Caterwauling

“But I feel that I should be heard loud and clear.
We all need a big reduction in amount of tears.”

Mom asked me to pray tonight. Here goes. …

Dear God,

I know we haven’t been on speaking terms for very long, really it’s only been since you helped me to find a job after that wretched period of my life. That you were there for me when I came back to you, hey, we’re cool.

You do remember that it was July 4, 1999, that I stopped having faith in you. The day you took my grandmother away — the day that fucked-up excuse of a hospital killed her.

I didn’t believe you could let one human being suffer so much. That you could stand by and let her get such shoddy, inexcusable care and let Satan of Silver Spring^TM continue walking this earth unscathed. I hoped that you welcomed my Gram with open arms, and then I turned and walked away.

So here we are with my grandfather — the man who raised me as his daughter, the only man who has never broken my heart — being tortured and abused and punished for some vendetta his so-called medical care staff has with the world. And where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?!?!

God is not in the hallways of the VA Medical Center on University Drive. There’s plenty of MRSA and VRSA and tuberculosis (gee thanks), but no sign of you.

(Incidentally, what the F? VA hospitals screening for staph — OK, I can overlook the fact that it seems to praise the Pittsburgh VA, but let me explain something. They aren’t fucking geniuses for colonizing the MRSA patients. You know where they’re located? IN THE PRIVATE ROOMS RIGHT OFF THE FUCKING ELEVATORS. Where people with weakened immune systems and visitors alike have to pass through. Let’s clap for stupidity.)

Have you seen their Web site? I am sure as the Almighty that you have a decent broadband connection. How can you let them get away wth saying “VA Pittsburgh Healthcare System – Nobody knows veterans like we do”? More like that nobody disgraces, disrespects or causes the death of veterans quite like them.

My grandfather is so proud of serving his country — he was a World War II hero. There was recently a special on The History Channel about his particular plattoon. The man has always been a god to me and to everyone who’s known him.

So when these ASSHOLES have signs around saying “Veterans First,” I must ask you first to whom? I want my tax dollars back if all I’m going to witness/hear are stories of their neverending series of screw-ups. I don’t want him to be someone’s afterthought — I don’t want to lose him to their ineptitude and I don’t think he has to suffer the consequences of it if he even DOES manage to hang in there.

I had taken my grandfather past a display case with fatigues, a canteen and all kinds of medals. And my proud, proud papa looked at all of it and said to me, “What for?” Meaning, why the fuck would anyone in their right fucking mind serve their country just to come back to be grateful simply to be alive. Was it worth it to sustain lifelong injuries and see horrors that they’re too proud to share but not strong enough to forget/overcome?

And you people WONDER why I’m against war?!?!

Mom is convinced he’s not coming back from this. He’s regressing, he’s fading, he’s ready to call it a day.

And all he did today, in moments of lucidity? Was ask where I was.

*sob*

God, I don’t ask you about my 13-hour workdays like today. I love my team and my work enough that they’re good hours. I try not to bug you with little, inconsequential requests. Yes, I oftentimes shout in your direction, “Why are you TORMENTING me?!?!” but I say it with love. Usually. 😉

I know there are people with worse problems than me, but I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for that wonderful man who’s done nothing but serve You and everyone around him to have his life back. This wasn’t a long, drawn-out, progressive illness. This is a series of 14-karat fuckups on the part of the people to whom we’re supposed to be entrusting his health that made him decline overnight. THEY should suffer. THEY can’t even give him something for the pain. THEY won’t even talk to me when I call because I’m not next-of-kin YET I can tell them more than their stupid asses know about anything.

In plain English, why in Your name is his precious, precious life entrusted to people who couldn’t find their own asses in a paper bag, and with both hands?

The next person, incidentally, who tells me that everything happens for a reason is going to get a Nine West shoe-induced tracheotomy. Is this Your plan? I should think you’d have higher standards for Your servants — are you going to let them get away with this?

It’s not my grandfather’s time to go and CERTAINLY not under these conditions. He should be at home in his bed in his pretty house surrounded by Mom and me and maybe even those obnoxious brothers of his who treat him about as well as the VA doctors but for some reason my grandfather loves them anyway.

I don’t know why the most vile, hateful creatures on earth will live forever and the best people either get fucked-up care (case in point) or no care (Mom).

God, I know I have no business demanding of you an explanation for the way things are. It’s Your plan, so they keep telling me. And frankly? I don’t WANT to know your plan. But what I DO want from you is your grace when it comes to my grandfather. Keep him alive for me. I’ve got so many things to tell him — so many things still left to do with him. He’s got so much to teach me and share with me and make me know that it exists.

We’ve had a good 32 years together. All I want is 20 more. He’s a young 80 — or, he was.

If you see this man, send him back where he belongs … with Mom and me.

In Your son’s name, Amen.

Love, Goddess

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 31st, 2006 at 12:57 AM and is filed under Existential Meanderings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.