"Am I going to hell, Doc?"

One of my talents is apparently offending people. I will flaunt that talent in this post. If you are offended by my views on religion, great. If not, also great.

A thing that drives me nuts is the various modern Christian translations of the Torah. I was called in a while ago to work for an emergency. Got there, opened the kid up, had some issues and had to close him, then sit around and wait. So, taking use of the wait time, I visited a few of my kids.

One of my kids, a quiet sixteen year old, asked me to read something for her. I picked the book and scanned it quickly before reading it aloud. The passage she wanted me to read was a bastardized version of Leviticus 18:22.

“Do not practice homosexuality, having sex with another man as with a woman. It is a detestable sin.”

It doesn’t outwardly state homosexuality when read in Hebrew. It never has, unless I was taught wrong as a child. The exact translation is against lying with another man, or (to be literal and crass) taking it in the ass from another guy. Which by the way, isn’t necessarily gay. It’s an act of submission.

Anyways. The girl asked me if that meant that she was going to hell because that was what everyone told her to read when it came to her going to hell for being gay. The only thing I could think of at that moment was to open up a bit. I realize that I get talked to about my lack of professional distance, but times like this I don’t give a shit.

“Well, kiddo,” I said, sitting on the foot of her bed. “Do you think you’re going to hell?”

“No,” she said shaking her head. “I’m not a bad guy. I just kind of had sex with my best friend. And my brother kind of walked in.”

I nodded. “I had the same thing happen when I was your age.” Her eyes widened to the look children get when they see or hear something incredible. “You’ve met Dr. R down in the ER, right?”

“Yeah!” She nodded emphatically. “She’s really nice. She said you’re the coolest doctor in the whole hospital!” I chuckled.

“Sam, or Dr. R to you, is my wife,” I said. The girl gasped. “And I’m not going to hell for loving her.” Her interested look was my signal to continue. “By Jewish tradition, which is where that comes from, that specific passage holds nothing against lesbians. But you want to know something funny?”

Another nod.

“Out of that entire section, that’s the only part that’s really paid any mind to. Wanna know what else you supposedly can go to hell for? If a guy is clean shaven, if you eat shrimp, or if you wear a shirt that’s made of more than one kind of fabric fiber. And those are just the ones I can think of without rereading the entire section.”

I set her Bible down on the table next to the bed. “There’s animal sacrificing and killing people by throwing rocks at them. It’s not nice reading to be honest. If you do your best to be a kind person to everyone, including yourself, you won’t go to hell in my book. Trust me, a gay kid is higher on my list than a Catholic priest.”

“So you think I’m not screwed?”

“Nah, girly. You’re no more screwed than my three year old is.” I grinned. “If you read more of that Bible, you’ll see that that Jesus guy said something about loving your neighbour as yourself. From what my very Catholic mother-in-law tells me, that means loving everyone else as much as you love yourself, if not more.

“The other thing that Jesus dude says is that let the most innocent person be the one to throw a stone or something like that. The people who may judge you are breaking what that guy said because I guarantee they’re doing things that are worse than being in love. And they claim to be following what he wants. By judging or hating you, they’re wrong and breaking Jesus’ two rules. For that, you should ignore ‘em.”

She laughed. “Dr. R’s mom is trying to convert you, isn’t she?”

I snorted. “I do listen, though I don’t agree. I’m still Jewish no matter how hard she tries.”

To be honest, I don’t see the point of following a few rules if you can’t follow them all. Don’t pick and choose. It’s not worth anything if you get to pick what you do follow. I can’t even follow all of the commandments handed down by Moses. I’ve lied and a few other things. I still believe in God and so on, but I gave up on following rules. I didn’t want to be one of those people who picks what suits them. It’s not genuine observance then.

So, if you’re offended, great. Take a fucking number.

Unstable

Listening to: “Until I’m Fine” by K’s Choice

I mentioned why I hate my birthday in the last post. I’m not entirely sure if I got into the days surrounding my birthday, so I will with this before I tell what I did today.

The days surrounding my birthday are the days where I am nowhere near emotionally stable which causes me to be unstable mentally. Granted it’s probably a bit better this year because I’ve been diagnosed and subsequently medicated, but it hasn’t seemed different so far.

After this morning, I have decided to give in and go see my doctor to get my lithium levels adjusted. I’ve been putting it off, but I’ve finally admitted that I need to go do that rather than use my current crises and job as an excuse not to. It’s kind of unreasonable to avoid someone who works in the same building as you....

So, this morning I was taking my usual (obligation to my OCD) shower after a surgery. When I was done, I went to my cubby to grab my ratty Maryland hoodie to pull over my scrubs because I was freezing.

Guess who was there? My former second-in-command. He was in a bad mood and packing up his things. I was the conveniently placed thing to vent at.

“You have daddy issues. That’s why you can’t stand that I was better at your job than you were.” I tried my best not to laugh at him. I had received the job (not even two years after my residency) after he had practically run the department into the ground. He was better than me. Riiiiight.

I told him this and he repeated his statement about my ‘daddy issues’.

“I don’t have daddy issues, sweetheart. And if I did, they wouldn’t affect anything having to do with you.”

It’s true. I don’t have daddy issues. My issues require the addition of a prefix. I have step-daddy issues. And not in the ‘I never got any attention growing up’ sort of way. More like in the ‘I got my ass beat and fucked by my stepdaddy on a constant basis’ sort of way.

He then went on to list all the reasons why I obviously had daddy issues. Then he brought my wife and kids into it.

Normally, I’d laugh at him and call security to escort him out of the building. Super unstable me didn’t. Super unstable me kicked his ass. If Erin hadn’t have walked in when she did and dragged me from him, he’d have a hell of a lot worse than a broken nose, missing teeth and bruised face.

My hockey days and childhood “circumstances” still serve me well.

Now it’s hard to make a fist and I’m typing one-handedly with my right. My left hand is swollen and cut-up from his mouth, giving me the week or so out of the OR. My shoulder still hurts from when I slammed him into the wall, but I don’t care. Okay, so I do care. But not too much.

He’s not pressing charges because I have things that could damn him to a longer jail sentence than he’s already getting. He’s not sure exactly what, but he knows it’s condemning. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve already given everything I have to the cops. He will more than likely get 25 or so. That’s fine with me. He’s a pig. End of story.

As for my week off, I have helped the liquor store down the street practically pay their rent for the month (“Bad day, doc?”) and am taking complete advantage by drinking myself into a stupor.

And for the record: my biological father was an awesome guy. The downer is he died when I was little and I had to continue living with my stepdad.

(Now) Listening to: “Big Eyed Fish” by Dave Matthews Band

אמא

I feel like a hypocrite. I have times where I have to give one of my kids advice on losing someone. When they ask the clichéd question about whether it ever gets easier, I lie through my teeth and say, “Yeah. Yeah it does.”

My least favourite day of the year is coming up on Friday. There are two reasons I hate the 8 of July. First is because I used to be a twin and this coming Friday is my birthday. Second is that my mother died on my birthday.

It doesn’t get easier. At least, I’m not sure it has yet and it’s been almost twenty years. Sometimes I say my older sister is like a mother to me. Not necessarily my mother though.

My mother was eccentric at times and completely grounded at others. She taught me French and English, how to bandage someone after an explosion so they wouldn’t die of blood loss immediately. She would recite poems from memory, most in English and French, a few in Hebrew. My mother was happy to receive a drawing that wasn’t coloured correctly. Houses could be purple and people could be blue. It was the thought that counted.

She made sure that my brother and I were all right. She told us that we still counted to her even though we didn’t to our stepfather. We were the best thing that ever happened to her. We were the children she got out of love rather than force. I didn’t understand that then.

Ezra and I had mother’s maiden name. Some days I debate dropping it from my legal name, but I have a hard time letting go. The days surrounding my birthday are spent either avoiding patients and their families or drinking myself to an uneasy sleep at home. I can’t see patients because I am jealous of those who have their mothers. I can’t watch mothers console their children or joke with them or share stories. It makes me feel like I am the biggest shit in the world because I am jealous of sick and dying children.

My mother died of Huntington’s disease. I have the mutation for Huntington’s. My birthday is even less fun than it always was. I will be in mourning for my mother on Friday as I have been for nearly twenty years. Please excuse my moodiness in advance.

Listening to: "Ghad Gadya" by Chava Alberstein (Ima's favourite song)