How I Got Here

Where is here? One might ask. Here is today. I contemplated this—as one of my many thoughts that had floated through my mind in the finishing touches of repairing, and repainting our 16 x 14-foot deck, rails and all.

Whether anyone knew this or not, there are now disposable paint brushes that work just fine. Convenience at this point in my life is what I’m looking for. I’m not looking for the easy button—but the proficient button? ‘Yes’. 

This all came to me in my writing mind as I realized I’d painted myself away from my half-filled coffee mug now sitting on the dry spot of our deck. Thank God I was not stupid enough to paint my own body into a corner—that would have been absolute mayhem. Instead, I’ll be waiting till the paint dries and use another mug in the meanwhile. Obviously, that half-filled mug of coffee hadn’t brought me to a full awakened position, even though eight hours had passed since I’d woken up this morning.

After tossing out a four-inch disposable paint brush into our kitchen trash container—I began to make coffee. I mumbled to myself, “Was it normal to have a spouse dying of a terminal illness in the middle of a pandemic?” I paused as I’d measured and poured water into the coffee maker.  “God Bless my brother-in-law!” But wait there’s more!

I continued this out loud personal conversation today—as I put tablespoons of coffee grounds into the maker.  “…Is it also normal to have to get a child college ready and deal with the paperwork of that, never mind any shenanigans a child may provide while all that was going on during a pandemic shut down? Or perhaps, the financial institutions and other government and private offices were mostly closed? Too, many official government offices that were dealing with a backlog of paperwork, now nearly six months into the pandemic. Add to that, my dealing with the other child’s auto permit.”

 “…On top of all that, then having to get a car for our oldest, because our old car she’d been using was failing greatly just two days after my husband’s funeral. That was to the tune of six to seven thousand dollars of repairs with 131,000 miles on it. Our mechanic suggested purchasing a new used car for her. As he’d advised that the repairs would not be worth it, but a trade-in would be. Then our computer backup battery in the garage beeped aimlessly as it was expiring, our dehumidifier expired on that day too. As my oldest and I headed back to work the day after the funeral.  

And then there was the disability government paperwork you’re still responsible for after your spouse dies that the children are still eligible for.— Well, the ones you need in the time of being a parent, readying one child for college as both children were still minors? The ever-changing FASFA rules. The phone calls and paperwork you have to keep private—to keep your family’s health insurance benefits. And you’re at your wits end when the pediatrician’s office bills you, because they were too lazy to resubmit when they submitted the two children’s annual bills to them that were kicked back.  And then you receive two $450 bills in the mail demanding such payments from the pediatrician’s office—after your health insurance bill on COBRA will now be close to $20,000 per year for three healthy people.

Does anyone recall, all that was closed or that the hours which were reduced to a couple hours a day or a week—let’s say at your local bank? Too, when you made that fifteen-minute meeting of sorts to get into the bank for your lawyer who needed certificates located in your safety boxes at your local bank.

You get there at the time the bank sets for you and then the bank VP tells you that you’re not eligible to get into the safety boxes? But if you’re me, you then tell them the exact date, what you were wearing and the weather eight years ago when you signed the bank cards with your husband to have both his and your names on the safety box accounts.

Yes, I remembered the exact date, time, who we saw, what I wore, where we sat and the weather. I repeated all that in the partially lit local bank only open two days a week for 90 minutes each time for people who made appointments to get to their safety boxes.

Here I was that day about to leave, and I’d begun to tell the security guard a joke. Meanwhile unbeknown to me, the VP went into the back and pulled out our paper file. Yes, I was correct, both our signatures and the date eight years ago was what had transpired as I’d stated. However, someone back then never put my name into the system with my husband’s. So, then I was told that they would allow me to get into our safety boxes and would add my name into the computer. They apologized.

However, more than a year later, When I went back to the bank to return those important documents, they again told me I was ineligible to enter one of the safety boxes. Again, they saw that no one had put my name into the computer as being eligible to go into both safety boxes. Imagine that.

Also, I was lied to by the bank about money in my husband’s name. There was a CD coming due. I kept getting notices and every time I inquired, I was given the incorrect answer. Yet, I kept having people call me from the bank from an unknown number out in the southwest. This started the day after the funeral. Imagine that. Too, the bank did not believe the embossed, sealed letter of Testamentary of my husband’s will to be real. So, my lawyer had to get the will paperwork from the judge—And at this time the judge was to hold onto it temporarily. Then my lawyer had to drive the original will papers about eighteen miles one way to the bank branch that was open with some regularity and show the actual will to one of the bank’s officers to prove I now was allowed access to our joint account and my husband’s funds. That took six months or so post-mortem.

Meanwhile, I had to hire arborists to prevent tree damage and to keep our ground healthy—as I mow and rake our lawn. But I cannot ground stumps or at least I never thought I could, until the arborist company ripped me off and violated both contracts for $6,000. After paying them on time, emailing them, calling them. Them coming over four times and two of the three people who came to reinspect stated I was correct—and that they would rectify the matter, which they never did. So, I got my hand tools out and spent about thirty-five hours of de-stumping and clearing those sections of our backyard.

Follow me—I’m nearly there. To the point that is. Is this what we’ve become? Paper-chasers? The constant life of having to keep certain items as your identification not on hand, yet available. Not accessible yet needed. There was so much more that transpired. There were plenty of obstacles in the first fifteen months after my husband’s passing. I reminded myself of that as I turned on the coffee maker, hearing the coffee brew. I repeated, “Thank God for my brother-in-law. I wonder if he knows just how much he helped.” ---Jody-Lynn Reicher