All writers in Op Ed are here to inform and acknowledge issues of importance to our communities, however these writings represent the views and opinions of the authors and not necessarily of The Advertiser.  

By Linda Nidiffer

Before I tackle the nonsensical question issue I would like to sing the praises of the Merriwether Volunteer Firefighters and the Edgefield Ambulance service.  Yes, darn it, I had to revisit my love hate relationship with 911 because Tom was acting up again. This time he decided to have a temperature of 102.6 and was muttering gibberish—more so than usual which landed us in the E.R. and ICU once again.  This time it was a couple of infections that they had a little fun getting under control, but they got it under control in time for him to have his endoscopy which showed improvement.  So good news on that front, but a massive scare nonetheless.

Did your parental units ever say this to you, “You want to cry? C’mere I’ll give you something to cry about!”  I know that I am not the only one who heard that refrain, but I am wondering if that is a regional song of repression of emotions.  Is it a Midwestern thing? Or is it a parental thing?  My mother sang this tune with a wooden spoon in her hand so even though the question made no sense logically; we knew what she was saying.  Unfortunately, even though I promised myself that I would never ask my kids the question, I did. Sadly so did my daughter.

While Tom has been incarcerated in the hospital off and on these past few months I have been hard pressed to keep my emotions controlled.  He hates it when I cry.  My mother’s refrain of repression is still singing in my brain.  And God help anyone who cries in public—ever—not even at a funeral!  I will admit that I have had moments of weakness and have shed a few tears, but I have tried to hide them.  He has caught me a time or two and I have told him that I am allowed a “moment of weakness”.  That usually shuts both of us up.

But this past weekend I became broken.  I started to cry and I couldn’t stop.  I am not talking pretty crying either.  I am talking about thank God I don’t wear make-up crying.  So, I am wailing and sobbing in the bathroom of Tom’s room when a doctor comes into the room.  He is a doctor on the team that I have been trying to see for two days.  Tom finally gets my attention and when I come out shuddering with unshed tears, the genius observant doctor asks if I am alright!  Now I ask you gentle reader, is that a nonsensical question or not?  

Usually I would deflect and say, “Just a moment of weakness, I’ll be okay in a moment.”  But this time, I said, “Do I appear to be okay?  I am having a nervous breakdown. I don’t know if I will ever be okay again.”  That was my opening salvo.  I really wanted to be diplomatic because we have to deal with this medical group for quite some time, but I was broken.  Their dispassionate treatment turned me into a sobbing, heaving wreck.  I am still crying.  I am still broken maybe I can fix myself and maybe I can’t.  I can guarantee a scar on my soul. What we have now is medical services not health care because someone stole the caring.  Now that is something to cry about.