Save your mama from the drama.

Where was I?

...Oh, yes. Snake bites and necrosis. Well, all is well the land of Real Drama. Asher is better and should in fact be on a plane home to England today for further treatment and recovery in a London hospital. Whew.

That's inevitable drama. The kind you don't invite and finds you anyway, moving in like a gnarly houseguest, scratching its crotch while swigging straight from the milk jug, and emitting loud belches in quiet moments.

That's bad enough, right? WHY would you invite drama over on purpose?

And yet, I bet every single one of you could name a friend or relative who does. They are captains of industry, if the industry is manufacturing drama. It's big business among narcissists and perpetual victims.

NOTE: I'm not talking REAL victims. I'm talking folks who enjoy playing the part and will appropriate other people's drama for themselves if that's what it takes to do so. I'm talking about the dummies who see drama coming, twirling it's black, curly mustache and then lay down on the train tracks and wait for the drama to tie them up so they can scream for rescue.

That's manufactured drama.

Wednesday I spent worrying about my brother and his girlfriend and their fear over Asher and his snakebite. That's tiring, but in the end, I'm only the most marginal player in that drama. I'm the girl in the milkmaid costume on stage with no lines.

Thursday morning we got a phone call from an acquaintance who ONLY calls when there's an emergency. His wife was sick to the point of needing hospitalization and he risked losing his job if he couldn't go to work. Could we come help?

Kenny and I have been through this with them many times before, so we said sure. We packed James off to school, loaded the baby in the car, and caravaned over to their place. Kenny got their two kids out of bed, including the six-year-old that had been forced to miss school, while I dealt with Mom. Mom was severly dehydrated and admitted it was self-induced. Husband had dropped a bomb on her (slept with their eighteen-year-old babysitter--not his first indiscretion) and even knowing her aunt (who had been helping out for a few months) was leaving in two days, Mom decided she was too hurt to get out of bed and didn't eat or drink until she got sick enough to start throwing up and become dehydrated.

I probably sound unsympathetic. I am. This is at least the fourth time we've had to cope with this particular scenario, not to mention the number of times it's happened when Mom's brother or aunt or mother has to pick up the pieces. Anyway, I took her to the doctor who urged her to try a stronger anti-depressant and seek psychiatric help. Mom: no dice. There's nothing wrong with her head, she says, even though she told her husband she refused to get out of bed and he would have to deal with the kids because she was going to teach him a lesson.

I took her to the hospital for IV fluids and then watched her kids all day. Went to pick her up at 8 that night while she complained about being discharged even though the doctor pointed out TWICE that their entire blood panel and chem screen had turned up nothing and they couldn't do anything else for her.

In the past, I've never said anything. I was a little naive in believing that this was all some mysterious illness that came and went for her. A little fact checking on BOTH sides of the story have cleared up some of that mystery. This time, I straight up told her, "I'm sorry your husband is a jerk. But it's been pure luck I've been able to step in every time you needed me. If all that's standing between you and caring for your kids physically is hydration, you need to drink some water. And only water. Or Pedialyte."

I'm frustrated by the half-truths she's dealt out over the last two years and her unwillingness to draw a direct line between herself and her location at the brink of disaster. In her mind, it's far more important to punish her husband than it is to keep it together for her kids.

Don't get all over my case about mental illness, etc. I KNOW. There is definitely some depression in play here. BUT, and I know because I have spent vast amounts of time as an observer and have had conversations with her mother, that the greater issue here is that she likes being a victim. Taking her anti-depression meds makes her less of a victim so she's reluctant to do it.

I could go on. Just know it's a mess and I finally took a step back from it. I told her I'd do anything I could to help her kids but they don't want me for a mom. They want her, and she needs to find a way to be there for them. I realized I was being an enabler. It's hard to back away, but the truth is, it's a situation where the best thing I can do for her is cut her loose for right now so she doesn't have an audience any more.

I realize a lot of you are going to be mad at me for being insensitive or judgmental. Let me point out that you haven't had a seat at the fifty yard line for the last two years like I have. This mom will be okay. So will her kids. Her husband, while not so good as a husband, is a good father and will make sure of that.

But in the mean time, I feel badly for her mother who calls me sometimes from Canada, worried and helpless. I feel badly for the kids who are too often put in the middle. There are some simple (not easy) choices this mom can make to dial the drama back so everyone can breathe a little easier.

She doesn't. But she could.

This is an extreme example but I'm sure we all see this to a lesser extent on a regular basis. It's the victim mentality where this is typical:

Sue: Did you hear about that Jaycee girl who got kidnapped? She's back with her family now.
Peg: Oh, I know. It just about broke my heart. I couldn't bear to send my kids to school today. I kept them in bed with me all day. I'm not sure I can go to work tomorrow, either. This has just shaken me up so bad.
Sue: (Confused) Oh, did you know her?
Peg: No. It's just so sad.

Appropriating drama for herself, you see?

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the occasional pity party when genuinely cruddy stuff happens. You know, like you get in a car wreck. As long as the problem isn't that you weren't carrying insurance because you blew it on a Coach bag and now you're screwed and weeping and wailing about the money and the car, it's fine to be like, "Man! I got in a car wreck! The universe is spitting on me! I NEED CHOCOLATE! BRING ME CHOCOLATE!" Totally understandable.

I could go on for days and you could too, I know. But I'm going to go sit in a corner and sing "Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel" over and over again until I experience an adjustment in my attitude toward service, regardless of the degree of crazy I am called to serve.

Hm. Did that just sound like I still don't have it quite figured out yet?

Well. At least I stay hydrated.