God has given me a mission: the mission is to suffer. My older sister greeted me this morning at 6:00 am at the local hospital. Being how she is considerably older than I am, I have to humor her, as she was filed with complaints and hardship stories. We met at the hospital to admit my Mother so she could remove a cancerous kidney. Gratefully, the operation was a huge success, and Mom is doing well. My older sister is not doing so well since she had a litany of complaints that I was compelled to listen to.
As I walked into the hospital, she greeted me at the revolving door, that if you misstep, makes a patient out of you. She was holding a cup of coffee so I knew she was really hyper, having left footprints on the ceiling of the hospital.
“I’ve got news for you, are you ready for this?” I being the sweet and kind brother that I am (also younger) listen. She begins by telling me that my brother-in-law has diabetes! You know why men die before their wives do? They want to. And I am sure my brother-in-law is now considering this as an option. She fails to mention that my Mother is either nervous or upset, or what kind of state she is in.
If it is not suffering enough, I have to listen how “he” was warned about his diet, and now he is on his own, no more concern on her part, as she yells and carries on about his eating habits. I say that if a man brings home a walnut coffee ring, fresh from the bakery, he is a saint, no, THE saint of all of heaven. If she continues to go on about this man, I will have to ask him to start bringing the coffee ring to my house.
After her litany of complaints, she makes the statement that if she ever had to give up anything, we could kiss her goodbye!
Next to arrive on the scene is my baby sister, the final act of torture perpetrated upon my person by my parents. Although not complaining, goes into immediate agreement about how helpless men are. I continue my suffering. I think, God if you are watching, give me a break. He does, another sister comes along. Right about now I’m thinking, “Maybe a kidney removal isn’t so bad”
Mom goes in for her operation as one by one we kiss her good luck and tell her we will see her after the operation in two hours. Since we have to wait for two hours, and it is 7:30 am, we decide to go for breakfast. I am starving, they are all three sisters, skinny. (I hate them) One picks a bowl of cereal; one has a bagel, and one just coffee. I see and smell scrambled eggs, I see bacon, and I see Kaiser rolls with the little black seeds! I strike, “I’ll have two scrambled with bacon on a Kaiser roll. I figure I’ll hold the butter, no sense in over doing it. I take my tray with my breakfast sandwich, get a fresh brew of java, and march proudly to a table. I think “maybe they’ll sit somewhere else so I can eat this in peace” One by one they descend down around me. Covering all the space in the booth. I pretend I don’t see them as they start to put their mouths in motion. One of them spots my meager breakfast and points it out. “Hey, look at what he’s eating!” “You’re not supposed to eat that!” “I’m telling Ellen on you.” Boy, the meanness really comes out of these broads! I begin to explain how the doctor said I could eat this, since it helps to motivate my diet. They look confused, and I think, it is working! They are buying my explanation! Now although the doctor didn’t exactly say it in the order of the words I laid out, I figure he has used these words in one form or another, so I don’t consider it a lie.
We return to the waiting room to wait out the last hour. My Mother, being a volunteer at the hospital, has made many friends there. One by one little old ladies in volunteer uniforms file by paying their respects. Soon the nurses start doing the same. We are introduced to the cafeteria staff; I’m starting to feel like the son of a Mafia Don. Who shows up carrying a book on diabetes? Why it’s my brother-in-law, looking scared and haggard as my oldest sister looks on. He has a plan, a very good plan. He will bury his nose into the book, pretend he is reading, and my older sister (much older) will not berate him.
One by one we visit Mom after her operation. She complains about how her side hurts from the cracked rib, and I assure her that the pain will be gone before she knows it. I explain to her that although it hurts like getting hit with one of her wooden spoons on me, unlike the wooden spoon pain, it will go away. What do I know, but what could I say. I just hope the pain does leave soon, before she comes after me with one of her wooden spoons for lying to her.
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