Monday, March 08, 2004
here's to you, Ms. von Munchausen
As I return home from a long day at the hospital, I notice the fattest honking gecko I have ever seen basking comfortably in the warm incandescent glow of the porch light, waiting for his next meal to haplessly flutter into the light.
Maybe it's because I spent the day in a vain search for expletives to accurately and adequately express my anger at you, you god damned bitch ass cunt of a whore, Ms. von Munchausen; but as I stand blank-faced at the door, key in hand, it occurs to me that this is an apt metaphor to describe you. You are a bloated scaly cold-blooded reptile, waiting to devour the next child who is haplessly placed by the State Child Protection Agency into what they perceive to be the bright light of your so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.
I have just returned from spending the past 14 or so hours in a hospital room with The Boy. I make myself a double vodka and Dr Pepper and wish, oh how I wish, that I had a fucking joint. Guess I'll have to settle for a Camel. C'mon, it's no big deal, we've all had days like that. I know you have.
I've seen your glassy eyed stare.
C'mon now, don't give me any grief, I know a bit of booze and a bong hit can't possibly match the vast cornucopia of pharmaceuticals you have access to, but Hey! I can't steal drugs from children. Really now, what's an honest man to do?
I just left The Boy in the arms of The Wife. She is spending the night at the hospital, holding and comforting The Boy, so he doesn't wake up tonight like he did last night, with a you, a stranger in his life, hunched over him, doing things to him. Of course, there is the obvious difference that unlike last night, tonight it will be a hospital nurse with the intent to heal, not you with the intent to harm. But to The Boy, a stranger is a stranger. If he doesn't know you, he's got no reason to trust you. And he will react to you the way any two year old does when confronted with the actions of a stranger: with fear.
So The Wife is staying with him tonight at the hospital, because The Boy needs and deserves to be with somebody he knows and trusts, and I have to go to work in about 5 hours.
Well you see, how very unlike you we are, Ms. von Munchausen? We love The Boy for being The Boy.
We don't claim to love him so that the rest of the world can see what wonderful martyrs and saints we are for sacrificing our lives to care for him. We don't love him for the giant monthly Medicaid and State-aid check he causes the postman to deliver to our door every month. We just love him.
When I left his side an hour or so ago he had eight different tubes and wires connected to or coming out of his body.
In my mind, I have this vision, like some kinda dream, where I'm given a scapel, or preferably, a rusty dull old fishing knife, and the chance to insert the tubes and wires into you. I promise to show you all the care and compassion you've shown The Boy.
All this because, my way more acidic than sweet Ms. von Munchausen; because you got a little crazy last night and performed an unnecessary medical procedure that apparently went horribly awry. You gagged him with a suction catheter until he stopped breathing to gratify your twisted desires to ruin the lives of children. I take small comfort in the fact that it frightened you enough to call for the ambulance.
If it hadn't, we would have spent this whole day with the Undertaker.
So fuck you, Ms. von Munchausen! Fuck you very much!
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Maybe it's because I spent the day in a vain search for expletives to accurately and adequately express my anger at you, you god damned bitch ass cunt of a whore, Ms. von Munchausen; but as I stand blank-faced at the door, key in hand, it occurs to me that this is an apt metaphor to describe you. You are a bloated scaly cold-blooded reptile, waiting to devour the next child who is haplessly placed by the State Child Protection Agency into what they perceive to be the bright light of your so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.
I have just returned from spending the past 14 or so hours in a hospital room with The Boy. I make myself a double vodka and Dr Pepper and wish, oh how I wish, that I had a fucking joint. Guess I'll have to settle for a Camel. C'mon, it's no big deal, we've all had days like that. I know you have.
I've seen your glassy eyed stare.
C'mon now, don't give me any grief, I know a bit of booze and a bong hit can't possibly match the vast cornucopia of pharmaceuticals you have access to, but Hey! I can't steal drugs from children. Really now, what's an honest man to do?
I just left The Boy in the arms of The Wife. She is spending the night at the hospital, holding and comforting The Boy, so he doesn't wake up tonight like he did last night, with a you, a stranger in his life, hunched over him, doing things to him. Of course, there is the obvious difference that unlike last night, tonight it will be a hospital nurse with the intent to heal, not you with the intent to harm. But to The Boy, a stranger is a stranger. If he doesn't know you, he's got no reason to trust you. And he will react to you the way any two year old does when confronted with the actions of a stranger: with fear.
So The Wife is staying with him tonight at the hospital, because The Boy needs and deserves to be with somebody he knows and trusts, and I have to go to work in about 5 hours.
Well you see, how very unlike you we are, Ms. von Munchausen? We love The Boy for being The Boy.
We don't claim to love him so that the rest of the world can see what wonderful martyrs and saints we are for sacrificing our lives to care for him. We don't love him for the giant monthly Medicaid and State-aid check he causes the postman to deliver to our door every month. We just love him.
When I left his side an hour or so ago he had eight different tubes and wires connected to or coming out of his body.
In my mind, I have this vision, like some kinda dream, where I'm given a scapel, or preferably, a rusty dull old fishing knife, and the chance to insert the tubes and wires into you. I promise to show you all the care and compassion you've shown The Boy.
All this because, my way more acidic than sweet Ms. von Munchausen; because you got a little crazy last night and performed an unnecessary medical procedure that apparently went horribly awry. You gagged him with a suction catheter until he stopped breathing to gratify your twisted desires to ruin the lives of children. I take small comfort in the fact that it frightened you enough to call for the ambulance.
If it hadn't, we would have spent this whole day with the Undertaker.
So fuck you, Ms. von Munchausen! Fuck you very much!
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