osodecanela (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
osodecanela) wrote2007-11-02 06:53 pm
osodecanela) wrote2007-11-02 06:53 pm
Entry tags:
From annoyed to distraught
What a bloody way to end an afternoon!
A few minutes past five, I left to go pick up my car at the repair shop. Took me 20 minutes to negotiate rush hour, then I walked in to the place to deal with the receptionist who'd been left with instructions on how much to collect from me, and what papers she needed me to sign or initial. The poor estimator has had a hell of a time with her personal life; in the three weeks since the shop has had my vehicle, her husband has been hospitalized as many times, most recently in the wee hours of this morning, when she brought him to the ER in congestive heart failure. The poor woman is being run ragged.
I paid them my deductible, as well as for the dings they removed (not from the accident), and then got to see my car. The repairs they did looked great. The paintless dent removal lived up to its reputation and at $195, was $5 less than the estimate, and well worth the money. Their repairs to the front end damage looked wonderful as well. We then drove, me in my car and the receptionist in the rental, over to their rental area so I could finish that end of the transaction. Driving the Mercedes felt a bit strange, thought I'm not sure if its because the car just has a different feel from the Prius I've been in for the past 3 weeks, or because they weren't able to completely align it, due to the bushings that are torn in the rear. I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy.
However, it was as I was taking my things out of the trunk of the rental, to put them in my own, that I spotted the damage to my rear passenger door. It was covered with gouges, not scratches, but gouges, some of them right down to the primer, and none of them had been there when I left them the car. The receptionist was half way across the parking lot when I called her back.
Showing her the damage I said, "I'm not taking the car back like this. This was not there when I left you my car." She asked what I wanted her to do. I told her I was leaving them the car and not returning the rental to them until this was taken care of. She said she understood, but she wasn't authorized to have this fixed. She is after all, just the receptionist, not the estimator in charge. It was already after 6pm and a Friday to boot. I'll have to take this up with the estimator Monday morning. Bloody wonderful.
As the Prius needed to have its oil changed, as well as a car wash thanks to an avian bombing, the rental agent, who just happens to be one of my patients, swapped it with another Prius, keeping it on the same contract, since as of today I've exhausted the rental coverage in my own insurance policy, and part of the shop's agreement with me was they're going to cover anything above what my insurance would cover.
This was however when my mood went from annoyance mixed with resignation, to angst tinged with guilt and despair. My mother called.
My mother and I have a difficult relationship. I'm an adult, a relatively accomplished middle-aged man, and yet somehow, nearly every conversation we have leaves me feeling both like damaged goods and a failure. I'm not above using a modicum of Jewish guilt on a patient not doing what I think they should, but I try to apply it judiciously. I learned how to use it at the feet of the master, my mother, who unfortunately uses it, not as a surgeon wielding a scalpel, but rather as a workman with a sledge.
Today is Mom's birthday. She turned 77 today and is not feeling well. The years of tobacco abuse are catching up with her I think and she's outlived everyone in her family of origin. Her siblings are now gone and she is older than either of them at the time of their deaths. Grandma is gone nearly 3 years now, having passed on at the tender age of 108, but unlike Mom, my aunt and uncle and my grandfather, she never touched a cigarette in her life. Mom was up to 3 packs per day when we were young kids and even though she quit back in the mid 70's, I fear it's catching up with her. Her breathing and lack of stamina scares her. Damn, it scares me. I called her, first at home, then on her cell, leaving her a message on each wishing her a happy birthday. I'd already given her the gift I'd gotten her, a rather exquisite opal pendant framed in 18K gold, when I saw her in LA earlier this month. She called me back just as I finished at the rental place.
The conversation started with her telling me my voice had given her the willies, singing her happy birthday. Apparently, I'd sounded like my uncle come back from the dead. She's told me from the time I was little, I carried my father's last name, but the face of her family; "You are a Freeman." Well then, why shouldn't I sound like my uncle? Mind you, this is the first time in 52 years I've been told I sounded like Uncle Sid, and frankly, I found the comparison disturbing. I was very fond of my uncle, but he smoked for over 60 years and his voice sounded like it.
After she thanked me for the cookbook I just scored for her on Ebay, gotten to replace a well-loved, but disintegrating copy acquired early in her marriage and now long out of print, the conversation went downhill from there. It started with her asking me why I hadn't told her about the complications of the new medication HER doc had prescribed for her, that she hadn't had time to fill before she came to California, that I subsequently brought her samples of, until she could fill the script back in NJ. Now while I don't prescribe this drug often, I am familiar with it and have never seen any problems with it, not that side effects are impossible. For Christ's sake though, I'm not the one who prescribed the drug! Then she started in on me about my weight and how my not dealing with it is going to kill her, continuing on with a litany of things she's read in the popular press, all of which I already know all to well. From there, the conversation segued to the party my sister threw for my brother-in-law's 50th birthday last weekend, and how lovely it was. It was a party I hadn't been invited to, as I don't speak with my sisters regularly or at least, regularly enough. In LA, she'd remarked how sad it was, I had 'divorced' my family, so why should my sister invite me, if I wouldn't have come anyway. Mom then commented how I never respond to my sister's emails. My sister's emails are, almost without exception, NEVER personal, but rather a forwarding of jokes or commentaries she gets in her own mail. It's the sort of stuff I almost never respond to, with anyone! This was when I reached a breaking point and much to my sadness, exploded.
My peace testimony disintegrated and I responded not kindly, but in anger, having had all my buttons pushed. The call lasted 25 minutes or so, and when I hung up, I felt horrid. I had a throbbing headache, and was nauseated, all of it emotionally generated. I felt like sitting there and crying. I'd been goaded into exploding at my own mother, who's elderly, far away and not well, and I'd been provoked into doing it, by my own mother. In the community I was raised in, that's something you just DON'T do. This is not 'white-shoes-after-labor-day' wrong or 'wear-white-to-your-second-wedding' kind of wrong. It's more like 'poison-the-neighbor's-cat' or 'steal-from-the-charity-box' kind of wrong. Once you've been this well indoctrinated with Jewish guilt, and you've just exploded at one of your parents, the pain continues for a while and worse, it becomes self-inflicted.
I think its now high time I went home. I hope tomorrow is a better day.
A few minutes past five, I left to go pick up my car at the repair shop. Took me 20 minutes to negotiate rush hour, then I walked in to the place to deal with the receptionist who'd been left with instructions on how much to collect from me, and what papers she needed me to sign or initial. The poor estimator has had a hell of a time with her personal life; in the three weeks since the shop has had my vehicle, her husband has been hospitalized as many times, most recently in the wee hours of this morning, when she brought him to the ER in congestive heart failure. The poor woman is being run ragged.
I paid them my deductible, as well as for the dings they removed (not from the accident), and then got to see my car. The repairs they did looked great. The paintless dent removal lived up to its reputation and at $195, was $5 less than the estimate, and well worth the money. Their repairs to the front end damage looked wonderful as well. We then drove, me in my car and the receptionist in the rental, over to their rental area so I could finish that end of the transaction. Driving the Mercedes felt a bit strange, thought I'm not sure if its because the car just has a different feel from the Prius I've been in for the past 3 weeks, or because they weren't able to completely align it, due to the bushings that are torn in the rear. I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy.
However, it was as I was taking my things out of the trunk of the rental, to put them in my own, that I spotted the damage to my rear passenger door. It was covered with gouges, not scratches, but gouges, some of them right down to the primer, and none of them had been there when I left them the car. The receptionist was half way across the parking lot when I called her back.
Showing her the damage I said, "I'm not taking the car back like this. This was not there when I left you my car." She asked what I wanted her to do. I told her I was leaving them the car and not returning the rental to them until this was taken care of. She said she understood, but she wasn't authorized to have this fixed. She is after all, just the receptionist, not the estimator in charge. It was already after 6pm and a Friday to boot. I'll have to take this up with the estimator Monday morning. Bloody wonderful.
As the Prius needed to have its oil changed, as well as a car wash thanks to an avian bombing, the rental agent, who just happens to be one of my patients, swapped it with another Prius, keeping it on the same contract, since as of today I've exhausted the rental coverage in my own insurance policy, and part of the shop's agreement with me was they're going to cover anything above what my insurance would cover.
This was however when my mood went from annoyance mixed with resignation, to angst tinged with guilt and despair. My mother called.
My mother and I have a difficult relationship. I'm an adult, a relatively accomplished middle-aged man, and yet somehow, nearly every conversation we have leaves me feeling both like damaged goods and a failure. I'm not above using a modicum of Jewish guilt on a patient not doing what I think they should, but I try to apply it judiciously. I learned how to use it at the feet of the master, my mother, who unfortunately uses it, not as a surgeon wielding a scalpel, but rather as a workman with a sledge.
Today is Mom's birthday. She turned 77 today and is not feeling well. The years of tobacco abuse are catching up with her I think and she's outlived everyone in her family of origin. Her siblings are now gone and she is older than either of them at the time of their deaths. Grandma is gone nearly 3 years now, having passed on at the tender age of 108, but unlike Mom, my aunt and uncle and my grandfather, she never touched a cigarette in her life. Mom was up to 3 packs per day when we were young kids and even though she quit back in the mid 70's, I fear it's catching up with her. Her breathing and lack of stamina scares her. Damn, it scares me. I called her, first at home, then on her cell, leaving her a message on each wishing her a happy birthday. I'd already given her the gift I'd gotten her, a rather exquisite opal pendant framed in 18K gold, when I saw her in LA earlier this month. She called me back just as I finished at the rental place.
The conversation started with her telling me my voice had given her the willies, singing her happy birthday. Apparently, I'd sounded like my uncle come back from the dead. She's told me from the time I was little, I carried my father's last name, but the face of her family; "You are a Freeman." Well then, why shouldn't I sound like my uncle? Mind you, this is the first time in 52 years I've been told I sounded like Uncle Sid, and frankly, I found the comparison disturbing. I was very fond of my uncle, but he smoked for over 60 years and his voice sounded like it.
After she thanked me for the cookbook I just scored for her on Ebay, gotten to replace a well-loved, but disintegrating copy acquired early in her marriage and now long out of print, the conversation went downhill from there. It started with her asking me why I hadn't told her about the complications of the new medication HER doc had prescribed for her, that she hadn't had time to fill before she came to California, that I subsequently brought her samples of, until she could fill the script back in NJ. Now while I don't prescribe this drug often, I am familiar with it and have never seen any problems with it, not that side effects are impossible. For Christ's sake though, I'm not the one who prescribed the drug! Then she started in on me about my weight and how my not dealing with it is going to kill her, continuing on with a litany of things she's read in the popular press, all of which I already know all to well. From there, the conversation segued to the party my sister threw for my brother-in-law's 50th birthday last weekend, and how lovely it was. It was a party I hadn't been invited to, as I don't speak with my sisters regularly or at least, regularly enough. In LA, she'd remarked how sad it was, I had 'divorced' my family, so why should my sister invite me, if I wouldn't have come anyway. Mom then commented how I never respond to my sister's emails. My sister's emails are, almost without exception, NEVER personal, but rather a forwarding of jokes or commentaries she gets in her own mail. It's the sort of stuff I almost never respond to, with anyone! This was when I reached a breaking point and much to my sadness, exploded.
My peace testimony disintegrated and I responded not kindly, but in anger, having had all my buttons pushed. The call lasted 25 minutes or so, and when I hung up, I felt horrid. I had a throbbing headache, and was nauseated, all of it emotionally generated. I felt like sitting there and crying. I'd been goaded into exploding at my own mother, who's elderly, far away and not well, and I'd been provoked into doing it, by my own mother. In the community I was raised in, that's something you just DON'T do. This is not 'white-shoes-after-labor-day' wrong or 'wear-white-to-your-second-wedding' kind of wrong. It's more like 'poison-the-neighbor's-cat' or 'steal-from-the-charity-box' kind of wrong. Once you've been this well indoctrinated with Jewish guilt, and you've just exploded at one of your parents, the pain continues for a while and worse, it becomes self-inflicted.
I think its now high time I went home. I hope tomorrow is a better day.
no subject
Parents who refuse to accept their children as adults sometimes bring such reactions on themselves when they continue treating their children like incompetent minors.
I reached the breaking point with my own mother once; at that time my parents split the year between Oregon (summer) and Arizona (winter). This worked out well for me, because it was a much shorter trip over for Thanksgiving and Xmas. Now, my mother liked my long hair, but she did NOT like the long beard - though, interestingly enough, she did like me bearded; she just preferred it shorter. Finally, on one visit I'd barely set my bag down when she started up with the "pinking shears in the night" bit - and I simply picked up my bag and headed back out the door, which shocked her.
When she asked why, I told her - forcefully, but politely - that I was an adult, and entitled to be treated like one. Since graduating college I hadn't asked - or needed to ask - my parents for a penny, held down a job, etc. She'd made her dislike of my beard clear, but now the polite and adult thing to do was for her to accept that it was my face, I didn't agree - and to drop the subject. I told her that if nagging me about my beard was more important to her than seeing me - then I'd simply leave.
It was never mentioned again. She was upset for a while, I didn't feel good about having lectured my mother - but in the long run, it was a positive thing.
Which is the long way round to saying that I think I understand what you're getting at; sometimes relations between parents and adult children are difficult, and one of the big sticking points is when the parents don't give their children the respect they're due. I can't help but think of all the old Jewish Mother jokes - her son's a doctor, she should be on Cloud Nine!
I hope you feel better soon, and find a way to settle things with your mother.
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As for 'my son the doctor', well, yeah, but I'm still the black sheep of the family. She can after all also say, my daughter the doctor and professor with a university chair, my son-in-law the doctor and professor with a university chair, my daughter and son-in-law, the successful dental entrepreneurs.......... I'm not the fair-haired child.
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