I wish I was Arnold Schwarzenegger.
If I was Arnie then I wouldn’t be lying here at 5am, dreaming of revenge, I’d be doing it. I’d be hardcore. Camo on, uzi in hand and kicking down doors,
“I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle.”
I can’t even get a copy of my maternity notes from the hospital!
The Governator wouldn’t have that problem.
“if I think somebody owes me something, I take it.”
He wouldn’t be sending emails politely requesting information about the death of his child. Have you SEEN Collateral Damage? If you haven’t, don’t, it’s awful, but you get my meaning.
“I hope you leave enough room for my fist because I’m going to ram it into your stomach and break your god-damn spine!”
THAT’S how Arnie gets things done.
I was raised to be polite and well, British. That means I don’t like making a fuss. We just don’t do that. It’s uncomfortable being demanding. The question is, at serious times like the death of a child, is it really being demanding wanting answers? Wanting the people involved to explain themselves, to be accountable, to care?
The problem is we’ve fallen into a big, grey area. There is no-one fighting our cause. No-one helping us. No-one demanding answers (other than us) as to why our baby didn’t come home.
We are on our own.
Which means we will have to get demanding because if after 3 months, we can’t even get a copy of my maternity notes, then it’s probably going to start getting really, really uncomfortable.
“Hasta La Vista, baby”.