The High Holidays are upon us and right now, any Jew worth her salt is looking inward, atoning, and generally trying to make the world a better place.
Yeah, not so much.
I’m trying. I really am.
But right now, I just can’t seem to see past the end of my nose.
I know I haven’t been my kindest, gentlest self lately. And I know I’ve shown my crazy. I’m probably deluding myself, but I like to think of myself as high-functioning crazy. While no one has ever accused me of not being in touch with my feelings, I can probably count on both hands how many public meltdowns I’ve had in my lifetime. And I certainly had one last week.
I freaked out on my beloved primary care doc. Right in the middle of my work week from Hell, I had an appointment with her, to get refills for my two asthma medicines. Despite giving myself plenty of time for travel, and allowing myself to be bourgeois enough to call an Uber, I realized I was going to be about five minutes late to my appointment. I hate being late. So, I called to give her a heads up.
She told me I had to reschedule, just as the car was pulling up to the building. Five. Minutes. Late.
What I wish I’d said was, “I’m downstairs, Dr. M., I apologize for being late, and I understand that you are short-staffed today, but I really need my prescriptions refilled now, and it really isn’t convenient for me to take more time off work and come back tomorrow. Can I please just have 10 minutes of your time?”
What I actually said was something along the lines of, “This is fucking bullshit! (sob, sob, sob) I need my prescriptions refilled TODAY. I can’t believe you’re turning me away (sob, sob, sob)…I can’t take anymore time off work (incoherent stammering)…”
She agreed to call the refills into the pharmacy.
Now, I knew, when it was happening, that my reaction was disproportionate to the situation itself, but I just couldn’t stop it. My emotions ambushed me, and I just couldn’t turn it off.
I felt terrible. And thought about calling her back to apologize, but then chickened out.
I’d almost forgotten about it, until last night, right before bed, when Michael and I were talking about Rosh Hashanah (or Rosh Hashasha, as he calls it). I told him I was trying to make a mental list of everyone with whom I might need to make amends.
“You could apologize to the homeless guy by your office you yelled at.” He offered.
“The one who threw a chicken leg at me? No way! He owes me an apology.”
I went about my nightly routine: brushed my teeth, popped my Klonopin, reached for my Singulair and realized that when my doctor called in my Rx, she gave me 11 refills on it. Eleven.
This is a doctor who likes to see her patients in person, every three months if she is refilling prescriptions.
I must have scared her.
She’s probably thinking, “This should keep that crazy bitch out of my hair for a while.”
Yeah, about that…
Maybe I should send her apology cupcakes.