Just In Case You Were Beginning to Think I Was a Brat

My mum had surgery the week before Christmas. She had to have an epigastric hernia removed.  An epigastric hernia is a hole in between your ribcage and belly button that appears to be a bulge when viewed externally. It's caused by weakness or a defect in your abdominal muscles. Epigastric hernias are not usually harmful, but her colon was sticking out of it. (Gross I know.) Anyway, she went to this surgeon in Philidelphia, at Jefferson University Hospital. He removed it, no problem. But this week, starting Monday, she began to feel sick. She barely got out of bed. Thursday when I came home from school, she begged me to give her a hug. My mum was scorching hot. Literally. I jumped back when I touched her skin.

We called the surgeon and he told us to bring her to Phili, to the E.R., so that he could see her. We waited for two hours for my sister to get back from work, took a while packing things up and getting gas, and hit 95 North. We got to PA around 8:30 p.m. They took her back within an half hour because the doctor called one of the residents and told them it was of top importance. They opened the sight of the surgery and a bunch of puss and stuff came out. It was infected. Rather that stitching it back up, they left it open. Just packed the wound and dressed it.

The three of us stayed with my mum overnight, and in the morning my sister and grandfather went back to Baltimore. I stayed. With my mum. Whom I want to hate. Very badly. And for good reason, too. I stayed and helped her. Helped her get out of bed to go to the restroom. Fetched her whatever she needed. Mind you, I'm the child that everyone constantly scolds for being mean. I'm the one who's fussed at repeatedly. I'm a brat. I'm a bitch. Blah, blah, blah. Only I can't be so bad, can I? Because I could've said, "No I refuse to stay. I have a sleepover to go to tonight." And I could've just stayed to get out of going to school and doing my Bio presentation and just sat around the whole time like, "I'm not helping you. There are plenty of nurses that get payed to do this shit." But I didn't. Because as much as I hate it, I felt something while I stood there, watching her weak and frail. Someone so proud and bitchy laying there pleading for help. And I helped. Mean, bitchy offspring of a bitchy control freak mother that I am, I still helped. So what now? Am I still a brat? Huh, Mum? Am I a brat now?