The routing number on my checks is not in the same place as other people’s checks. I entered the numbers wrong…well, according to the cheatsheet on the website…and the bank did not honor the payment. When I picked up the mail this afternoon there was a letter notifying me of my mistake and adding a $25.00 gotcha to the bill.
In the past month, I have learned that the world is very tolerant of the holes in my brain. When I called the management company, the nice lady was happy to reverse the charge. She just couldn’t quite figure out how to put the account in my name rather than his. He is dead. He isn’t answering the mail.
It’s not like they don’t have a complete profile of the property, including that my name is on the title. Indeed, by now, mine is the only name on the title. Note to world: DO NOT argue with a new widow. The waves of emotion that have absolutely nothing to do with property management or HOAs crashed over me in wracking sobs. I don’t want to do anything, particularly anything extra or requiring thought. Don’t ask me to find the title and send it to you when it is on file somewhere in your archives.
The waves crashed over me and they also crashed over the nice lady who was just trying to do as little of her job as possible. She felt bad. She called IT and yes they had the information…no problem. The name is changed. Just quit crying please, please?
Twenty five dollars is not the end of the world. I just spent more than that on a ledger that will not work for my accounts and I owe the government an order of magnitude more money than that (unless I figured the taxes wrong). This grief thing hurts. It makes me act like a crazy lady. It makes me feel out of control and out of my mind and really lame.
I am supposed to be kind to myself. How do I be kind to myself when I don’t even know who I am? I have been his wife for so long. His wife, his friend, his partner, his…what am I going to be going forward? I know I have to go forward. Backward is not an option. Dead stop is, I suppose, but it doesn’t appeal.
It has been six weeks–a month and a half–a century–a lifetime–the blink of an eye. I cannot tell time with holes in my heart.
