mom, surgery, chuck

So my mom texts me and tells me to call her be­cause she had hand surgery yes­ter­day and can’t text.

I take the bait even though I know it’s bait be­cause why not, I slept 11 hours last night, I’m feel­ing pret­ty good today.

me:
“Hi mom what’s up?”

my mom:
“Oh I just want­ed to tell you I had hand surgery yes­ter­day and you know what? I was awake for the whole thing and I watched him do it, Car­olyn! Er, Emily!”
(There hasn’t been a sin­gle con­ver­sa­tion in the past ten years where she hasn’t called me Car­olyn at least once. That’s her sister’s name. She also did that to me a lot as a kid.)

me:
*bare­ly able to muster up any interest*
“Oh yeah?”

my mom:
“Yeah for my trig­ger fin­ger! So they gave me a lo­cal anes­thet­ic and com­plete­ly numbed my hand, and then when he cut into the skin there was hard­ly any blood. And …”
(She pro­ceed­ed to go into very graph­ic de­tail and at that mo­ment I was think­ing about that scene in Na­tion­al Lampoon’s Christ­mas Va­ca­tion (1989) where Ellen’s moth­er tells her she has he­m­or­rhoids, like, RIGHT af­ter they arrive.)

me:
break­ing her off
“Mom why are you telling me this?”

her:
*pause*
“I just think it’s cool.”
(Fuckin’ Marge Simp­son with the pota­to over here.)

me:
“It is cool but I just re­al­ly don’t need to hear all about it in graph­ic detail.”

her:
“Oh but it wasn’t gory at all! And check this out! There was a white thing in­side my hand and I asked if that was the bone and the doc­tor said, ‘no, move your fin­ger,’ and I saw it move and it was the tendon!”

me:
“Okay mom, se­ri­ous­ly though this stuff gets to me …”

her:
“Oh that’s right I guess I should have known since you faint­ed that one time when you cut your hand. But you were GUSH­ING blood and there was no blood at all with this!”

me:
“Yeahokaythat’sgreat so more im­por­tant­ly your fin­ger is go­ing to be okay?”

her:
“My hand, but yes, I’ll be alright.”

me:
“I’m re­al­ly glad to hear that. Was there any­thing else?”

her:
“Oh! Yes, check this out: I was at Wal­mart the oth­er day and I found ⁸⁰⁄₂₀ ground chuck, and you know how much it cost?”

me:
Not an­swer­ing and prob­a­bly mak­ing a face like an­noyed Jack Nicholson.

her:
“$2.98 a pound! Can you be­lieve it? So I bought a whole bunch and made tacos and lasagne and meat­balls and …”

me:
“That’s great mom.”

her:
“Any­way I just want­ed to wish you a Hap­py Thanks­giv­ing! I bought a small turkey breast for my­self but I for­got to take it out of the freez­er so I’ll be hav­ing thanks­giv­ing din­ner Sun­day night!”

me:
“You should be able to put it in a tub of cold wa­ter and get it to thaw faster as long as you keep the wa­ter cold and re­mem­ber to put it in the fridge.”

her:
“Oh yeah huh! I to­tal­ly for­got all about that! I’ll do that.”

me:
“Good. Well, I got­ta go mom but hap­py Thanks­giv­ing and I’m glad your hand is okay. Please take care of your­self, okay?

her:
“Oh I will! Hap­py Thanksgiving!”

*in my best Pat­ton Oswalt*
I PROMISE you that this EN­TIRE con­ver­sa­tion took place EX­ACT­LY like that.

 

—emi­ly duchaine

Flom­mist Emi­ly Duchaine lives in the Pa­cif­ic North­west. She likes to drink mead, learn about sharks, and lis­ten to the Talk­ing Heads. She pre­tends to be a pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness­woman most days. Copy­right © 2020 Emi­ly Duchaine.

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