Something happened recently that really upset me. You probably know the kind of upset I mean — bad dreams, sleeplessness, anxiety. I have had a hard time shaking off the feeling, the perturbation  (what a great word), with no understanding of why I couldn’t just “get over it.” Ultimately, like the Grinch, I “puzzled and puzzled ‘till [my] puzzler was sore” and had a Grinch-y epiphany, a breakthrough, a self-awakening. 

At least a few people apparently already knew the truth and one person told me in a — I’m telling you this because you need to hear it — kind of way, blunt but not mean. He handled it well, joking without joking and allowing me to acknowledge IT without embarrassment. That was the first dent in the armor of my certainty. It took some time — several months if I’m going to be completely honest — for me to absorb the truth, for the armor to break, but finally and completely, thanks to this latest blow … it has.  

So, what next? I’m not really sure, to be perfectly honest. I now know something about myself that I have to explore and consider … and change. Growth is painful and self-reflection can be excruciating. None of us like to look in the mirror and see a version of self that is less flattering than the one we’re used to seeing. Since I’m already on a journey of self-discovery, the timing is good, I guess, but the discomfort is not lessened. As Jane Austen wrote in Pride and Prejudice, “Till this moment, I never knew myself.” I am ashamed. 

And now for something completely different* … 

After leaving my last job, I was confident of two things: 1) I needed to work in Corporate America; and 2) I would immediately get another job. I have probably already mentioned in previous posts that I applied for every job for which I was even remotely qualified and interviewed for some subset of that. 

Not long after I started applying for jobs, however, I also began seriously writing again, something I haven’t done in 25 years. So far this year, I’ve written two picture books, a bunch — and I really mean a bunch — of poems, and two novels. One of those novels is out in the universe right now, looking for a publisher. I don’t know if it will be successful and I don’t know if that matters. 

As Alexander Graham Bell said, “When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”  I have chosen to see and walk through that open door. Some days, I ask myself what in HECK I’m doing but at the same time, I am so grateful, every day, to sit at this computer, where I am right now, and dream.

*Happy 50th Anniversary to Monty Python and many thanks for the ministry of silly walks and for vikings who sing about spam.

The title quote is from You’ve Got Mail. 

Wishing for you the gift of having someone in your life who SEES you.  

Much love. 

A story:  I recently met a divorced and remarried parent of my son’s friend. We were talking casually, as one does, while waiting for our kids to finish their activities when he impulsively told me that he knew there was someone else out there for me. He said that he understood that I would always treasure my relationship with Ken but that I would meet someone new with whom I could share life’s adventures.

I was … surprised? We don’t know each other well enough for confidences but I could tell that he intended his comment as a reassurance, as if meeting someone was an event “devoutly to be wished.” (That’s a Georgette Heyer quote, in case you don’t recognize it.)  In Terri Irwin’s words, though, “I already had my happily ever after” and so I told him. Honestly, I’m just getting to know this person who lost her life partner and then left her well-paid but abusive job. She’s odd — oh my dog, you have no idea what an odd one she is — and she’s cantankerous but maybe, just maybe, she’s okay.

This week, we’re in earnest preparation for a wedding coming up in our extended family. Honoring personal privacy, I won’t go into details. It’s enough to say that we need dress clothes! We’re really not formal occasion folks (next wedding better be a BBQ!) and the boys have grown so tall that nothing in the closet fits. So, with Ken close to our hearts, we went suit shopping this week. They did not enjoy the trying-on activities but they teased each other mercilessly, as brothers sometimes do.  You had to be there but let’s just say that the Richie Rich jokes flowed like wine.

It was bittersweet, seeing these two boys looking like the man and young man that they are and knowing that Ken (who also passionately hated shopping) would have longed to be part of this particular ritual. A difficult thing about losing one’s life partner is that every event, every rite of passage, every holiday, every vacation is as much about their absence as it is about the occasion itself. The Bride is honoring Ken at the wedding, which is kind, but it’s also wrenchingly painful, a visible reminder of a loss that needs no reminding.

What’s my point, you might fairly ask? I don’t really know. We’re so, so happy for the Happy Couple and at the same time we’re dreading yet another set of pictures that won’t include him.

Tolkien reminds us that life itself is a gift beyond measure and that, as a result, what punishments of gods are not gifts? I think about that a lot. If I could go back in time and know the outcome without being able to change it, would I choose the same path? I answered that question for one of my kids recently. Yes, absolutely, without question, I would do it all again … and maybe that’s my point, after all.

Wishing you joy on a beautiful Fall day.

 

NPR was on the radio in the car this morning and David Greene had Wajahat Ali on to talk about Ramadan — Ramadan Mubarak to my Muslim friends! — with, not surprisingly, a reference to safety and to Tree of Life here in my beloved Pittsburgh.

And here’s where I make a confession, dear readers:  I felt terrible after the prior tragedies but I didn’t understand, not really. I cried though, like the odd duck I am, sitting in Eat’n Park at the Waterfront, watching the live coverage of it happening in my community. [We stayed at Eat’n Park for almost two hours so we wouldn’t interfere with the police doing their jobs or accidentally put ourselves in danger trying to get home.] 

Honestly, I’ve been accused of lacking empathy before so maybe it was just me tuning out prior tragedies after a bit but living in the community has made the tragedy a part of my day. I literally — in my daily activities — drive or walk by Tree of Life almost every time I leave the house. It’s on my normal route. It’s two blocks from home.

It’s so normal for me to drive that way that, after the tragedy, I continually got tripped up by the two-square-block police barricade. (I mean, seriously, I KNEW the roads were blocked but habit is powerful.) The police barricade is long gone but now, I deliberately try to change my normal travel route. That feels wrong too. Isn’t it disrespectful to the victims to change my route so I don’t get upset when I look at the chain link fence and boarded-up glass doors and think about who was injured or killed when a terrorist shot the glass out of those doors?  For those of us who live here, there are reminders everywhere: the dozens of crocheted Stars of David hung on telephone poles around the neighborhood, the police barricades during the vigils at Tree of Life to mark our 6-month terror-versary and after the recent synagogue and mosque shootings, the Steelers Star of David logo signs posted in yards and hanging in windows, the news reports that now include Pittsburgh in the list with Sandy Hook and Las Vegas and ….

My family went to Endgame together opening weekend. The theater was sold out but we were timely and got great seats, front and center, perfect and early targets for a shooter. I became anxious as I scanned the full theater still brightly lit while those annoying pre-preview ads played on the big screen. I wondered if I should say something to the kids but that was stupid (I said to myself) because we weren’t going to get shot at Endgame on a Saturday night.

And that’s how fear works. I literally silently debated ruining Endgame for my kids because I was afraid they would die.

For those who might comment here about the Second Amendment, I’m a 2A supporter. I own guns. This isn’t an anti-gun post. It’s an anti-terror post. I am not “comin’ fer yer gunz,” ya nutters.

If you haven’t seen Endgame, I got you: Batman dies in the end.  

Keep yourselves safe. Much love.

Very occasionally, I take myself out for breakfast because it requires that I talk to people who are not my children. In my small (and getting smaller) world, this is important. Today, I’m sitting across from a man who is clearly taking his dad to breakfast. It’s gentle and convivial and really lovely to watch. They were seated before I arrived and have long-finished their food. They’re just talking; honestly, the dad is mostly listening with a smile and an occasional question. My dad and I didn’t have the kind of relationship that would have resulted in breakfasts together without the buffering influence of my sister (And a thousand thanks for that, girl!) or my children. However, my mom and I did and for a very short period before she was too sick to enjoy it, we would make dates to eat out. There was nothing she liked better than to sit in a booth across from each other and talk. I enjoyed it but only now do I understand how much of a gift that actually was.

As I said earlier, my little world is getting smaller — I quit my job in October. If you are on Facebook, you may remember a post I made early last year about how badly I needed to leave. Being the optimist that I am, unfortunately, I kept trying, thinking that my boss and I would get along better once he got to know me.  That was an overly optimist view of things.

To be perfectly honest, I should have known. How did I miss the signs? In our very first meeting — literally, our introductory call, he told me that he was considering eliminating my position. That was pretty shocking but “new broom” and all that. I’ve been laid-off before so I asked if we could set a specific end date and I offered to assist in the transition. Oddly, he backed off and said that I had misunderstood. Here’s the thing though … I hadn’t misunderstood. I HAD, however, misread him entirely.  As per my usual “no-names” approach, I’m not mentioning his name here or anywhere else for that matter. I am telling my story because about two weeks ago, I read someone else’s story and finally understood what had happened to me. Anyway, their story helped me and maybe mine will help someone else. So, buckle up if you are willing to read further ….

From that first phone call, my boss attacked, abused, and derided me publicly on almost every phone call. He regularly “forgot” to include me in meetings and on emails.  He told other people that I had assignments he hadn’t given me. He’d ask me questions during conference calls and then talk over my answer or call it stupid (“I’m not stupid.” — that’s my obligatory pop-culture quote).  He’d give me urgent, last minute assignments with ridiculous deadlines and then fail to respond to what I delivered. He’d berate me for things over which I had no control. He’d send inaccurate and abusive emails about me to a large number of people (or send them to me and blind copy a large number of people). He’d tell other people that he liked to delete my emails unread because I was irrelevant. After the most egregious events, he’d call me (or I would call him). He’d apologize (sometimes) or tell me why that was just “grandstanding” to get people on board or assert his leadership or whatever.  He always had an excuse and I always left our phone conversation feeling like we’d turned a corner, like things would get better now.  Sometimes, the abuse would start again immediately. Sometimes though he’d disappear for a bit and I’d feel a combination of relief and anxiety (would it start up again?).

As a grieving widow, and newly single parent, I was struggling personally — still am! — to get my feet under me, to pay the bills and figure out how to fix the clogged sink and keep the doorknobs from falling off (I know that’s weird but they fall off regularly!) and fix the broken light switch and DO MY JOB. I never missed a deadline; I worked 14 hour days; and I internalized all the abuse he dished out. He confirmed for me that I was as incompetent as I often felt already, that I was as incompetent as he made me feel.  This really is a textbook example; I can see that now.

Finally, in mid-October, after a three-day stretch of relentless abuse and a phone call that included “I’ve been watching your LinkedIn page to see if you’re trying to leave,” I told my kids that I was going to walk away from my only source of income. They are wonderful and told me they were 100% behind my decision. So, I scheduled a call with him on that Friday morning; and at the start of the meeting, I sent him my resignation letter. He asked me to stay indefinitely. “We both know that you’re quitting but it will be sometime in the future.” I may not have recognized yet that he was an abuser but I’m still not stupid. Instead, I agreed to extend my end date to December 7th which would give me insurance through year end and payout of another week’s vacation. He asked me not to speak negatively about him in exchange for him not bashing me and that was pretty much the last time we spoke. He didn’t even contact me on my last day and I had to text him 3 times for shipping materials to return my computer.

I was so relieved to have it be over and got to work polishing my resume, creating a writing portfolio, applying for jobs (not much posted in December unfortunately).

It wasn’t over though. Last month, he started stalking me on LinkedIn. Seeing his name again made me cry.  That’s when all the pieces fell into place and I realized how abnormal our relationship had been. Now that I know what he is, I have blocked him on LinkedIn and I hope that’s finally the end of it.

So, I am unemployed and have been since December 7th. I have applied for SO MANY jobs and talked to SO MANY recruiters and former colleagues.  Being unemployed is terrifying but my silver lining is that every day now, I wake up hopeful.

Signing off “With Hope” (another movie quote because I just can’t help myself)

After Ken died, I had a few awkward experiences — I think I may have mentioned them — telling acquaintances who somehow didn’t know that Ken was gone. It is easier with practice of course. Initially, saying the words was impossible without tears. Then, saying the words was just awkward, in part because I was causing pain and sometimes embarrassment when I answered a variation of THAT question: “Where’s Ken/How’s old Ken/Is Ken here with you?” But I got better at it after a bit and was eventually able to tell a version of his story that would bring comfort.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had to tell someone that he’s gone but tonight I was at an event that Ken would have attended, would have been thrilled to attend. Old friends were there and they all knew — except one who I haven’t seen in probably five years. She exclaimed when she saw me and literally ran over for a hug. “It’s so good to see you. How long has it been? Where’s Ken?” Then she cried when I told her and I felt the lump forming in my throat. I didn’t cry then, though I am now. I told her how much he loved it there and she told me how much they had all loved him. It’s true. I feel it every day but I forget sometimes how he brightened every life that he entered.

She hugged me again and again and I hope that it comforted her. For me though, it was like I lost him all over again tonight and I wonder how I’ll sleep.

Our bathroom has a Jack and Jill vanity which is the stupidest name for two sinks in a master bath … because Jack and Jill were siblings and how many siblings share a master bath?! You could just as easily call them Snow White and Rose Red sinks or Drusilla and Anastasia sinks …. or Jacob and Ludwig sinks (probably not Gaston and LeFou since they’re besties rather than siblings).

Anyway, now that the floors are dry and curing we can walk on them (no furniture until Saturday though), and I’m back to packing and cleaning out. I *thought* that I had finished going through Ken’s side of the vanity last year but opening the cabinet door last night was all the proof I needed that, in fact, apparently all I did last year was move stuff around (and probably cry). It’s a good argument against trying to go through things before you’re ready since you’ll just have to do it again later.

The number of things we’ve done *without* Ken is long enough now that we can no longer keep track and that’s probably good for my sanity at least. Everything we do from now on will be a thing we’ve done *without* Ken so keeping track is just another emotional Lego to step on during a middle-of-the-night walk to the bathroom.

Most weeks at our Caring Place meeting, the adults talk about the high point and the low point of the week. We have a lot in common — our low points usually involve a combination of significant events like birthdays and anniversaries and the expectations of others. Don’t get me wrong. Those “others” are our friends and families and colleagues and we are all so grateful to them. However, we’re also realizing deeply that EACH of us mourns in a completely private and inexplicable way. Even within our group, we are each unique in our mourning. How can we explain to others when we don’t, ourselves, understand what sends us down the grief spiral? And how can we help our children when they too experience grief in their own way?

Grief in two Acts:

Last night at The Caring Place, we had a big parent meeting about the grief spiral and what behaviors we can expect from our children. There was a LOT of crying. I’m tired of sandpaper eyes, a heavy weight on my chest, tears pooling and overflowing in rivulets on my cheeks.

Today, as I sit, working, on my back porch — the sky is iron grey and the air is heavy with the promise of rain — for just a moment, again, my brain wondered what time Ken would be home.

The End.

Those of you who have lost several loved ones — I have a question for you. Do you find yourselves thinking even more frequently about all of those loved ones? I feel a little bit like Harry Potter holding the resurrection stone and looking at all the people he cared about who had died and just feeling so overwhelmed by grief.

Yesterday was A BAD DAY. I don’t have a lot of hope for today either to be perfectly honest. Ian and I will be back at The Caring Place tonight. I think he’s looking forward to it which is a great relief but I am dreading sitting in the room with all those other widowed spouses, looking at all the faces of grief reflecting back at me like a mirror.

I have an open writing position at work that I am struggling to fill. Reviewing resumes and writing samples is just another way for me to miss Ken. We used to talk through candidates and their writing. One of the candidates I reviewed yesterday has a website with writing samples and they are littered with spelling and grammatical errors. Mistakes happen (as I can attest to every time I look at this blog!) but if, as a writer, you aren’t taking care on your resume/writing samples, I think it unlikely that you’ll be more quality focused on the job! Ken hated poor writing and when he was teaching writing skills to non-writers, he collected and shared examples to explain why writing skills are important. I thought about that yesterday when Ian mentioned to me (while I was loudly venting about the poor quality of my candidate pool) that his friends don’t care about spelling and grammar because the computer does all that for them. Right.

School is almost over for the year. Ian is looking forward to day camp again. This is the last year he’ll be able to walk across the street to get there and we’re both feeling pretty sad about that. Yesterday was A BAD DAY for Ian too. The physical labor of leaving our house is exhausting and the process of cleaning out all the mysterious stuff that belonged to Ken is a combination of frustrating and sad and not at all cathartic, despite what all the grief counselors say. I can honestly say that I’m not finding anything cathartic about yesterday’s ugly crying (yes, literal sobbing while I moved furniture and boxes and stuff) and neither is Ian. Yesterday is the first time in months that I saw Ian crying, while we sat outside in the early dusk, watching for bats and eating our dinner. Usually he is very private in his grief but everything is just too much for us right now.

He said that he doesn’t understand why life has to be so painful. I tried to explain that the gift of Ken in our lives is worth all of the pain we’re experiencing but I am wondering the same thing too.

Hi Ken, I woke fully at 4:30 this morning, after tossing and turning most of the night again, and thought about a year ago today. At 4:30 in the morning, I was sitting at your bedside, where I’d spent the night watching over you. Maybe I was holding your hand, maybe I was whispering to you about our lives together, or crying on your chest, or worrying about our children, or feeling guilty about all the things that I didn’t do (or didn’t do very well), or silently pondering. I don’t recall the specifics, though I remember the intensity of sitting with you for your last three nights, listening to your shallow breathing and wondering why you were leaving us.

How do I acknowledge something that is a constant in our lives without giving it power over us? How do I move forward without moving on? Perhaps if I talk to you about how we ARE doing, I can reconcile myself to what we aren’t doing.

Ian is growing so much. I think he’s going to be taller than his brother. You’d be pleased to see that he’s becoming quite artistic too, just like you and his siblings. He’s still playing guitar though he won’t join the orchestra. He says he is not a performer.

Haley is ready to get back to school. She’s frustrated with her job and, I think, a little bored. You know how much she hates school; this is a big step forward. Is she asking you for guidance? I wish she would talk to me. She has always been closer to you and I think I’m very clumsy when I try to help.

Tristan is reaching his own conclusions as he always has. We’re finally able to talk about you and tell stories. Remember when I had to travel and Tristan called because you made them eat cereal for dinner? Remember when Tristan accidentally drove the riding lawnmower into the tree? Remember when you cut yourself with the saw and Haley bandaged your hand because you wouldn’t get stitches?  Remember when Haley backed the Subaru into the Mini and we joked that she managed to damage $50,000 worth of our own vehicles at one time?

While we’re talking ….

What is the zipcar password? They’re spamming your email to renew online because I canceled your credit card. Of course we’re not renewing but I’d like the email to stop.

Did you see that the furnace died? It was 21 years old and I think we have your diligence to thank for its longevity. I found your notes and called Don to help us. He tried for two days to get us parts — the house dropped to 42 degrees — before I finally gave up and bought a new one.  It’s the right choice and will help us sell the house.

Regarding the house….I found someone to refinish the floors as you told me to do.  Also, I finished the bathroom that you started — with many, many thanks to Kevin (and Ian) for all the work they did to repair the wall! The downstairs bathroom got an update too — a new vanity and new paint job. Ian and I did that together. You would have been proud. Every time I got frustrated, he was right there resolving the problems.  Diann and Brad came down twice to help us repair the closets. What a job that turned out to be! Brad said that he’d work for beer and of course I didn’t have any. Without you, why would I have any beer in the house?! So, Tristan went out and bought some!

You would not believe the stuff I’ve gotten rid of. How does it accumulate?! I shredded 10 years of tax returns, including one from 1987! And I found the marriage license! Do you remember how mad you were when we couldn’t find it? It was in the file cabinet, mis-filed with other “stuff.” I joked about the George Carlin skit with Ian and then we had to watch it on YouTube.

Rev Herndon sent me a note when he heard that you died. He invited me to the All Souls celebration. I went to it of course but I cried the entire mass and scurried out the door, tears running down my cheeks, without greeting him. It was like the whole event was designed around you — the pianist played Erik Satie as people were arriving, the same song we chose for our wedding. Then they played Chopin and Rev Herndon read the Wendell Berry poem. At the end, when the congregation grasps hands, I didn’t want to connect with anyone but the man in front of me took my hand anyway and squeezed it, while I sobbed. Thankfully, Betsy invited me to walk with her later that day and listened as I described the horror of my public grieving. What a loving friend she has been.

The Mini Cooper clutch finally died. You were right, of course, that careful handling of that stupid clutch would extend its life for a bit. I took it to Bruno’s which you told me NOT to do but Mike and Greg love you and I trust them. They built a new clutch for me instead of paying $2000 for the “official” Mini replacement clutch. I also have to confess something that I know you’d yell at me about but don’t worry, Greg scolded me on your behalf — I forgot to renew the registration for the Mini! Since we do the registration online, the state doesn’t send a paper reminder and I forgot about it. Greg also reminded me to print out the registration to avoid the $300 fine if Haley gets stopped. Done!

Remember the cancer cookbook that Bonnie lent us? I finally sent that back to Bonnie with a note. She called me to talk about you. That was hard. So was the first parent meeting at school last fall. Ian’s advisor talked to me about how Ian is handling your absence and recommended — as have Roni and Dr McElfresh and Ian’s primary doc and so many others — that we go to the Caring Place. So, we went to an open house there. We are signed up; our meetings start next month. I’m dreading a repeat of the public grieving and already cried like 7000 times when we went there, but Ian is actually looking forward to going. They did such a good job at the open house; he really connected with the volunteers.

Highmark closed your hospice at West Penn. They’re advocating hospice at home or when necessary, in-patient hospice in the hospital. You would have hated that. I can remember you talking about how the constant beeping and loud noises distressed you. It made me sad that they’ve closed it. The volunteers and nurses were just amazing, loving and helpful. Do you remember the elderly woman who played the piano? You asked me to thank her for you and she played for another half hour because you enjoyed it so much. We participated in a grieving session with the hospice team and met the priest that you liked. He came right over when we walked in and hugged me for the longest time, rocking back and forth. Perhaps he connected with you and was comforting himself as well?  We talked about your sense of humor and the questions you asked him when he visited you.

I think Mr Bingley misses you in his cat way. You were always willing to put up with his cat-nonsense more than any of us and I think he’s lonely for your attention. He sits on the cat tree and reaches out with one of those massive paws, trying to latch on to a sleeve or a shoulder. He has become very persistent in his attentions.

Speaking of cats, Salty — your mom’s cat — has some sort of neurological problem, like many elderly cats, that causes her to have really bad vertigo. She follows me around now, her beautiful grace gone but her dignity intact, and tilts her head so much that she’s basically looking at me upside down. Ian thinks she’s had a little stroke. The vet gave us vertigo pills but getting Salty to take a pill is an extraordinary production. She can’t be tricked into taking it so we wrap her in a blanket (protection against those incredible claws), strategically pop the tiny half pill into her mouth and try to make her swallow before she can spit it out. It’s exhausting but so satisfying when we succeed!

I’ve been sorting and packing (or donating) and still we have so much to do. I haven’t gone through all your clothes but I KNOW how mad you would be that they are basically going to waste. Also, I found the box of your journals but I don’t think I have the courage to read what you’ve written.

Do you know how many boxes of electrical cords I’ve sorted? FIVE. And I still haven’t figured out what they all connect to. Most annoying is the cord for the portable car battery charger. I would really love to find that one but I know I won’t find it until after I give up and buy a new one.

Ian was helping me pack some of the hundreds of books yesterday (I’m dreading moving all those books again) and he kept finding books that looked interesting. You would have sat down with him and made a big pile of books for him to read. I can remember, many years ago, I would finish a book on the bus ride home from work and you would go to the bookshelf to find another great book for me to read. Now, I find them as I’m packing and realize that I’m going to be moving all of these. Brad was teasing me and asked if there weren’t any books on those shelves that I haven’t read. There are, of course, many that I haven’t but I find myself drawn to books that you gave me many years ago: Earth Abides, Fire Starter, Microbes, Lord of Darkness, The Man Who Folded Himself, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Dandelion Wine, Kon Tiki, Blue Highways ….

I am struggling with decision-making. What if some magical event is about to happen that will undermine a decision I just made?! What if, for example, we sell the house and then I win the lottery or get a really good salary that would have covered the mortgage on our current house or …. I guess what I am saying is that I have discovered how difficult it is to do the things we really don’t want to do.

Missing you has become a part of me, like the way my knee aches when the weather is bad. Oh, how I wish you were here.

Goodnight, my dear; I will see you in my dreams.

February 5th is the birthday of two of my favorite people — my mom being one of them. Mom would have turned 85 yesterday but she passed away 21 years ago, on January 9th. I should have been with her when she died and I wasn’t. Don’t make my mistake; it’s something that I’ll regret until my memories leave me.

This morning, the Vietnam Veteran’s Association came to the house to take 5 boxes and 4 bags of stuff.  Every day I go through a drawer or a box or a closet. It’s wrenching and confusing and, well, funny.  I just sorted a bunch of cords and connectors into different containers — like new Hogwarts students into their houses. [Puts on sorting hat] Ah, HDMI, yes, I see, diligent, practical … yes, yes, “Digital Device to TV” container (other connectors in the container cheer).

Ken was notoriously bad at cord management. His strategy was to shove loose cords into a big container and put them into a cupboard — problem solved.  I found 5 bins of cords — no exaggeration — and when next I see him, I am going to tease him so hard about that. So, anyway, now that they are sorted, we are on a treasure hunt of sorts to figure out what they all connect to. Some of them are just HDMI precursors but there is also a mysteriously large number of AC adapters. I sure hope one of them is the plug for the portable car battery charger!

One of the closets I have started to dig into is Ken’s clothes. Anyone who knew Ken, knows that he was very particular about his attire. So, it should come as no surprise that he had three or four times the amount of clothing that I have, maybe more. I’m kind of a “what’s clean?” person. He was more of a “what feels right today” person. This alone is why I never bought him clothes. Occasionally, his kids could buy him something that he’d like but I was never attuned to his preferences. His friends might say his preferences ran toward “tan dockers and a blue polo shirt” which on the face of it is accurate. In fact, he owned at least two dozen blue polo shirts, in different shades, textures, fabrics, cuts, all of them in regular use.

Ken also owned 13 different white shirts. He was always looking for the “right” white shirt but never did find it. That did not undermine the worth of those 13 white shirts, though. He wore them; he was just never quite satisfied. Over the weekend, I opened his closet door and pushed my face into all those shirts (they smelled like moth balls and laundry soap). Then, I took them off their hangers, folded them, and placed them into bags; and this morning, the VVA picked them up with the other donations.  The blue polo shirts (and that ridiculous purple polo that matches his lunch bag) will have to hang there a little longer.

For all you (older) music lovers, Ken was also a collector of really great music. Somehow, he just seemed to stumble upon it, long before the internet was there to give us ratings and opinions. We still have more than 1,000 CDs from his weekend trips to Record Rama and vacation stops at used CD stores (book stores too but we’ll talk about the hundreds and hundreds of books some other time!). We don’t even listen to CDs anymore but it is hard to part with them. It’s hard to part with anything that his hands once held, to be honest. We’re selling off the “hard to find” CDs. Turns out that those are worth a lot of money — I mean $30 as opposed to $1, so don’t get too excited about what’s hiding in your old CD collections! Some things, like the autographed Steve Roach album from the concert we went to in Philadelphia in 1993 or ’94, will stay with us but I am happy that some of these CDs will end up in the hands of another collector who will value the music as he did.

I got a bill from Allegheny Health Network at the beginning of January. It was $411 for services Ken received on January 6, 2017 and a new responsibility of -$335 (yes, a negative $335 for what?), which seems like a total of $76, though the total on the bill was $411. I called and asked how much I actually owed them. The customer service rep and I laughed about the math but she was unsure what to do. She told me that she’d have to do some research and talk to her supervisor. She’d call me back. Of course, she didn’t. I forgot about it for a bit and didn’t call again until mid-January. The lady I talked to said she couldn’t talk to me unless I could prove that I “was the estate.” Not being sure what she needed, I asked what proof that would be. Did she need details about Ken’s illness? I told her what services he received on January 6, 2017 (it was his birthday, he was in the hospital with pneumonia, the nurses brought him cake and sang to him while I cried). I reminded her that I know everything, that I had all the EOBs, that I just wanted a dollar amount so I could write a check.

I wish this were hyperbole but she actually told me to hire an attorney to write a letter telling them that I was “the estate.” I politely (I know, I know, you’re thinking that I wasn’t very polite but I swear that I was) told her that I would not be paying an attorney $250/hour to convince Allegheny Health Network that I am allowed to pay them. I asked her to have a supervisor call me. She agreed; we parted company. No one called me. I called again a week later. The representative, Jamie, must have had a bad day. She was … unfriendly … from the very beginning of the call. She said that my case had been reviewed and that I owed nothing. I asked her to clarify and she said, “the amount due is zero.” That was the whole call. She didn’t explain why it was zero, she didn’t apologize for the three phone calls I had to make to find out I owed them nothing. It’s hard to explain how angry I am about that whole experience. Why is the amount zero? Why didn’t they call me back EVER? Why did they treat me like a nuisance instead of a customer? Who else have they treated like this?

If you’ve forgotten that your customers are people, you shouldn’t have customers.

Peace.