Warpaint

Somewhere along the way, the people of our country decided it was better to look good than actually be good. Money and youth were of far greater importance than kindness and compassion. And in that process, the less-thans are seen as uneducated and unintelligent. Big emotions are not dignified and as such viewed as less refined and lower class. The folks in the middle are generally fine, but too young or too old means you aren’t taken seriously. The perception of educated, middle class status is a golden ticket.

Nowhere in society is this more obvious or more dangerous than in a hospital. When I was a young mom with a tiny baby boy in serious distress, I was written off as hormonal, hysterical, postpartum. I was indeed all of those things, but I was also right – Noodle was in kidney failure and near death. The way I was treated in that process was illuminating on a really broad scale. I learned that the more composed I was, the more seriously I was taken. Concerns delivered through tears were histrionic and easily dismissable. I also received far better care and more engagement from the healthcare team when I was fresh from home, dressed and presentable, than when I’d slept the night in a chair next to a hospital crib. It is utter bullshit, but it’s legit. I have put these theories to the test over and over with Pook and I’ve never been wrong. The general consensus is that emotions are for the poor and weak while the composed and self-supporting are obviously smarter, more credible, better heard.

So my mom is having heart surgery today and I am nearly out of my head with fear and worry. I don’t think I’ve slept more than two hours a night all week. I woke up looking like something from The Walking Dead this morning – I’ll spare you a picture, just take my word for it, mmkay? And I wanted nothing more than to snooze the alarm for another 45 minutes and roll up to the hospital in sweats and yesterday’s eyeliner. But no, not today. Today my mom needs an advocate on their A-game. So it’s up and showered and jewelry and makeup. Gotta look the part, because obviously that’s more important than being real.

My dad will read this and shake his head, say that he just doesn’t give a crap what these people think about him. Let’s be clear: neither do I. This is not about self-conscious nonsense. This is about winning a battle that most people in the hospital don’t even know they’re fighting. This is about advocating for someone who will literally be unconscious for the next three days. This is about pushing for the best possible care for a woman who spent three weeks being told she was crazy and making this pain up for attention. This is about my mom, who sat up for the first time in a month yesterday, through screaming tears, because she wanted to fight. This is about the surgeon who told me that she’s got a 25% chance of not surviving surgery. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna show up in sweats for that – this is war and I’m armored up.

Eyebrow game strong. Jewelry clean. Eyes clear. Warpaint on.