impossible stories

Stories are impossible but it's impossible to live without them.  That's the mess I'm in.-- Wim Wenders


Yesterday morning, the beginning of a new day, a joyous day.  Everything felt good with my winter cold lifting, a fresh haircut, a date in the night.  Sweet, to be on this new plateau.


A good day, then, to attempt to settle a still-pending year-old medical bill from Memorial Sloan Kettering for yet another treatment that did not work.  I will be calm, I say.  I will be respectful.


I reach a machine sadly disguised as a human being.  This is her job, I know; she can do no more than parrot the information on her computer screen.  You owe $17,000...no, I say, the insurance contract says MSK must accept the payment of $13,000 as sufficient...you can apply for financial assistance, she says...no, I will pay nothing, I say...the next step is a collection agency, she says...I will contact Rich's insurer and get back to you.


Yoga, for 30 minutes.  Then, I call.  I reach a flesh-and-blood human.


What! she says, as pissed as I am.  They always do this, don't worry about it, I will take care of it, you owe nothing, take care of yourself.  Have a good rest of day, a good weekend...


I hang up.  Then cry, astonished by the tears triggered by -- what?  Kindness?  Relief? I'm-so-weary-of-"this," whatever "this" might be?


Still, it's done, and my heart lightens as it remembers the day's beginning, and end. 


Then the mail arrives.


From the IRS.  A thick envelope.  Two errors on the 2008 taxes.  You owe us.  With penalty.


Rich never made errors on the taxes.  I skim through the pile of papers, and decide:  Tax consultants exist for a reason.  Next week, first thing, there I will go.


The day is starting to sink under the weight of impossible stories. 


Three days before I had made appointment with a therapist, just to confirm how well I was doing.


Ninety minutes and multiple tissues later, a new book spews forth, irrational and thick...I didn't want to only care for Rich, I wanted to cure him...how could love and science fail?


I want to move onward without stories that have no answers, but my only hope is that they will vanish as they appeared, without a beginning, without an end.


I visit my family at Hospicare.  John and Cathy, who cared for Rich; and his social worker, the bereavement director, the office manager, Molly the more-than-human dog.  More than anywhere, this is the place I feel most at home, and where Rich's presence is as strong as ever.  Being here hurts so good.


Then, the date.  We see a show about death and torture.  Nicely done, we agree, but as soon as we hit the air the show vanishes into a story that's stronger only because it's mine, and follows me everywhere.


Today I awake at noon.  I'm in love and in grief and I can't separate the two, I can't separate the people or the emotions, and decide to give both a sabbath day.  


A new story, tomorrow.


Candace