Sunday. 5pm. The second of my set-your-watch-by-the-twice-weekly phone calls with my mother.
Mum: “How are you?”
Me: “Actually I’m sick. The doctor says I have a nasty infection in my ears, my throat, and my sinuses. I had a fever when I saw her this morning.”
Mum: “Oh. Are you going to work tomorrow?”
Me: “Probably not. The doctor said my body is obviously struggling with post-op recovery then tonsillitis, etc. She wants me to rest for the week.”
Mum: “Oh. Well, you’ve just had time off. You don’t want to risk your job.”
Me (in my head): Way to be supportive, Mum.
Me (to Mum): “I’m not. I’ll take a couple of days and see how I feel.”
Mum: “Ok, whatever. We’re watching the footy.”
Me (in my head): ‘Whatever’ to you too.
It’s no wonder I grew into an overachieving workaholic who doesn’t have the first clue how to communicate or look after herself.