Mother stuff
Yesterday afternoon I phoned the doctor’s surgery in my quest for more antibiotics. I have been on two courses, with the complaint returning each time, a couple of days after finishing the bottle. I thought, when I was given my second dose, that I would have been given a longer duration, as obviously the week was not long enough. This has been a problem with me all my life, I have often needed repeated and prolonged courses of antibiotics to combat whatever bug I am facing. Even the dentists, when treating tooth abscesses, would be surprised when I returned, but after taking further x-rays would see that indeed my bug was still there.
The nurse was busy, my doctor was on holiday, so I was put through to a triaging doctor, whose role was to deal with people like me over the phone. Immediately I was put in combat mode. You have this this and this she said, before even asking me what my symptoms were. ‘’No I don’t,’’ I replied. She knew everything and refused to listen to me. When I suggested perhaps a longer course of antibiotics, she told me that would be unethical of her and I would get resistance. In my thinking, resistance comes when the dose given is too short, rather than the other way around and people like her are the ones who cause resistance, by under prescribing. Not that she did, but when a week has not been long enough, a second week probably isn’t either.
Anyway, she did write me out a prescription, for a different drug, which I had to travel up to town to pick up, (35-minutes-drive) from my choice of pharmacy. I arrived and was told it would be a five-minute wait. Which turned into, 10, then 15 and finally 20 minutes, while the pharmacist happily chatted to someone for all that time. When she stepped back into her den, she applied a piece of tape to a packet (the only thing that was between me and my prescription) then preceded to tell me that she owed me, they didn’t have the full amount of pills, I would have to come back to town for the rest. I told her that wasn’t happening and could I pick up the rest from another pharmacy in town.
Instead, she took them all away and gave me my script. I trotted off into town where I had a further 30-minute wait. I hadn’t been feeling particularly well but at least at this pharmacy, the girls were helpful, checking on my prescription-status regularly.
So along with the long wait for the IRD earlier in the day, I had two more that afternoon, plus I had to deal with a doctor who didn’t appear to be listening to me. Both the first pharmacist’s attitude and the doctor, triggered my mother issues. These had already been triggered the day before by another incident. I really felt I had dealt with her stuff but when things continue pushing our buttons, then there is still work to do.
I found myself wide awake at 2am and decided to put on a meditation. This one was on my feed and one to meet guides, passed over loved ones, angels – anyone who might come through. Daniel was there early in the meditation. We talked about how much I missed him and how proud he was of his daughter. I saw my mother, sitting back, patiently waiting and realised that I didn’t want to talk to her, indicating that I hadn’t forgiven her entirely. That came as a surprise, because I thought that I had. I saw a black ball, a bit smaller than a golf ball, sitting in my heart and realised this was some of the unforgiveness. I pulled it from my heart and tossed it down one of the steep hills we had on the farm growing up, knowing it would eventually reach the stream and be carried out to the ocean. There was other stuff as well, a black chest guard and another ball, both of which I removed. I hadn’t been aware that this hardness towards my mother was still sitting in my heart. These incidents that had occurred this week should have been a clue. And I am sure there is probably more work I need to do. I need to reach the space, where thoughts of my mother bring me joy and when she appears in my meditations, I am looking forward to having contact with her. Unresolved issues with a person still need to be worked on. Dying doesn’t automatically heal these.