Kill Bill

Anger has never been a good emotion in my book. I try really hard to keep my temper and to not say things intentionally hurtful in my anger. I screw up all the time, sure. But I’m usually aware of it and I honestly can’t remember a time where I got angry and didn’t feel guilty for doing so afterwards.

Hey, whaddya know? There really is a first time for everything. Because today, the dentist who killed my mother with her negligence sent a sympathy card to the house. And I skipped right on over the Depression on the Kübler-Ross method and landed square in the middle of Rage. I have never been so righteously furious in all my life. I am livid and all I’m currently wishing for is a matched set of Kill Bill katana swords with which to slice these fools into ribbons.

Oh, I tried to call. Apparently their office closes at 1pm these days, so I was too late. And you might think that, as such, they got a reprieve, but you would be wrong. Tomorrow, oooooooh tomorrow. I have an entire evening to plan and perfect my speech. Tomorrow I will be unrelenting and I will be victorious. Tomorrow, I Kill Bill.

Here’s the thing. The dentist knew my mom had a heart condition. They also knew she had a dental infection and chose to send her home without antibiotics. The infection moved to her bloodstream, infected her heart and her spine, caused over 30 strokes, an open heart surgery and eight weeks of agony. The joke of a local hospital could have found it and cured it had they not been hell-bent on convincing us mom was an attention-seeking lunatic – I know this to be true because her primary doctor told the ER directly that her bloodwork showed an infection and that they needed to find it. She suffered, oh how she suffered. And these people think they can make that better with a sympathy card? Tomorrow, I’ll be making a few suggestions as to where you can put your thoughts and prayers.

I’m trying to stay G-rated because mom hates it when I curse, but this is the ultimate in bullshit. I don’t want your insipid, generic sympathy. I want my singing partner back. I want the twenty more years my kids should have had with their Gram. I want to stop crying all damn day. I want summers in the pool and I want to make fun of her patio lights and I want the whole world to feel like something other than a vortex of pain. I don’t want your sympathy, you morons. I want my mama back.

Depression is rage spread thin. Pile it altogether, bunch it up, slather it thick and you will see something else. Suddenly you’ve got a black and purple mountain of seething pain that just wants to hurt back. I’ve apologized for my temper more in the last three days than the last year of my life put together. There’s really no other way to explain my emotions but to say I HATE THIS AND IT SUCKS. And it might be immature to by sitting here looking forward to the verbal evisceration of a dentist, but I’m ok with immature right now.