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Illness & Ressurection
Dec. 9th, 2006 01:11 pmIn the Never Say Things Can't Get Worse Because They Can and They Will Department, yesterday morning Ben got a call from brother Lew: seems Nancy, Ben's mother, was stricken with intense stomach pains in the middle of the night and carted off to the ER. Docs took one look and immediately booked her into the ICU. They operated yesterday – took out 90% of her colon. During the night her blood pressure peaked; this morning, her kidneys are shutting down.
No one is using the D word and even I – most tactless and undiplomatic of humans – would not think to bring it up though I have very, very gently initiated conversation with Ben about circumstances under which it might be advisable to fly East.
Sigh.
I'm not a big fan of my former mother-in-law but I will grant that underneath that controlling, domineering, judgmental surface – pretty far underneath, but still – she has a Good Heart. She's been very kind to my two boys, both the one related to her by blood and the one not. In fact, she's never distinguished between them in the slightest in her many kindnesses over the years. I honestly believe she considers Max every bit as much her grandson as Robin.
That's a big one.
Of course, she's always been a complete bitch to me. Didn't even bother to talk behind my back. I remember one incident in particular several years back when she started snarling at me for no reason at all: I didn't appreciate Ben as much as I should. "The only reason you can have that career of yours is because he's around to look after your home life," she snapped. This was just so wrong on so many levels that all I could do was to blink stupidly at her, an animal in a trap.
Then yesterday afternoon comes a call from ISM: Robin had flipped off his homeroom teacher, the officious and perpetually granny-gowned Mrs. Shepard.
Never above exploiting real life tragedy for my own selfish ends, I explain that Robin is under great emotional stress – beloved grandma in the hospital, prognosis uncertain, blah blah blah – and negotiate the automatic three-day suspension down to one.
I hate Mrs. Shepard and would love to flip her off myself. This made it hard to maintain a straight face while lecturing Robin on the gravity of his transgression.
"Do you know what this means?" I asked, configuring my hand with middle finger erect.
"Yeah, it means F U," said Robin.
"It's an ancient Italian gesture for an erect penis," I said. Who knows? Maybe that's true. "It signals immense disrespect and a desire to do physical injury. It's a threat."
Robin frowned. "You mean they think I want to have sex with Mrs. Shepard?"
"No, no, no! But it's incredibly disrespectful and even if you don't like Mrs. Shepard, you need to have respect for her position as your teacher!"
"Why?" asked Robin.
What do I tell him? Because some day you're going to be an adult and there are always going to be assholes telling you what to do?
We'd had yet another teacher/parent conference recently. Ben went.
"Robin is probably the brightest child in the school," Mr. Brandau, the science teacher, told Ben. "Look at Robin's grades – they're all either A+'s or F's."
Right. A's when he bothers to do the assignments; F's when he doesn't. At least we know he doesn't have ADD! It's all behavioral.
"But see the policy in the 7th and 8th grades is that all work has to be submitted in a timely fashion," Brandau continued. "No excuses. If it's a day late, he gets an F. That's the policy."
And finally – a friend emailed me a link to a writing contest sponsored by some literary agency I've never heard of.
I have a novel lying around that I haven't looked at for four years.
They're looking for novels.
I submitted it to a bunch of agents who rejected it. But one of the agents – Writers House – took the time to write me a series of emails about it. He thought it was very well written but suffered structurally from having too many POV characters, no one sympathetic enough to serve as the reader's proxy.
Maybe it's time to revise it. In my – ha! ha! – copious amounts of spare time.
No one is using the D word and even I – most tactless and undiplomatic of humans – would not think to bring it up though I have very, very gently initiated conversation with Ben about circumstances under which it might be advisable to fly East.
Sigh.
I'm not a big fan of my former mother-in-law but I will grant that underneath that controlling, domineering, judgmental surface – pretty far underneath, but still – she has a Good Heart. She's been very kind to my two boys, both the one related to her by blood and the one not. In fact, she's never distinguished between them in the slightest in her many kindnesses over the years. I honestly believe she considers Max every bit as much her grandson as Robin.
That's a big one.
Of course, she's always been a complete bitch to me. Didn't even bother to talk behind my back. I remember one incident in particular several years back when she started snarling at me for no reason at all: I didn't appreciate Ben as much as I should. "The only reason you can have that career of yours is because he's around to look after your home life," she snapped. This was just so wrong on so many levels that all I could do was to blink stupidly at her, an animal in a trap.
Then yesterday afternoon comes a call from ISM: Robin had flipped off his homeroom teacher, the officious and perpetually granny-gowned Mrs. Shepard.
Never above exploiting real life tragedy for my own selfish ends, I explain that Robin is under great emotional stress – beloved grandma in the hospital, prognosis uncertain, blah blah blah – and negotiate the automatic three-day suspension down to one.
I hate Mrs. Shepard and would love to flip her off myself. This made it hard to maintain a straight face while lecturing Robin on the gravity of his transgression.
"Do you know what this means?" I asked, configuring my hand with middle finger erect.
"Yeah, it means F U," said Robin.
"It's an ancient Italian gesture for an erect penis," I said. Who knows? Maybe that's true. "It signals immense disrespect and a desire to do physical injury. It's a threat."
Robin frowned. "You mean they think I want to have sex with Mrs. Shepard?"
"No, no, no! But it's incredibly disrespectful and even if you don't like Mrs. Shepard, you need to have respect for her position as your teacher!"
"Why?" asked Robin.
What do I tell him? Because some day you're going to be an adult and there are always going to be assholes telling you what to do?
We'd had yet another teacher/parent conference recently. Ben went.
"Robin is probably the brightest child in the school," Mr. Brandau, the science teacher, told Ben. "Look at Robin's grades – they're all either A+'s or F's."
Right. A's when he bothers to do the assignments; F's when he doesn't. At least we know he doesn't have ADD! It's all behavioral.
"But see the policy in the 7th and 8th grades is that all work has to be submitted in a timely fashion," Brandau continued. "No excuses. If it's a day late, he gets an F. That's the policy."
And finally – a friend emailed me a link to a writing contest sponsored by some literary agency I've never heard of.
I have a novel lying around that I haven't looked at for four years.
They're looking for novels.
I submitted it to a bunch of agents who rejected it. But one of the agents – Writers House – took the time to write me a series of emails about it. He thought it was very well written but suffered structurally from having too many POV characters, no one sympathetic enough to serve as the reader's proxy.
Maybe it's time to revise it. In my – ha! ha! – copious amounts of spare time.
