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.