Clinton “Misspeaks”, The Rest Of Us Lie

If I was shot at, I would damn sure remember it.

If I told you I was shot at, I probably wouldn’t be smiling. I also probably wouldn’t be coy about it. I certainly wouldn’t be mistaken.

If I told you someone shot at me, and then you found out that was not true, what would you think? At best, you would think, oh, that Sonja, she was just trying to be funny. But then you realize there is nothing funny about being shot at. There is no punch line.

Most likely, you would conclude I was lying.

If I said I was mistaken, that would not wash as an explanation. Exaggerating? Not likely. Joking? Only if I said “… but it was just a car backfiring! ha ha ha!”

My credibility would be shot. You would silently wonder why I had bothered to lie in the first place, but it wouldn’t matter. From then on, you would always question what I told you. That is human nature.

Since I am not a politician, I would never to think to explain my story away by saying ”I misspoke.” What the hell does that mean, anyway? From my understanding of grammar and governmentspeak, it means “I lied. I told you something that NEVER happened. I didn’t think you would know the difference.”

You know, even though I may not have voted for Hilary Clinton, I am very disappointed in her. I hate to see the first woman candidate for president caught saying something so ridiculous, then following it up by insulting to America’s intelligence. I mean, she didn’t just say ”I caught a fish thaaaat long.”

Sniper fire isn’t a laughing matter… it killed my cousin in Iraq. If you had to duck and run from it, congratulations on surviving. But if you didn’t, it seems like you just want to make yourself look a little more patriotic, tougher, experienced in war, or whatever. In the end, you undermine every word that has ever come out of your mouth. All those years of public service and experience don’t mean so much. Deceit kills the trust of the voter.

We all know the difference between true and untrue… unless something in the Big Book of Rules has been amended, I don’t think there is a gray area.

Quiet Homecoming

I have to savor this moment, and all the moments to follow. I had to stop and write down how this feels. My son is being released from the hospital today. I am on my way to sit with him until his discharge papers catch up with him. And the next time we walk in this house, he will be at home without the symptoms of Crohn’s disease. He will be able to see his life now without looking through a lense of pain and limitations. It is a wonderful beginning for him. For all of us. Maybe we can actually get on with living now.

I feel years of worry just beginning to lift from my aching shoulders. Though I would carry that burden again in a minute if needed. Like I am needed now, about 15 miles away.

So I’m going to bring my son home.

Do Not Disturb

While the Easter Bunny was hopping from house to house last night, I sat in my son’s hospital room and tried to convince him that his nurse was not, in fact, a total idiot. Just someone new to her job, who did not realize how her ineptness at adding medication to his IV was stressing out her patient something awful.

He has a very short fuse right now. He had all his tubes removed the morning after the surgery. But the pain, the immobility, the fact that standing too long is impossible, the need of a shower and clean hair, plus the frustration of not being at home in his own bed has led him to kick everyone out of his room except me. Even his dad. To him, no one else is comforting… apparently anything they say to try to make this better annoys him to death.

And that’s fine. He has that right. I am intensely private myself when it comes to things like that. I don’t even like people showing up at my house without calling first. I know that people congregate around a sick family member with good intentions, but honestly, for some of us, it doesn’t help at all. While many may revel in the attention and love of their family around them, I am much like my son. Let me take a shower first!

The one factor in all that attention I don’t understand comes from people who never called, came by or even inquired about Dylan’s health until he’s “under the knife.” My father called the night before the surgery, after God-knows-how-long, and just announced that he would be coming down to the hospital.

Why?

I had to tell him Dylan doesn’t want him there. No one wants him there. He isn’t a part of Dylan’s life at any other time.  My father is also a pretty obnoxious person, who I absolutely cannot stand. I wanted to say just keep on doing what you’ve been doing: staying away. Works for me. Of course he hung up on me before I could ask to speak with my mother, although I believe she knows how to work a phone. Whatever. I don’t have time for that. 

In fact, I probably won’t post again for awhile. I haven’t checked my email in days and am putting off all the phone calls to return. I need to be there for Dylan, who is doing great, despite his mood. I don’t know when I can bring him home, but we’ll both be very relieved when I can. Then I won’t have to drive downtown everyday. He can order me around from down the hall.

Until next time … Happy Easter everyone….