Sorry, not sorry
“It's always the men who are difficult when it comes to urinating.” He's just placed my IV, pushed the contrast fluid, blood thinner and diuretic, while explaining the next steps in the process. The latter being the inspiration for his confession. “We always instruct one last pee before the scan, and they always say they just went. And when I ask how long ago they went, they'll answer ‘30 minutes’. Now how is that ‘just went?’”
He’s funny, and enjoyable. I’ve gained a whole new respect for care staff. They always know more than they’re supposed to, providing practical tips, and creating a space of acceptance. Their care feels genuine, as if they are actually fulfilling their calling, wholeheartedly. Of course, this might not be the case for everyone, but my experience has been nothing but pleasant.
We giggle at his punchline and wonder about this urge to be adverse. But I guess it's just in their nature to make a problem out of anything; a coping strategy in an attempt to stay in control. And hide their fear…
He gets me settled in the recliner in the pre-PET scan resting room. A saline drip, the radioactive solution, an hour rest and we are good to go for the scan. Well, after the final urinary relief that is. I doze off just for a minute under the hum of the air heater they've placed in the room. I don't sleep for long. The sting of the IV needle reminding me where I am, and why.
My thoughts go back to his story about the silent resistance to pee, or rather resistance to comply. Because, basically that’s what it always boils down to, even in the face of medical instructions: an uncontrollable bid to stay in charge. Not exactly new to me, and I can definitely relate to defiance, but under these circumstances, it seems irrational. I guess that’s what fear will do.
One might wonder if they’re all caught up in the manosphere, on some level or another. Or rather manosfear. Because behind all the anger, the hate and the big ego lies the fear of losing control and identity. To whom? I guess each other. As part of their construct, their nature. Which is all fine by me, but just own it, accept it, including flaws. More importantly, leave me out of it. It’s extremely tiring, and borderline boring, this always knocking heads, looking to confront, to challenge. Totally unproductive. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
I never had the desire to compete with a man. I’m not sure any woman actually does. Most women I know have a ‘you do you, and I’ll do me’ approach to things. But when you get in my way, challenge me, obstruct me, and I engage, suddenly I'm competing with you? Maybe, possibly, probably, from your point of view. But from mine? If your irrationality becomes a problem, I will call you out, if your challenge becomes an attack, I will defend myself —in any discussion, in any debate, under any circumstance. No means no! Learn to walk away. There is a difference between competition and excellence. As is there between disruption and destruction.
I grew up with boys who would challenge me. They knew when to stop, understood boundaries, knew how to respect, even beyond the childish teasing. It wasn’t until later in life I would encounter those who would not know when to stop, masquerading their immaturity and insecurities. And yes, I’ve been known to question their behavior, even mirror it on certain occasions, just to make a point, create an opportunity for insight, for open dialogue, which was not always met with the pun intended, only adding fuel to their gaslight. I’ll own that, I know who I am. I too can push boundaries, but not unproductively, always for result. So, call me critical, call me difficult. You can even call me a bitch if you're willing to suffer the consequences. But one thing I won't be is a hypocrite.
Because let's be honest. Men can be fickle as fuck. Their constant swirling is a complex dance of impulse and so-called rationalization, thumped to an offbeat drum, and swayed to a staccato of riffs and harmony. Waltzing to a vicious cycle of perceptual sense, of meaning, where their dynamics are completely ignored. Sometimes unconscious, often intended, and most of the time left prowling just beneath the surface. And this is where it gets tricky, dangerous even. Because what then defines sense? What defines meaning? What defines what is and what isn’t? What’s true and what’s not?
When failing to recognize this entrapment, beliefs soon enough become hardened into a fixed "truth" that leaves little room for the complexity or presence of others. ‘My truth’ becomes a justification to refuse to see beyond one's own lens, a shield to defend actions, an excuse to deflect accountability. Shrouded in the darkness of a ‘don’t ask, don’t know’ disposition, to in due time be argued as plausible deniability. In these moments, the question of who holds the truth becomes irrelevant, because truth has been replaced by the desire to be right.
The elephant in the room being, why does this get amplified when engaging with the opposite sex? Because would they question the nature of their existence, or their actions, and tend to the dynamics feeding their perception, they would quickly discover their fickleness is gender neutral. So, where does it go wrong? What triggers the bias? When does it become irrational? And why on earth would you even perceive being in competition with a woman, moreover experiencing this as a threat? What does that tell you?
Maybe it is all just a desperate attempt to be right. Because when you're right, you're right. And when you're right, you win. The paradoxical boys against the girls, lacking maturity, lacking evolution from boys to men. Stuck in that constant cry for attention and validation, because negative attention is still attention, enforcing a false sense of control and identity. Which is always better than rejection. Just imagine who you could be if you chose to excel instead of compete. Pity… So much potential, and so many opportunities. Tell me, what is it exactly that you have won?
Ah! Time to pee!
Soon enough I’m back in the hustle and bustle of the hospital's main corridor. It's 3 p.m. and the hospital is already running empty. All I want is to go home, gauging my energy for the ride home. I should eat, but I don't want to grab a snack that could send me in a glucose dip, already feeling lightheaded and feverish from the carb cutting. Another reminder where I am, and why. I need to get home. Before I crash. It's been a long day. Tomorrow we slay.
Or not!
About the Author
After 2020 rewrote my life when medical challenges brought my professional career to a close, I shifted focus to a purpose-driven life. Now dedicated to personal development and reflective expression, I believe that while we don't always choose our opening lines, we always hold the pen for the chapters that follow.