Friday, February 10, 2012

Days Like This

I'm grateful that most days aren't like this one.

It's a pretty enough day, sun shining, and all, but everything reminds me of Steve. Every freaking thing. I want to tell him this, show him that, ask him about something else. Then the (expletives deleted) hospital is badgering me for that last few dollars, which reminds me that the business office was CALLING HIM IN HIS ROOM, GOING UP TO BADGER HIM for a fairly hefty payment before he left the hospital.

Always trying to bring light to a situation, he said he told the woman he was sorry, but he didn't think to tuck the checkbook into his pocket when he had the heart attack. When he had to ask me to call the ambulance. When he actually Followed the Light to the Other Side before the ambulance arrived. No, grabbing a checkbook on the way out the door wasn't even at the bottom of his list, it wasn't on his list at all. Mine either, for that matter.

So I guess I'm actually still angry about the insistent woman badgering him for money -  a weakened, sick man, died at home before the ambulance even arrived, they had to zap him with the defib on the way to the hospital, spent the night in the cath lab, still in the CCU, for crying out loud, and this woman is pestering him for money as if he'd bought one of those pay-day loan cars on 29th Street, "When can I expect a payment?" Now they're sending bills with (expletive deleted) on them like "We... sincerely hope (you enjoyed your stay)" or whatever. Liars. (Expletives deleted) liars! Lousy effing greedy corporate bastard liars! (got tired of deleting expletives)

So there's all that, and every freaking thing in my life reminds me of Steve, which reminds me that he's not here any more, which reminds me how much I miss him which reminds me how much I wish he were here. Most days I can trudge through okay. Most days - and then there's today. I'm driving the Kilpatrick turnpike opening the car windows and taking deep breaths to try to keep from breaking down in tears because I'm driving in traffic and I have to see people today and talk to them. I'm pretty sure they'll understand if I 'm sad, but it really is actually difficult to carry on a conversation when you're blubbering. That's the kind of day today is.

I "closed" the business we had together because it's nothing without him, but I have to leave the company checking account open until one more check comes in, so I called those folks again. It's on the Workman's Comp policy. There's a "minimum payroll" the owners have to meet, and in the final audit they charged up to the same minimum for Steve that they did for me, even though he was dead about half of that time. They said I could appeal it - the woman I spoke to was very kind - but that is yet MORE paperwork and MORE delay and on this day I just can't bear it. I just can't. I'm played out over that damn hospital (don't get me started again....).

And then I get the sweetest thing in the mail. I go open the mailbox and there's this sweet little yellow envelope addressed to Aunt Vicki.  I have no idea, no way of knowing how she could have known this would be exactly what I needed today. It was from my niece Melissa, this pretty little envelope in her beautiful, tidy penmanship, a little slip of paper that simply says,

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could."
                                                            ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

It actually makes me cry harder each time I read it, and yet at the same time is somehow oddly reassuring. I've tucked the slip of paper in the frame with the picture of Steve crossing his heart with his hammer, taken the day he nailed up the last piece of redwood clapboard siding onto the house.

Okay. Deep breath, drink some water, wipe face off. I still have a lot of stuff to do today, and more tomorrow. 'Fraid I'm probably not through crying yet, but maybe I can get on through the rest of the day now.

Thank you for reading.