I’ve been plugging along at a decent clip for weeks now, dealing with the practical issues of my father’s death. I’ve filled out forms, made and fielded phone calls, emailed the lawyer, managed his mail, gotten things notarized, had my signature witnessed. Since he didn’t leave a will, things have been even more complicated than they would have been otherwise. It’s meant more paperwork, it’s meant paying the county almost $500 to file papers establishing that I’m the heir and estate administrator, and it means a court appearance later this month.

As if the never-ending issues with my health weren’t enough to give me a nervous breakdown, there have been his health insurance statements and hospital bills from the services he received during the two or so hours before he was pronounced dead. In those two hours, he received over $10,000 worth of treatment. Yes, that is the correct number of zeros. I guess I should be grateful Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Texas is covering $9000-something of the expenses, but the $600-something hospital bill is a little off-putting. Never mind that his insurance card says he has a $100 emergency co-pay. Oh, and there’s the $50-something owed for the ambulance ride. The expenses feel like they’re multiplying exponentially.

It means regular calls from a young lady at one of the credit card companies to which he owed money who doesn’t seem to understand that her company needs to get in line with the hospital and everyone else, and when there is money to be had, they will get theirs. Calling me every couple of weeks isn’t going to make it happen any faster, and it’s really starting to piss me off.

It meant too many unresolved discussions between Jason and I about what to do with the furniture and belongings I intend to keep. PODS. Movers. Truck rentals. Calling, getting quotes, and now fielding calls from salespeople who want to help us with our “upcoming cross-country move”. I don’t always feel like explaining to people that we’re trying to figure out what to do with my dead father’s possessions, but that usually means faking my way through a conversation they want to have as part of their sales pitch about how exciting it is to be moving. Blah, blah, blah.

It’s a ceaseless reminder that I know more about my father now than I ever did when he was alive, that the investment in our relationship is as one-sided now as it was before he took his life. And that’s as good as it will ever be.

A couple of nights ago, I was giving Jason the exciting re-cap of my day (you’ll have to the imagine the heavy sarcasm there), how I had forms notarized by a cranky notary, how I went to the post office where I was told they couldn’t overnight anything to my hometown since it’s “in the boonies”, how I trekked to FedEx instead, how I called a life insurance company who won’t tell me anything since I’m not the estate administrator yet, how I tried to take care of the items the lawyer requested of me in the three different emails I received from him Tuesday.

Yesterday afternoon, I got the earnest money contract that makes the process of selling my father’s house official. Knowing I needed to turn around and overnight it right back, I signed, I dated, I initialed, I Y’ed for yes and N’ed for no on the inventory of what is and isn’t included on the property. I paused and sighed as I re-read the disclosure statement that my father died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on the property. I tried to make a copy of the heirship affidavit so I could enclose that in the envelope with the earnest money contract as requested by the lawyer, only to discover that our fax machine only had enough ink to copy the first page, but not the other two pages. My printer also makes copies, but the ink is all kinds of messed up, so I rushed out the door to hit the post office where I know there’s a copy machine before going to the FedEx office around the corner, hopefully in time to get the envelope out for an overnight delivery to the teeny tiny little dot on the map that represents my place of birth. Once at the FedEx office, I filled out the address form, double checked that I had all four items to be sent to the lawyer – the contract, the affidavit, the life insurance papers, and the pension papers – before flicking my fingernail under the adhesive backing to peel up the waxy strip, and seal the envelope.

My nerves were already frayed, so “Shit!” effortlessly escaped my mouth before I could replace it with something that wouldn’t potentially offend the gentleman in line, as soon as I realized there was a form in the envelope that still needed a witnessed signature. Frikkity-frak. When I’d gone to the notary the day before, she had said she couldn’t both notarize and witness a signature. Jason couldn’t do it because he’s family. I had intended to get one of my friends to do it, but that was when I thought I could complete the packet on my own time. The lawyer wanted me to include it in the overnight package, and I was pretty sure the insurance company wouldn’t accept the dirty tracks of a lizard running across the paper to bear witness. Before I had left the house, I had tried to think of who I could get to sign it, and peered out the window to see if the neighbors were home. They were not, and since I needed to make sure I didn’t get the package out too late, I set off for the FedEx office, crossing my fingers that someone there would sign it.

Once I was at the counter, hoping the counter lady wouldn’t notice I was wearing the exact same thing I’d been wearing the afternoon before when I’d gone to overnight documents for the hearing to the lawyer, I gave her the address form before asking if she could witness my signature. She said she wasn’t allowed to do that.

At least this time, I only said, “Shit!” in my head. I tried to think of what to do, but couldn’t conjure anything up, so I started to take the papers out of the envelope, resigned to the fact that I couldn’t send them yet. I thought of the lawyer’s reminder in one of the previous day’s letters that I need to do exactly as he instructs me, and I need to stay on top of everything. It made me feel chastised and left me trying to recall if I hadn’t done something correctly. The tears started to well up, and I frantically tried to find my credit card so I could pay and get out of there before I totally lost it. She asked if I wanted it there in the morning or afternoon. I told her it didn’t matter, but my voice gave away the meltdown that was ensuing in front of her. The counter lady walked away for a minute, and I turned towards the pile of boxes and bubble wrap, neatly labeled and priced, almost sculptural really, hoping to gain my composure. I wasn’t trying hard enough though, and the tears were starting.

I heard a door open, and another woman in a FedEx uniform entered the customer area, as the counter lady reappeared behind the counter. The second lady came up to me, and said something that I can’t remember now.

I blurted out, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… my father committed suicide… the paperwork just doesn’t stop… I can’t deal with it anymore…“ I stepped back towards the box sculpture, crying, and I’m pretty sure I looked as pathetic as I sounded.

“It’s OK. I’ll sign it.”

I couldn’t think of what to say. I felt foolish. It wasn’t like the time years ago when I cried to get out of a speeding ticket. I really didn’t mean to unravel right there like that. I knew the veneer was bound to crack eventually, but I didn’t know when or where or how. I had just hoped it would be at home. The second lady leaned over the counter to look at the form before signing it, saying “I’m putting my home address because I’m not supposed to do this as a FedEx employee.”

I felt even more foolish, and couldn’t think of how to make this right, un-do the scene I was causing, which thankfully, no other customers were there to witness. She offered me a cup of coffee or a glass of water, and I declined. I could hear the sympathy in her voice. Through the tears, I thanked her before apologizing again, and then she disappeared behind the door. I fumbled to get the papers in the envelope, and the counter lady told me to take my time before apologizing again that she wasn’t able to sign it. I told her it was OK, that I understood, and thanked her. I paid, and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Just get to the car. Just get to the car.

The car door slammed shut, I leaned down, trying to put my head in my lap despite the steering wheel with the hopes that no one would see me as I sobbed. I felt like an idiot, I was tired and frustrated with all of this. I want nothing more than to deal with my own feelings about my father and his death, the sadness, the anger, the regret, the resent, the anxiety, the guilt, but it’s next to impossible when I’m mired in the financial, legal and bureaucratic fallout. I try to keep telling myself that it won’t last forever because the consolations are few, and that’s all they really are – consolations.

I’m leaving for Texas tomorrow or Saturday, and then Jason will fly down to join me later in the month to help move furniture and clean out the house, so he had had to clear the time off with his department. Last night he recounted to me how after he explained why he was requesting time off, his boss had told him he should take me on vacation after all of this, and he thinks there will be enough money leftover after the debts are paid that we can likely do that. “I know you like tropical vacations, but we’ve talked about going to Disney World. We could go to Universal too. I have a ton of vacation hours, we could drive down. Would that be OK? Going to Disney instead of something tropical?” I nodded, and then he got silly, pretending to be greeting Goofy and Mickey, although it was kind of inappropriate so I won’t repeat it here. It was darn funny though, and I laughed. Jason is a champ at patching up my veneer.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

Last week, I really meant to try to get back to a semi-regular posting routine. Between getting ready for the big birthday party, trying to get a conference proposal ready, and some other miscellaneous crappola, it didn’t happen. Looking ahead, since I anticipate leaving for Texas again at the end of the week, give or take, being there for a couple of weeks in order to pack up the house and remove its contents, attend a hearing on my father’s estate, etc., etc., it looks like it could be towards the end of the month before I’m really present again.

I’m here today though, and delighted to report that I had a spectacular birthday! Friday night, we had a soiree at the VFW of which one of our friends is a member and graciously hooked us up with a big room complete with pool tables and a bar with a bartender and super-cheap drinks. We had tons of food, of course – sandwiches from my favorite sandwich place, coleslaw I made, and lots of side dishes and finger foods that my friends brought like spinach dip, macaroni salad, wings, a veggie tray, and the like.

RAWR!! cake

I had been to one of the renowned area bakeries a couple of days earlier to order not just one, but two glorious cakes – a quarter sheet cake that was half chocolate and half vanilla, and a round chocolate layer cake with banana cream filling and chocolate whipped cream frosting. This is a summary of the exchange I had with the man at the bakery who took my order:

Baker: What do you want the writing to say?
Me: Happy Birthday Lee Ann
Baker: So you want girl colors?
Me: Well, I was wondering if you could do snakes and lizards?

The baker raised an eyebrow, and looked up at me from his order form with a suspicious expression.

Baker: We don’t do intricate icing decorations.

It was something about the kind of icing they use. So no fancy icing art, but they have a ridiculous selection of plastic toy decorations, and he thought they had some decorative toy reptiles. My face lit up when he mentioned this, so the baker proceeded to sift through a series of drawers for the decorations in question. After a brief search, he came back.

Baker: That’s more of a summer item in a package with bugs, so we don’t have it.

Bugs? Why would anyone ruin beautiful reptiles with icky, crunchy bugs? I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my disappointment must have been apparent.

Baker: What else would she like?

I sheepishly admitted that “she” was me, and got another raised eyebrow. I scanned the wall of decorations before I was struck by the oh-so-obvious compromise.

Me: What about dinosaurs??
Baker: Yes, we can do that.

So dinosaurs it was! I’ve had a thing for dinosaurs since I was in maybe 1st grade. I would have preferred snakes and lizards, but dinosaurs were a cool second best option.

Jason and I… well, mostly Jason had worked tirelessly to prepare karaoke for the party. The details would bore you, but we had multiple issues trying to put something together, mostly technical issues. He thought he’d unsnagged all the snags since it had worked fine with our TV, speakers, mics, and laptops at home, but the final snag occurred at the VFW, and was without a resolution despite Jason’s efforts. We had to work around the snafu, but overall, the karaoke went well and offered too many hilarious moments to count. (This is the part where I give mad props to my hubby.)

The Birthday Girl

So great fun was had, much food was eaten, the cake was scrumptious, the candles were many as were the jokes about setting fire to the VFW, the drinks were cold, my tiara was sparkly, the company was fabulous, the entertainment was memorable for sure, and it was an awesome party.

Saturday, initially, I wasn’t going to do anything. Many of our friends were going to a seafood restaurant Saturday night, but Jason doesn’t like seafood, so we hadn’t gotten on board (see what I did there?). I knew that one of the attendees wasn’t feeling well though. Jason, tired from the party, wanted to stay home and play Star Trek, so he encouraged me to see if I could still go. An email and a couple of phone calls later, and I had a reserved seat and a ride to the dinner.

The food was delicious. It was a big group of us, and we were seated in smaller groups at several tables. Those of us at the table where I sat shared a basket of corn nuggets, little balls of creamed corn, battered and deep-fried. They were pure decadent evil in the best way. Then I had buffalo garlic scallops, also sinfully delicious. As is my M.O., especially after such indulgent appetizers, I ate half my entrée, and brought the rest home in a doggie bag – broiled scallops and shrimp, a crab cake, onion rings, and homemade macaroni and cheese. Oh, and I’d be remiss to exclude the chocolate cake I shared with my buddy, Allison. It was all very carb-erific, and I underbolused (darn you, breading!) so I had a BG spike with which to contend, but I managed to reign that in within a couple of hours. Battered deep-fried anything presents a BG management challenge, but I like to think I’m up for that tete-a-tete every now and again.

Sunday, which was actually my birthday, I decided that brunch and a movie was my celebration of choice. I could tell Jason would have been perfectly happy sitting on the sofa all day, so a low-key outing seemed a fair compromise. One of my favorite eateries for breakfast food is Honey’s Sit & Eat. Supposedly Honey’s serves mutant Jewish and Southern cuisine ripe with farm-fresh organic ingredients. I don’t see a lot of Jewish influence, but then I’m partial to ordering menu items that are of a Southern ilk. Since Northern Liberties, the Philadelphia neighborhood where Honey’s is located, is a popular habitation for 20-something artsy-fartsy folks, there is never a shortage of them at Honey’s. Having been one of these 20-something artsy-fartsy folks an increasing number of years ago, being there does elicit memories of times past and a certain bittersweet feeling of loss, but the atmosphere is good and the food is mouth-watering. Jason ordered the Breakfast Bomb, a giant pancake filled with eggs and his breakfast meat of choice, which was bacon, needless to say, and a side of home fries. I opted for my usual: the chorizo, jalapeno, tomato, cheddar omelet with a side of grits and a homemade buttermilk biscuit. It. Was. Fabulous.

We crossed the bridge back into New Jersey, and headed towards the movie theater to see Edge of Darkness. We had some time to kill though so we stopped at Target. I snapped a picture of the Ding Dong shirt for Kerri because she and I had a conversation about Ding Dongs during our drive to Chicago last summer that still makes me giggle. I also snapped a picture of Happy Birthday Barbie, which I now regret not buying. I’m toying (see what I did there?) with the idea of returning to buy her even though it’s a little late to don the birthday tiara included with her.

Edge of Darkness was entertaining, although the plot was convoluted and I couldn’t quite figure out who some of the characters were in relation to the plot. We weren’t terribly excited about any of the movie options, so it wasn’t that we were dying to see it, but more that we were less keen on spending money to see the other films. Diet soda aficionado that I am, I do have to complain that $5.75 for a large soda left me shaking my head in utter dismay. Note to self, plan ahead and smuggle beverages into the theater next time.

Overall, I had a great birthday. Many thanks to all who sent cards, messages, e-cards, and posted birthday wishes on Facebook. My aunt even sent me some beautiful tulips, a reminder that spring and the new beginnings I sorely need are right around the corner.

Honey's Sit & Eat

The Breakfast Bomb

Southern-Inspired Breakfast for a Southern Girl

For Kerri

The Perfect Gift for a 37-Yead Old

Spring Tulips for the Birthday Girl

Despite the deafening silence around here, most days I sit and try to write something. I consistently end up with a few paragraphs of word vomit though. I habitually leave my laptop on for the day, sometimes for days on end – please don’t tell the green people because I know this means I fail at energy conservation. The paragraphs might sit for a few hours to as long as a couple of days before I return to them, give them a re-read, and delete them. It’s called word vomit for a good reason after all. I really want to return to blogging. I want to say something about something, but what?

I can tell you I’ve been sick for almost a month. I spent a couple of those weeks on the sofa watching documentaries on everything from dinosaurs to a black dude who traced his family history back to when his family was slaves. Of greatest interest to the diabetes community were the ones I watched on the obesity epidemic and the American food industry. You’d think I’d have a post or two to write about that, but so far nothing has materialized. I watched a disproportionate number of documentaries about World War II which is neither here nor there to you, but I’m telling you anyway.

Ordinarily, I never turn on the TV during the days when I’m home. Jason and I have shows that we like to watch together, and that’s really the only time I watch TV, so the documentary-watching binge is exceptionally peculiar. It’s the only thing for which I had any energy after the incessant coughing and the meticulously constructed mountain of green snot-filled tissues I made.

Somewhere in the midst of that, I also went to Texas for a week, as you likely surmised if you caught the lame filler post with my pictures of the freak East Texas snow storm. While the purpose of my trip was to begin to sort through my father’s belongings, which incited one especially painful meltdown, but otherwise, I took in stride all things considered, I was still happy to be with my Granny and my aunts. Mind you, it’s my hope that I can make the next trip without having to eat cold medicine like it’s candy and drink cough syrup like it’s Diet Coke because I didn’t care for the haze that induced.

Once home from Texas, it had become clear to me that the non-prescription medications weren’t doing much for me, so I finally took myself to the doctor. Having been on antibiotics and codeine-infused cough syrup for the last week, my symptoms are finally improving. So that’s something.

As if that weren’t enough to put an emphatic eff in February, a month that typically agrees with me much more favorably than it has this year, the first week of the month greeted me with not just one, but two glorious incidents of severe hypoglycemia requiring glucagon. Both incidents were marked by what have become the hallmarks of my nocturnal hypoglycemic events. Moaning and thrashing that woke up Jason. Semi-responsiveness that deteriorated to unresponsiveness. Sheets and a mattress pad so drenched in sweat you’d think I’d peed on them. Jason’s sadly confident decision that the time to bust out the red glucagon kit had arrived. My eventual emergence into consciousness marked by a dazed, “What happened?” Me, frozen to the bone, shivering uncontrollably, teeth-chattering, and surely on the verge of hypothermia. The only difference between the two incidents was the first one was punctuated by a 20mg/dL, while the one five days later was marked by a milder 25mg/dL. And thankfully, Jason was able to bypass calling 911 because the juice he poured down my throat before I became unresponsive combined with the glucagon did the trick. I reckon that qualifies as some kind of silver lining, right?

So February has been a bitch of the royal PIA variety. And that’s after January left me flat on my ass with the wind knocked clear out of me. On the upside, my birthday is in a few days, which really is a good thing as long as I don’t dwell on the fact that I’m a year older which scares the crap out of me since this diabetes thing was surely going to take me before I hit 30, but has now graciously let me tiptoe another year closer to 40. As I said though, I’m not going to think about that. Since my parents won’t be around the next few days, they took Jason and I out to one of my favorite restaurants last week, and we had a lovely dinner. After the last few weeks, there are not words to describe how happy and relieved I was to see my mom and dad. That was good.

On Friday evening, I am throwing a birthday party for myself with the generous help of Jason and my friends. If anyone in the general geographic region has any interest in attending, please let me know, and I will forward the specifics to you. I will drink diet soda, and eat cake, and sing karaoke, and be happy. Supposedly, it’s not good luck to share one’s birthday wish, but it probably goes without saying that mine will involve a serious reversal of fortune. I’m also hoping the birthday fairy can deliver some blogging inspiration because I’m struggling to get back on track here.

As I told you yesterday, I came to Texas a day earlier than I had originally scheduled in order to bypass the Great Snowpocalypse of 2010. While this was an effective tactic in that my travels went relatively smoothly, it was not an effective strategy for getting a reprieve from the winter weather, much to my dismay. It may not be the 3 or 4 feet of snow towering in my front yard in New Jersey, but a couple of inches of snow in East Texas is a very unusual thing. This morning, I asked my Granny, “When was the last time there was this much snow in Nacogdoches?” “I don’t know,” said the woman who’s lived here all her life as she shook her head.

I usually do this thing when I get overwhelmed. I freeze. I don’t know which way to go or what to do, so I remain in suspended animation while everything else around me moves, changes, and drifts. I watch and wait, and try to figure out how to respond, but by the time I figure it out, the moment has passed, the person is gone, the event is a memory.

That’s where I seem to be right now. Like when I was a kid on the playground, in maybe 3rd or 4th grade, and fell backwards, hitting my head on the pavement and gasping for air since the wind had been knocked out of me. I feel like I’m in that moment, unable to draw a breath, trying to make heads or tails about how I ended up in this position. The position in which I’ve been for exactly a month as of today, estranged daughter of a once-adored father, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

In my head I keep picturing it. My father, in his shower, holding the gun. It’s so real, I can imagine myself telling him, “Don’t do that. Please.” I know that feeling of wanting to not be alive, of wanting the pain to stop. I know how much it hurts. I know how dark it is. I also know it passes. If you wait. Then I wish I could turn back the clock so he could wait for his time of darkness to pass because it would have. If he had just waited.

I’ve been in Texas the last few days. My original flight was scheduled for Wednesday, but in anticipation of the snowpocalypse, I called Continental, and got myself on an obscenely early flight Tuesday morning. Today, I went to his house by myself. I’m not sure what I thought I was going to do. I know what has to be done. His possessions have to be sorted, stuff I’ll keep, stuff others can have, stuff to donate. Then it has to be packed and distributed accordingly. Because we didn’t have a good relationship once I became older, his stuff is all I have of his most recent self. I have some wonderful memories from my childhood, but few from the last 25 years, so his house with its things is as close as I can now get to him. To move it, give it away, pack it up will be to erase the only thing I have left.

So I accomplished nothing. I sat in the living room, imagining him watching his TV. My blood sugar was low, so I opened a box of Nilla Wafers, and ate a serving – 8 cookies, 21g carbs. I found the cabinet with the chip clips to seal up the cookies. I opened some other cabinets and drawers. An indoor grill, a blender, potholders, pans. He left his winter jacket sitting in the chair in the living room, the gloves on the end table next to it. I looked through the pockets, hoping to find some clue to why this happened, a key to undo it. Never mind that I’d already looked through the jacket last month when I was here.

I had not yet looked in the shed where he reportedly kept miscellaneous stuff. I unlocked the backdoor, pulled the hood over my head, and carefully tread on the deck steps, slick with freezing rain. After following the stepping stones, I unlocked the shed, and peered inside. A bike, another bike, boxes, a ladder. I went in and walked around the pile. Cans of paint, some scuba gear, more boxes. I wanted to go through it so I could achieve a better sense of having known him, but it was cold and I was still foggy from low blood sugar. I remembered the task ahead of me, picked up the boxes of garbage bags, and locked the shed behind me.

Once inside, I mustered the courage to step into the bedroom. I stood and looked around the room. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. I put my head on the pillow and cried. Then I just lay there and stared.

Eventually, I got up, collected my things, and left. I don’t know why, but I took the Nilla Wafers with me. I felt like I was stealing them even though, technically, they’re mine now.