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 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?

Anyway, after my folks decided, "We thought it we just ignored him, he'd go away," I got concerned after time had passed so looked up one of those crime report sites, saw a crime had been reported at their address, and called a welfare check out of concern.  Using the law as a cudgel got them no penalties; calling in something out of genuine concern got submitted to evidence as another example of my "harassment."

(On the "we thought if we just ignored him" thing: makes me wonder what a woman with an acid tongue who prides herself on her ability to be passive aggressive meant here. If memory serves, one of the texts that warranted the 'ignore' treatment was saying I was happy I'd beaten my 'expiration date.' See, a doctor suspected I had ascites and the nurse told me something like good luck and 'sometimes miracles happen.' And that first recovery was brutal. But that expiration date was mid-January of this year and to quote Elton, "I'm still standing." Anyway, "ignore him... go away," with an ailment that has a pretty low survival rate? Seems a little nasty).

It is just a funny ol' world, doncha think? 

—

*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.