It's the Small Things

At this point in my grief, it is the small, seemingly meaningless things that get me.

After Roger and I got married, with a little bit of hesitation on my part, we combined checking accounts.
Now we did the system of ours, yours, and mine.
Ours was to be the household stuff and the majority of our money.
But each of us would have our own small checking account that we would deposit a smaller amount from each paycheck.
That way neither could complain about a shiny new purse or a new martial arts toy.
And added bonus, if we bought a gift for one another, the evidence was not readily available.
It took me till about June 2008, four months after the wedding, to get up the courage to have most of my paycheck and all the small details taken care of to have "our" checking account.
It was one of Roger's old accounts that had great benefits.
The account was originally from the days when First Union was around.
This was hard for me.  I had been on my own since I was 17.
Almost ten years at this point.
Now my money was our money.

After Roger died, I took his name off the account (due to the fact his death was after a car accident). Slowly over the last three years, Wachovia and now Wells Fargo changed the terms so much that even old accounts, like Roger's, are not as efficient.
So I need to close it.  And I am trying.

It is a small thing.
A meaningless thing.
It is just a checking account.
Come. On.
But it was ours.
And way before that, it was his.
And now, its another thing that is disappearing that was part of him.
That belonged to him.
So I have been dragging my feet.
I have not been very aggressive in getting this done.
I opened a new account before Christmas.
And yet it is March almost April.
Now, I have been busy but there is part of me that is dreading pulling the plug, again.

Sigh...
It is the small things.

Passions

When I was in high school and I was asked to pick a major, I had such a hard time.
I liked a lot of things.
I was good at quite a few things.
How could I just pick one thing.

I ended up picking biology.
Not sure why.
Not sure what I thought I would do with it.
But I picked something.
[Interesting enough my major is now Biology education.]

I got accepted as biology major at Virginia Tech.
But then my guidance counselor told me about a particular scholarship.
A national math scholarship.
My major would have to be changed to math though and I would have to take a test.
So I did.
And a little known fact, I was in the top ten in the U.S. that year but only the #1 person won the scholarship so I got a certificate and went to Virginia Tech as a math major.

And then life progressed.
In 2003, I applied to Pace University in NYC.
As an education major.
I was accepted.
Went to orientation but figured out that I could not afford to pay for school on my own, even with loans.
So I withdrew.

Life progressed some more.
My good manager at my last job (imagine Glenda the good witch) convinced me to go back to school.
I chose Healthcare Administration.
I could do almost the entire program online part time.
But I was not happy with my job.
Then I was transferred to the wicked witch of the west manager.
I cried at work a lot.
I had insomnia on Sunday nights dreading the week ahead.
Completely unhappy. This is not what I wanted to be when I grew up.
This is not what the girl way back in high school wanted to be when she grew up.

I cried to Roger.
"Why did I make us move into a bigger more expensive house?"
Roger was not sure how to make things better.
I could not find a job I thought would make things better.
So I cried even more.

Roger died.

In November 2008, I finally decided I did not want to be unhappy anymore.
And I certainly did not want to work for the wicked witch.
When I thought back to all the things I liked about my job, it was the teaching parts.
The times I was mentoring or getting the physicians to finally understand.
That's when I smiled.

The first time I helped out in a classroom in January 2009, I felt that feeling again.
I think helped me start to heal a bit.

Each time I enter a classroom, the passion burns warmer and warmer.
Yesterday, a teacher told me she saw me as a good teacher.
I could do this job well.
I wanted to hug her.
I am nervous about teaching but I cannot describe the feeling I get when I am helping students.
Passionate is the only word that comes to mind.

On my way to my reflection class last night, I started to cry.
Roger wanted so badly to take away my pain.
To make me happy.
To help me find my passion.
And he did it.
I am finally there.
It feels so good to know what I want to be and to be on the track to achieve it.
But he had to die to make it so.
So I cry.

Being Brave

Time and time again I was told, especially in the beginning of this journey, that I am brave.
And as I have said I do not see myself as brave.
I am a widow.  I get up out of bed the same way as everyone else.
I breathe in and out because I have to.
I go on because I have to.
Bravery is more about doing something frightening voluntarily.
I did not chose this life voluntarily by any means.
I just have to live in it.

However, a little while ago, after some encouragement from some fabulous friends, I did something brave.
I decided to start a small photography business.
Location photography for families.

Roger encouraged me a lot while he was alive to pursue my love of photography more.
He tried to get me to sell my calendars I would make each year.
He tried to get me to sell my photos as stock photography.
But I did not have enough faith in myself.
I just had fun when I took photos of my friends and family.

When I got the website to a rough draft level, I cried.
I wanted to show Roger my work.
I felt proud of myself.
I am actually doing it.
Roger would be proud, I think.
Even if it does not work out, he would smile at me.

I feel like this adventure is walking out on a limb for me.
I could easily fail.
And perhaps I am not the greatest yet.
But I am the beginner.  This I accept.
I have a lot of improving to do and knowledge to gain.

This to me is scary.
Investing some time, energy, and money into something that has a 50% failure rate.
Something that a year from now may not exist.
This is being brave.

Blood Money

This was funny and gross as it was happening.

But it probably was/is not that funny.

Roger had his wallet in his pocket.

Roger kept his wallet in his front pocket.

There was a lot of blood.

Some of that blood got onto his jeans.

And thus into his wallet.

Thus onto the cash in his wallet.

[Although I still have his wallet and it does not seem stained so I am a little unsure about this part.]

It was not a lot of cash.

I really cannot remember exactly how much.

Perhaps twenty dollars or so.

I remember thinking of it as blood money.

I cannot remember if I actually said this out loud.

_______________________________________________

Holly or Scott would have to chime in for that:

[Holly says:

Yup, we joked about it together that it was blood money. We both apparently share a morbid sense of humor because I still think it's semi-funny to call it blood money. Scott and I helped spend some of it for you - we spent it at CVS when we picked up your prescription. Scott actually washed some of the money off in the sink there, dried it as best as he could with paper towels, handed the cash over to the pharm tech and then we bolted out of there before anyone could ask any questions!]

But I wanted it gone.

I wanted it out of my possession.

I could not spend it fast enough.

I used it to pay for my antibiotics.

Some food that I pushed around a plate.

I wonder about that money.

What happened to it?

Does someone take money like that out of the cash flow?

I wonder if by some weird chance if I will ever see it again.

I apologize to those who have handled that money.

Roger did not have anything.

Except he was positively amazing.

Over $225,000

I am one of the lucky ones.

Roger was smart.

He was a planner.

He had a job.

Thus he had health insurance.

I was lucky.

I did not have to think about health insurance after the accident.

I did not have to worry how much the daily CT scan was costing us.

Costing me.

I did not have to worry about how much the respiratory therapist who came in every few hours to check the ventilator was costing.

Or about the nurse giving him his bath and a shave.

Or worry if Roger really needed the mannitol.

Or the Ensure supplement to make sure he was nourished.

I did not have to worry.

I had to worry about a lot of things.

But the last thing I had to worry about was insurance.

It is the last thing any wife or husband should have to worry about.

Roger was cut out of the car.

He was rushed to the hospial.

Roger broke his femur.

He broke his humerus into a billion pieces.

He broke his radius and elbow.

He broke some facial bones.

He broke the back of his head.

He broke some ribs.

He broke his spleen.

I knew it was costing about $50,000 a day.

I knew from my past life how much critical care cost.

But what if.

What if Roger was out of a job.

What if Roger elected not to have health insurance coverage.

What if I was not so lucky...

Yeah, he would have still died.

Yeah, I would have still survived.

And yeah, I would have eventually started to heal.

But... I might have not had a home.

I might have had to evict my renters.

I might have not been in counseling like I needed.

I would be back at my horrid job.

I would not be finishing school.

I would have a roommate or two.

I would be wrestling with creditors.

I would be dealing with even more stress on top of grief.

I would owe over $225,000.

Just for Roger.

Instead I paid about $2500.

A small price for my wonderful husband's care.

No one deserves to have to think about health insurance as their spouse lays dying.

No one.

No one deserves to make the choice between money and their spouse's health.

No one.

Everyone deserves health insurance.

This is Suppose to Feel Good

About a month ago, I was complaining about all the estate stuff.

How I was sick of it.

How I wished it would just go away.

How I wished it would just leave me alone.

Well, it did.

I got my wish.

Today I received the final bill for the probate lawyer and their nice-to-work-with-you letter.

So I should be happy.

I should be jumping for joy.

I should be glad to end that part of this process.

The legal part.

The business end of death.

But... guess what...

I just love the way grief works its "magic".

I am not that happy about it.

I feel a little bummed actually.

Not because I will not get the joy of writing those checks each month.

Not because I want probate to go on forever.

I guess it is just that its over.

Another official closing.

Another reminder that yes this really happened.

Yes, Roger actually died.

He actually is not here.

He is not coming back.

He is gone.

Forever.

It is a hard pill for me to swallow.

It was almost like a break up letter to me from the probate lawyer.

"This letter ceases our representation of the estate."

Wow...

So today, I just wanted to go back to bed.

Crawl up and just pull up the covers over my head.

To tell the world to go away.

Let me just lay in my pity.

I just cannot believe it is over.

It is all over.

I have to remind myself of this over and over again.

It is all over.

Junky Junk

I used to love checking the mail.

Probably ever since I was small.

It was always fun to see what I would get.

One summer I even (way before I was green), I decided to call every 800 number I could find and have them send me their catalog, coupon, or anything else they wanted to mail me.  

I got junk mail for a good two years from that.

Roger and I checked the mail nightly together.

Our mailbox is about a block away from our house so it would be a few minutes to walk together, recount our day a bit, and see what goodies awaited us in the mail.

Yes there was always bills but it was still fun the one in a million chance it was not.    

If I did not go, Roger knew I was upset for one reason or another.

It was a great signaling system.

Except when we were receiving the RSVPs (those we did receive!), I could not stand to wait for him to get home.  I was way too excited.

Now...

I do not check the mail daily.

I hate the process.

I hate all the junk mail Roger still gets.  

I write in big letters "Return to sender!"  

I then mark through his name and write "Deceased."

I figure if they keep having to pay for having it returned, they will take him off their mailing lists.  

At least this is my theory.

It is less than it was.

Although it makes me sound psychotic.

I am sure the mail person hates me.

But I do not want it.

I do not want to be reminded he is not here.  

I do not want to be reminded he is not coming home.

I do not want to be reminded of the zillion things he belonged to and supported.  

Then there is all the estate stuff. 

Still.

Ten months out.

Even after the estate has officially legally closed.

I am still dealing with crap.

Bills.

People wanting to get some piece of money.

And my least favorite - the vultures.  

I have received several letters from people trying to buy the house from me.

They are very sorry for my loss.

They want to help me.

They want to take my house off my hands.

And there is no need for a real estate agent or lawyer to be involved.  

They will even give me a fair price.  

Fuck them!!  

And I rarely walk to the mailbox.

I get it on my way home.

When I am driving.

Walking there reminds me how lonely I truly am.  

It is the longest walk alone ever.

I feel like neighbors are staring at me if I do.

"Wow, what happened to the guy who used to walk with her?"

[Because they have yet to ever talk to me.]

"They must be divorced now."

Even though, I know I am imagining this part.  

I know they probably do not notice at all.

Or care.  

But I do not want to be thought of as divorced.

Ugh...   

Roommate?

I live alone.

I live alone in a house that was too big for two people.

I live alone in a house that was too big for two people who were not sure they were ever even going to have kids.  

I like living alone for the most part.

I have lived alone a few times in my life.

It does not bother me.

However, every once in a while I think "Maybe I should get a roommate."

Then I think again.

Am I too old for a roommate?

I mean, I have had roommates that were in their 30s.  

In New York, it was not unusual to have a roommate at my age and older. 

Then I think again.

It would be nice to have the extra income. 

To have extra money to spend on whatever I want.

To buy those extra things for the house.  

To go on an extra trip.  

To buy some new clothes.

To go out without guilt.

Then I think again.

But do I want to put up with someone else.

Someone who is not related to me.

Someone who I am not in love with.

Someone who will make a mess and leave it.

Someone who will look at my mess.

Someone who will look at all my stuff.

Someone who will have annoying people over. 

Someone who will make lots of noise.

Will someone want to put up with me?

Then I think again.

But it would be nice to have someone to talk to at home.

Someone to share the day with a bit.

Someone to share meals with every once in a while.

Someone to watch television with.

Then I think again.

I remember all the bad roommates I have had in the past.

Of the twelve or so people I have lived with, I would only live with about one or two of them again.

Those are not good odds on getting another good roommate.  

It also means I would have to deal with the roommate upstairs completely.  

And right now it is a room I rarely enter.

A room that has a door and no reason for me to go up there besides putting items in the closet I no longer want to see.  

The debate keeps going.

And it is another decision I really do not have the strength to make.  

The Jeep

This entry has been rolling around in my head for months. 

Pun somewhat intended.   

And for some reason, I have not been able to get it out of my head and into words.  

At least not adequate words.  

Back years before me, Roger bought a Jeep Wrangler when he got a bonus at work back in 2001. 

He loved that Jeep.  It was one of his dream cars.

It was a lovely shade of dark blue with a soft top.  

He loved the way girls flirted with him while he was driving around.

"the girls... were totally checking me out" he says in the journal I found after he died.

He enjoyed making out with dates up against that Jeep too.  

"It was cool leaning up against the Jeep and having her in front of me...mmmm"

Before Roger and I started officially dating, I remember being impressed by the Jeep.

It was a sexy car.

I had previously dated a guy who had a Jeep.

I knew the appeal.

On our first weekend away together, Roger was going to be attending a kickboxing class.  

I went along to enjoy the time away.  

During the day he would be at class and I would relax hanging around Cape Coral.

As we were driving to the hotel, Roger tells me that he will be leaving me his precious Jeep during the day.

"What?! I do not want to drive your car.  I have never driven your car.  I do not know how to drive the Jeep."

"It will be fine.  I trust you."

It was crazy to be trusted with his Jeep.

The thing he loved.

After Roger and I got engaged, we picked out my ring together.

Since I had proposed to him, he did not have a ring for me already.  

This was always the way he wanted to do things anyway although I wanted to be surprised.

So he got his way.

Lovely compromise.

About a week after I was wearing the ring, Roger shocked me.

He told me something drastic.

He wanted to sell his Jeep.

The Jeep he loved so much.

His dream car.

I was touched.

I was in shock.

I could not believe he would do that for me.

The Jeep of all things.

I cried.

I did not want to be that girl.

The girl who insisted on the guy changing his core person for her.

I did not want it to seem that was why he sold the Jeep.

But he said he wanted to sell it.  

It was not necessary anymore.  

He had his dream girl.

The Court System Failed Me

I know I wrote about the first time we went to court.

I do not think I wrote about the second time we went.

After the charges were dismissed the first time, the witnesses asked for the case to be reheard since not all of them had received a subpoena and they did not get to testify.

And since, the asshole's defense lawyer asked me, "How do you know this man was the driver? Did you see him driving the car?"

"Well no, I did not.  It was 5:30 in the morning" stupid bastard of a lawyer.

And in the moment, I did not care about the other driver as much as I cared about the man I loved who was not responding to me.  I cared about getting out of the car.

I cared about making sure we were going to live.

Why didn't your client make sure we were going to live?

Unfortunately/fortunately, the people who did see him get out of the car and driving the car were two cops.  And for their reasons, they could not make it the first court hearing.

And for whatever fucked up reasons, the judge decided the second hearing did not matter at all.

So the charges are still dismissed.

This fucked up asshole is still driving.

He is still on the roads.

The same roads as me.

He is probably even driving a new car.

Even if it is just new to him.

But me.

I used the money from my portion of settlement to live for the first few months until the insurance money came in.

I used Roger's portion to pay off credit cards from the estate, hospital bills, lawyer fees, and CPA fees.  

I am not raking in the dough from this accident.

Au contraire.  

I am dealing with a murderer who lives in the same town as me.

I am dealing with the loss of a spouse.

I am dealing with my own physical injuries.

I am dealing with a grief process.

I am dealing with post traumatic stress syndrome.

I am dealing with being a personal representative which is not fun.

I am dealing with letters from vultures offering me money for the estate.

And some people say to me, in order to try to make me feel better, "Oh he has to live with the guilt of murdering someone everyday."

Really?  That jerk feels guilt?

I highly doubt it.

I bet he does not feel any guilt.

If he did, he would have paid the tickets and never fought them.

He would have not sat behind me in court the first time talking about how his tires were not bald.

He would have tried in some way to talk to me and express his remorse.

But no.

He does not feel guilt.

He is going along with his life.

He is probably even celebrating.

The worse part is how invalidating it feels.

Like Roger was nothing.

Like I am nothing.

Like I am not protected by the government.

No, only assholes are protected by the government.

Not me.

So go on with your life you fucking scum.  

Go on and enjoy your family.

Enjoy your wife.

Enjoy your new car.

And Karma, I wish you existed.  I really do wish but I know you do not.

What if...

Sunday night I had a hard time falling asleep.

Not unusual for me but the reason I was having trouble was a little disturbing.

I was half asleep half awake but I kept thinking about what if...

And not the usual what if he did not die stuff or what if we took a different route that day or what if we did not plan to go on the trip, but different "what if".

Sunday night, my what if was about what if we did not have life insurance.

I started examining and almost worrying what could have happened.

Roger's life insurance was only effective two weeks before the accident.

Two weeks!!

I was so close.

I am "lucky".

I started thinking about what if I did not have that "luxury" and I was suddenly stuck without Roger's salary.

There are hospital bills.

There are funeral bills.

There are two houses to consider.

There are all the normal bills and costs of living.

I could not sleep because I started thinking about how I would have handled that situation.

I certainly would not be in school full time.

And I most likely would not have changed career paths.  

So I would have had to go back to work about now.

What a horrible combination that would have been.  

And what about the mortgage(s)?

Well, I would just have to get a roommate or maybe even two.  

And if I had roommates...

Oh what a ball of wax that would be.

Poor potential roommates having to deal with a grief stricken shell of a person.

And grief stricken shell of a person I am having to deal with roommates.

And what about all his stuff in the bonus room.

That is the ideal room to rent out.

It would have to be gone.

And I would need a lock on the office door.  

I could not have strangers going through my business.  

I would have to lose the guest room too.

It would have worked but oh, it would not have been fun.

Not that it has been fun so far.

But why do I think so much about that?

It did not happen.

The worst outcome did not happen.

I can relax.

I am ok.

I am "lucky."  

What crappy luck though...

Ugh, Melt Down #705

I know there will be a point very soon where I will not be able to walk into any establishment without the employees running and hiding.
"Oh no, it's that widow. Run! Hide! Here she comes! She will cry or throw a fit. Give her whatever she wants and no one gets hurt."

And I thought I was having a good day.
I thought I was having a good week for that matter even though it is only Tuesday.
But that was only temporary.
I guess it could not last.

As I have mentioned, a lot of people have thought I did nothing during the day before Monday. I just had someone comment to me on that fact yesterday even.
Yeah, I just sat around watching TV and eating candy all day before Monday. Maybe a cry here or there but I was doing nothing, right?
I wish.
My days were filled with phone calls to insurance companies, filling out forms, making copies of marriage licenses, meeting with lawyers, getting quotes for painters, figuring out which things to pay and which go to the estate, finding health insurance, making sure my renters are okay, making sure my house is not falling apart, filling out some more forms, and figuring out what to do with stuff.
Well now that I have school to focus on, I also have to fit in these other fun activities.
Today was getting a signature guarantee on a form because I was Roger's beneficiary in my maiden name and not in my married name. Roger and I just had not got that far yet in turning everything over. (Changing your name is such a tedious process.) This is the third trip to get these signature guarantees for the same IRA accounts. So hence, I'm already irritated that I am still working on these accounts when I thought I was finished with them last month. I was also irritated that it was raining. Yes, just because it was raining and that meant I had to be walking around and driving in rain (The accident happened when it was raining).

I walk into the bank with my forms in my hand.
The bank manager, Linda, I normally work with is not there.
No big deal.
I walk up to the counter.
"You can have a seat, I'm busy working on something."
Hmm, okay. No biggie. Normally I just stand and wait at the counter while Linda finishes whatever she is working on but okay, I will take a seat.
"Okay, you can come forward."
Okay. I was literally sitting there for two seconds. I could not have just stood and waited?
I am still composed. I did have to go to class after this so my time is limited but okay.
"How can I help you?"
I explain how I need a signature guarantee for this form because my married name was not listed as the beneficiary so I need to use this form to make sure I am the same person as before and I need them to stamp it.
"Hmm, we do not do that. We only do that for checks."
"Yes you do. Linda has done this for me before." Irritation is starting.
"Let me check with someone else. Linda is on lunch."
He wonders off to the office just over. And that lady is just chatting with her friend (I overheard part of their conversation and she was introducing him as her friend to other people in the bank so I am sure she could care less either way since she is busy with her friend.)
Harry returns. Yes I remember his name because I will never use him again. He is off the Christmas list for sure.
"Sorry, we can't do that."
Breakdown starts.
I do not think I was yelling but I do think I may have raised my voice a little and tears were starting to form thus my voice was starting to crack.
"I have a lot of money here (not true but I meant to say 'I have a lot of accounts here'). I lost my husband and I am going through a very difficult time. I just need your help and Linda has done it before."
"Linda will be back in forty-five minutes if you want to come back."
"I have another appointment now and I do not have time to come back."
Tears formed. Grabbed my papers and stormed out of the bank. I yanked the door so hard that it bounced against its hinge.
Geez... what is happening to me.

I called my widow friend to vent because I know she will understand.
We chatted for a little while.
I calmed down.
I went to class.
I kind of forgot about the bank incident.

As I was leaving, I noticed I had a missed call from a number I did not recognize and a voicemail.
I listen to the voicemail.
It was Linda.
"Hi, this is Linda from Wachovia. I heard you were here (Yes, I'm sure she did hear about some irrational woman who stormed out of the bank) and I wanted to see if I could help you."
I love Linda. She has been absolutely wonderful with everything. And I make regular appearances at the bank for one reason or the other. Most of the time for several reasons at once and she is always so sweet and helpful.
I called her back.
I told her what I needed and she said she would have it ready tomorrow at 3:30pm.
Like I said, I love Linda. She is fabulous.

I just hate this part of grieving.
It is one of the ugliest parts.
Hopefully there will be a massive turn over at the bank before tomorrow afternoon leaving only Linda and I will not have to be embarrassed at my actions...