Work in progress
At work this morning they passed around a sympathy card; our boss’s mother passed away this weekend. When I expressed my condolences directly, I was told that she was well into her 90s, had not been doing well for a long time, and was very ready to go. When the sympathy card made it to my desk, I realized that instead of purchasing a sympathy card with a helpful message that we could all sign, someone had just picked a blank card, leaving everyone to their own devices.
This, in my view, was a mistake.
I read the notes people left, and I was more than a little disgusted. I tried to remind myself that they meant well, and didn’t know what to say; this is a phenomenon I’m well acquainted with. But I really didn’t even want to sign my name to it, so filled was it with meaningless, trite, clueless bullshit. I’m sensitive (maybe hypersensitive?) about such things now; when I have to buy a sympathy card, I read a dozen, and choose carefully. I don’t want to send anything like that to someone who is hurting.
Some felt they needed to write a lot. There was the oft-mentioned, but seldom meant “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.” This was particularly rich coming from the company train-wreck, who cannot help herself, let alone anyone else. People who know grief and want to help would be bringing covered dishes for the bereaved family’s freezer; people who do not know grief do not know that when you are grieving, you don’t know what YOU can do, or should be doing, let alone what anyone else can do. It is a bewildering time, under the best of circumstances. Like you’re in any condition to be managing others? Someone signed “I’m so sorry for your loss!” An exclamation point? Brilliant. What are people thinking? Oh…right…they’re not.
I wrote briefly, saying that I was so sorry, and that I wished them peace. Because peace is what I know I ached for. Peace has become the state I value most in my life since A died; I never realized how much I craved it until my life had been turned upside-down and I hadn’t a shred of peace left to me.
My next order of business was to get through the pile of bills and such that I have been stuffing in the secretary desk all month long without paying much attention. That, and what I found when I sorted it all out this morning, tells me that I’ve been in about as rough shape as I’ve felt this month, not wanting to deal with my life, all my energy trapped in dealing with my broken heart and broken body. I knew it was going to be bad; I knew the bills were piling up, and I frequently had the thought that I needed to do something about it, yet even so I walked right past the desk dozens of times telling myself “Not now; later.”
Last month’s credit card bill, which I usually pay off every month, ended up incurring a late fee and hefty interest. I hadn’t paid the electricity or the water bill. I hadn’t reconciled my statement and the checkbook for November yet, and have had 4 overdrafts this month; fortunately, I belong to a credit union, so they were covered by my savings account and only a tiny fee after the third. That’s the thing—it’s not that I don’t have the money to pay these bills; it’s that I’m just not sitting down and paying them. Avoidance, on a grand and financially harmful scale.
I’m not sure what I expected would happen, other than this mess, which is now straightened out. The checks are in the mail. But even though I knew that a mess would ensue from my avoidance, it wasn’t enough to motivate me to take care of business. And I guess that tells me that I have been pretty out of it.
Long ago, I put everything on auto-pay that I can without paying a fee, but there are still things I need to handle myself. I’m going to get one of those 31-day bill organizers, where you put the bills in it when they arrive, filling them in the day they’re due or when you have to mail them or whatever, so they don’t get lost in piles or forgotten. I’ll be able to see them, and I hope it will help. I can’t do much about caring about paying bills; it was never interesting before A died, and it isn’t now. But I can find crutches to support me as I navigate this. I used to be so competent, maybe even to the point of arrogance; I’m not anymore, clearly. And I don’t really care.
I think that the road of grief becomes less treacherous after awhile, but it seems like even when it does, you’re still limping from all the knocks and falls and bruises you sustained during the early part of the journey, where the way was littered with obstacles and potholes and emotional highwaymen around every curve, waiting to attack. I’m putting one foot in front of the other, and doing a lot of sighing, as I wait for healing to occur.