CHAOSTOCOSMOS

Tuesday, 15 July 2008

Does not compute

Here we go with the mother-related gripe of the day: this afternoon she went for a CT (computed tomography) scan, which, when she told me about it - only yesterday - in one of her blind panics (because she didn't understand what it was), she told me she was worried about being "closed in, inside a tube."

Since I happened to have had a CT scan a few years ago in Tenerife, I told her that it wasn't a tube, it was like a big donut you pass through (see) and wasn't at all horrible or enclosed. She continued to contradict me, as ever.

When she came home today, she announced that it was nowhere near as bad as she had imagined, so I said, lightly, "See, I told you it wasn't a tube."

"Oh, I never said it was a tube. I knew it wasn't", she snapped back, curtly.

Transpires she read a leaflet, AFTER she'd spoken to me (obviously, it agreed with what I'd told her.) She wasn't about to listen to a what I told her though and she could not bring herself to admit that I had informed her correctly.

No, she just stormed off, stage whispering about how dreadful I am.

Before you go putting this down to old age, which would be exceedingly easy to do, this is a carbon copy of a situation that occurred in 1973 (when I was 16 and she was only 49), when she was going to have a hysterectomy.

Being of the generation that didn't talk about "those things", I was sure she had absolutely no idea what this would mean and knew I was right, because she had worked herself up into a right frenzy of panic over it, mostly in fear of all sorts of weird assumptions. Never occurred to her to ask for facts.

Clearly, nobody in the health service considered the need to explain such minute details to anyone, so I tried. Well, could you leave someone to panic?

And for my trouble, she attacked me with nasty accusations, because only a "tart" could possibly know anything about it. Oh, so they only educate "tarts" in schools, or the pages of Cosmopolitan, do they? And, I wasn't believed.

Some people just won't be helped, obviously.

Pamela is a former accountant, recovering journalist and international cat herder, disabled and chronically sick with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Fibromyalgia and Cervical spondylosis, fluent in three languages; English, Spanish and Rubbish. Mostly writes in the latter. She likes Genealogy, Model Railways and Cats.

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