Discordia | The runaround
So there was a letter, dated November 20, indicating a name change of the company administering an insurance policy. So there were the holidays to get through, which is no excuse, I know, because it’s an insurance policy when I believed there had been none, but today–today–I finally called immediately after rushing home from work. So there was a policy, but someone named Megan said it had been canceled. I asked when. She said December 1st. I asked why. After a five minute wait, she said it appeared it had been canceled by mistake.
And that it could be reinstated.
And that she could transfer me to the claims department, which she offered to do after I explained that I wanted to file a claim on the policy.
The claims representative, Sally, was very courteous and started the process immediately of sending out forms to me.
My heart rose and sank uncountable times during this conversation. To hope against hope that one might navigate the tide of forms, delays, and red tape that is the insurance industry–to hope that there might be a little money that could help me relocate, if indeed that is what I will need to do this summer–it’s almost too much to hope for.
And it should not be such an ordeal. These things should follow as a natural and, indeed, courteous consequence of such traumatic life events. I used to work for an insurance company.
I can hardly breathe for hope that this may bring some small, good outcome.
Discordia | Shredder
Shredding medical records. Setting aside documents that prompt memories–I’d forgotten that–then sweeping them all into two piles, shred and recycle. To be unburdened of memory and its frequent consort, guilt.
All your meals will be in color now.
All your lights are green, so go. Go.
[first two lines of poem draft composed on my phone’s voice recorder, after a line from Sheila Squillante’s poem, “Nouvelle Cuisine Dreams of My Father”]
So I’ve decided: I’m going to move back to Cincinnati, my birthplace and home of my mother and siblings, as soon as I can afford it. To that end, I’m seriously downsizing my personal library and will be selling off as much as I can bear of other possessions. I’m going to imagine this winter as a kind of grief tornado that swept, is sweeping, the apartment free of what I don’t absolutely need. More soon.
Long week. Wednesday I worked only until noon, and had planned to get some tasks done—maybe go to the courthouse to see about getting into R’s bank account—but snow and bad roads were forecast, so I just went home. The snow started soon after; it wasn’t bad, though the roads were very slippery when I went out that night for Chinese.
On Thursday and Friday I worked 7-5 (5:20), and my feet are still sore. I know that as I keep losing weight, this will make a difference. I also know that a ten-hour shift is too much to repeat back-to-back. Unfortunately, inventory week is coming up the first week of February. A and I just got approved for overtime during inventory; she said I could probably work an extra full day. It would be smart to bank that extra money. I should put in now for a vacation day soon after, just to recover with a three-day weekend.
Snow overnight, as predicted. I slept fitfully in R’s room—can’t tell if there’s too much light, or if it’s the mattress, or if it’s simply that he died in that bed—but I had been hoping to sleep well there and maybe get rid of my mattress and bed frame to make space in my room to store moving boxes.
I haven’t talked to P since the night she did a reading for me and dropped the news that they’ve already hired Dan to remodel my apartment and tear out the wall to restore the house to one big living space. I was utterly shocked. P said But you told me you were moving by June 21, and I explained that yes, I’d mentioned that as a goal, but that I certainly did not have the means to afford such a move at this point. If R’s insurance policy does not pay out—and I doubt it will—then I’ll have to sell off as much as I can and try to make something work.
For days afterward, I felt angry and confused that P and J would eagerly make such plans to remodel the house without checking in with me to let me know they were setting a date for Dan to begin work, to verify that my plans (such as they are) were on track. It really stunned me that they would leave me out of such a crucial conversation.
Talked to Mom on Wednesday evening, as I sat in the car waiting for the windows to defrost before heading out for dinner, and told her about the June move-out. The question is, Where will I live? And Mom said if I gave her the word, she’d start now with cleaning out the sewing room. I mentioned that S had also offered her third bedroom (and that I didn’t even know that her house had a third bedroom) and Mom said she didn’t think S and I could live together. All I need is a bed and a table. And a job, as quickly as possible. I don’t want to put Mom to any trouble. I know S needs major help with sorting and getting rid of the overwhelming amount of stuff she’s been basically hoarding all these years.