiting room, even though HIPAA laws meant she shouldn’t have known which hospital because it was never told her?

Ever have the nurse admonish you for panicking because, “You need to be nicer to your mother?"

Ever been ambushed in a wheelchair on your way out of the hospital?

(There’s another Ratched: she later informed me she was the one who found out after a nurse told her, “We can’t reveal patient names or information, but it you rephrase the question this way, I might be able to answer…”)

I have.

There were more bags, both those from the ride and those that had already been taken by nursing staff (wonderful people who deserve more respect and higher pay)

When the doctor who recommended the surgery saw me after the cauterizing, she said the scarring in the throat was so big she had a bad feeling this would happen because the tonsillectomy should have happened a very long time ago. When I mentioned this to mummy, she told me I should sue the doctor.

The bleeding just wouldn't stop: beginning to clot caused a scratchy feeling and made me cough it up, then it all started over again. Even when I managed to not cough, it inevitably started again because the blood dripped down my throat and, surprise: people aren't vampires, your stomach will make you vomit if it has too much blood in it, one of the nurses told me. It certainly felt that way.**

Let’s fast forward to my next, forced hospital visit. 

After you’ve been treated this way, it’s a little difficult to believe someone who storms out and claims they’ll “get you” for choosing walk-in tomorrow > ER today has your best interests at heart. Hard to believe any of 'em do.

On an ending: as a fun juxtaposition: when Mrs. "Get Me" got her payback out of anger instead of benevolence and made up lies, including a false affidavit, she was praised and walked away scot-free. From there on out, anytime any one of them wanted an immediate response, I'd get something like, 'Do I need to call in a check again?' to bring back those awful, traumatic memories and get me johnny-on-the-spot, "Yes, what do you need? I'm here." Before being ignored. Again. For weeks.

What else can you expect from the people who raised you with such lessons as, "I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it," or, "You need to be more grateful, I'm feeding, clothing, and putting a roof over your head for eighteen years," "You didn't come with an instruction manual" as an excuse for any abominable behavior, or, "After you, I got my tubes tied so we couldn't have another accident," or any of the awful shit bundled up tight and repressed for a long time?

—

*See, I had a car. I still do, now that I got it into my name. At the time I bought it from my grandparents (who had wanted to gift it to me, but my folks insisted [and probably pocketed the money, which allegedly came from my work wages and added up to the Blue Book of ~$3000; still doesn't account for all the missing wages]), I was a minor. So my mom put it in her name. When I raised her ire particularly high and went to drive away, she would threaten to call it in as stolen because "it's in my name still."

So, around the time of my move when she raised this threat again I parked the car in their driveway, called a buddy to pick me up, and left the keys because I was sick of having the threat waved over me whenever convenient. This meant I was unable to drive to the hospital myself.

**The medical term for what I had is a "peritonsillar abscess," or quinsy; I believe it's been discredited and a different diagnosis is the leading suspicion for cause, but at the time I had recurring ones, I recall reading some theories that a peritonsillar abscess is what killed George Washington.

—On the bright side, making lemonade out of lemons: I believe this was the year my family got lucky cause I was still on their health insurance at the time. My tonsil issues covered the whole deductible for the year, which made it easier for my folks after my mom slipped and did some serious damage to her rotator cuff.

According to what she told me later, the doctor told her the damage to her shoulder was so bad he usually only saw it in people who had worked hard labor jobs like construction a significant chunk of their life.

Would you like to know why she is that way?

Leykis 101. Dad took that seriously, not as a joke. A woman should be able to fit into her wedding dress. Five pounds means a comment about putting on weight. Ten to fifteen means a divorce. A constant string of comments about how good other women look while only giving backhanded compliments ("Don't say 'You look good,' say 'You look good compared to everyone here,''" was his Leykis-inspired example he'd give me) and those constant reminders about women aging poorly...

In the old house, mom had a picture that said, "Nothing tastes as good as looking thin feels." I've watched this woman most of my life call a few sips of water, 3-5 Triscuits, and a quarter to a third of a banana a "meal." She wakes up early in the morning to work out, walks on her breaks at work to keep in shape (she actually passed on to me a really neurotic habit of "pacing in place" because it's the only way she used to watch movies with us), and, like the mantle of coworker went from half-bro to me, as of a few years ago it was mom who gets to go out and toil behind a mower over the summer. 

I think that stopped after the first rotator cuff surgery didn't work and they essentially had to draw out and flay her muscle before pinning it to the bone so it wouldn't withdraw again. I don't know the details, I'm not a doctor and neither is she and I only got the secondhand account.

The reason her body is showing all that wear and tear is because she's a woman nearing retirement age who has spent decades overexerting a malnourished body so she doesn't put on more than a pound or two (weighs herself every morning!) and exacerbating her problems. 

Still isn't enough. One of my early "silent treatments" this year came when I pointed out that dear old dad had at one point in the past recommended I follow "Fort Worth Playboy" on then-Twitter. At the time that happened, my mom had been making comments about being upset with him—and my half-sister had been telling me the behavior he was engaging in that was making mom jealous and suspect an affair.

Well, wouldn't it be just my luck to see tips on how to make your partner jealous of the person you're having an affair with on that Twitter account—that perfectly aligned with what mom and half-sis were complaining about. At the time, I wasn't ready to process, let alone confront that conversation, so I tucked away the thought and tried to point out just how toxic that account was, which went about as well as you'd expect. Later, I let the whole family know.

Was there anything going on? I don't know, I'm just as inclined to believe the ol' shithead was brazenly, boorishly flirting regardless of how it was going over.

Let's not even get into my half-sister being kind enough to inform me that the armchair my incredibly kind ex's parents gave my mom to help after her surgery is basically a punishment she'd have to sleep on during her recovery if she upset him.  Nothing says "loving husband" and "I want to vomit, why the fuck are you telling me this?" like your half-sister explaining in detail that mom couldn't coordinate her hand and mouth properly and maybe text her cause she has to sleep on the chair and feels bad

She never said it to me, but I do recall that ex telling me at least once after a one-on-one conversation with her mom, "It's not the first time she's said, 'He tells these stories like he had this wholesome, all-American, apple pie upbringing.... but they're really fucked up.'"