Jesus Loves You, But I’ll Kick Your Ass

I’m back, weirdos! You asked for it! Now I’m gonna fill you in…

So, here I am counting down to Dylan’s surgery and I couldn’t help but post.

We are all a little anxious about the resection. As many of you know, our life has been in a holding pattern since we found out this was coming. Hell, it’s really been that way since we got the diagnosis of Crohn’s disease. But as dangerous and risky as surgery is, my son wants it more than anything. And I want it for him.

Still, I feel very stressed out. The insurance company keeps wanting proof of coverage in an attempt to get out of paying for this. I have to yet to obtain their “pre-certification” — as if some desk jockey can tell if my son needs surgery from a piece of f–ing paper.

And to top it off, here they come. My family.

So far, I have only a taunting comment on my blog, but I feel it beginning. The comment is under my brother’s name, but it reeks of his wife. Who misspells his own name? Besides, she loves causing trouble and she cannot spell. Two dead give-aways. The main reason I hate her: because she is a hypochondriac, always complaining of invisible ailments, while my son’s illness is all too real. There are other reasons, but I don’t have that kind of time.

Familiar is the feeling I always get before a huge family scandal, usually involving someone in the hospital who could do without all the bullshit. But this time, it isn’t me or my grandfather or grandmother in the hospital. It will be my son. And God help them, if after all this time, anyone tries to start trouble with me now.

Most normal people would wonder, why my brother or his wife would choose to argue with me on my blog? Why not an email or phone call? I’ll tell you why: because no one in my family has the nerve to say anything to each other. They have all mastered the art of passive aggressiveness to the point where one look can speak volumes of judgemental hate.

And let me be clear on the fact that out of my entire family, only my grandmother and my cousin call and ask about Dylan’s health. Not his grandparents, his aunt, his uncle, or even my aunts. My mother called me a couple of times after my paternal grandmother died, but where is she now? Under my father’s little thumb, I suppose. Talk about the absolute worst grandparents EVER. You’d never know they live 15 minutes away. That hurts. I want better for my son than that!

I am ashamed of my family… the way they gossip, the way they treat people,  the way they act as if they are better than others, although nothing is further from the truth. I had to overcome verbal and physical abuse by my father, a hypocrite who calls himself a Christian. His heart is full of racism and hate, worn proudly like it’s his Sunday best. From him, I learned how not to scream at or hit my child. I also learned there was no reason to hate other people, no matter our differences (apparently this does NOT apply to family…)

I guess you could say I won in the end. I stopped a cycle of abusive behavior. I made my own family. I came out ahead. And I feel that way – until one of them pops up to remind me — of everything I’d like to forget.