measi's Diaryland Diary


post Christmas thoughts

I go home tomorrow. In many ways, I can't wait. Counting the hours. I never thought I'd say that about leaving home.

But it's not home anymore. Not even close.

Anne is an insensitive, childish bitch. She has extreme "sleeeee, I'm a victim!" qualities, much like Grace did. I can't stand that. I don't care what age a person is-- I just don't tolerate it with too much grace. I had to fight to keep from muttering how much she annoys me, and just try to keep a calm exterior. This woman is insane.

She's not "insecure." She's insane. In an incredibly immature, annoying way.

Case in point one-- on Christmas Eve, my dad was called by one of his partners (who was on-call that night) with an emergency that had been called in. One of my dad's patients was out visiting relatives in Washington State and was in premature labor. Since my dad's partner was at the hospital getting ready for a delivery, he asked my dad if he could swing by the office and get her chart to send over to the local hospital in Washington.

Dad headed over, spent a long time trying to access the computers (the nurses didn't have the access instructions on the wall near the records computer as they used to, and he couldn't find any of them at home via phone calls to help him through it). He finally found his most recent dictation notes, which were *all* he could get on her, since he couldn't find her case file number, and the hard copy was not on his desk or in the filing system.

He called that in to the hospital. This woman's about 23 weeks along, and he said she was almost definitely going to lose the baby. Merry fucking Christmas to her, eh?

So my dad comes home, very angry and frustrated-- understandably. Even if it is something that my dad couldn't have done to prevent it, he has to vent off some defeatist emotions when these types of things happen. He's her doctor, after all-- he's expected to know how to stop nature's will. And Anne starts pushing him a bit, commenting on how he shouldn't have gone down there on Christmas Eve since he wasn't on call, yadda yadda yadda. Completely insensitive, obnoxious remarks. And Dad started to get a bit angrier. He was venting at no one in particular. I know his behavior. I just said I was sorry, and hoped that his patient would be okay. Anne, once my dad had went into his office to call back his partner, gave this whiny "Well, he didn't have to take it out on US."

I looked at her, making sure my astonishment at her complete inconsiderateness was WELL VISIBLE and said "He wasn't. His patient just miscarried. It happens. He's upset. Wouldn't you be, if you were medically responsible for this woman?"

She just gave me a scowl. "He didn't have to take it out on us."

I just shook my head and walked out of the family room.

Now-- she's been married to him for three years. By now, she should have gotten an idea that when shitty things like this happen, especially around the holidays where they always seem to have that extra kick of pain, it's a bit rough being a doctor and seeing patients' fail with their dreams of parenthood. My dad's been doing this for thirty years. It doesn't get easier. He's watched the gamut of emotions from the joy of birth to the pains of losing both mother and child in complications.

She should know this by now. I had it figured out by age 11 that when dad's upset about work, just give him a wide berth. Say sorry, acknowlege his frustration, and let him calm down and sort through it on his own.

She has to prod. And then she whines when people get sick of getting prodded.

Case in point 2- We open gifts yesterday, and among the ones I got-- from Anne no less-- was a copy of Le Petit Prince in French, as I'd had on my Amazon wish-list, along with a book on French verb cases and a couple other books on writing that have looked interesting. Stuff that's pretty dry and possibly boring to the outside person, but stuff that I feel will help me tremendously with any writing that I plan do to-- and reading, since I have a number of books in French that I've never gotten through and would like to read eventually.

So right after I open them, she comments how she can't understand how someone would like these types of books.

Right after I open the things.

The day before, she'd been asking me why I didn't do anything professional with my writing, and I said that I simply couldn't find a well-paying job in-field, so I was doing what I could to pay the bills.

And here she is, right after I open a present that was something I specifically *wanted*, demanding to know why on earth I'd want something like that.

Ugh, the woman drives me insane.

Damn... Emily's home. Better save this and close screen so she doesn't see me trash-talking her mom.

~ Mel.

10:15 a.m. - 26 December 2002


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