More damned paper

I went into the EE shop - told them my husband had died and that I needed to take on the account. I have been paying the bills for a while and they have my name and details as part of the whole thing. Man was very nice, "yes, no problem, you'll just get a call to confirm you are yourself"

So, a form arrives (after a rather weird and vague phone call at 8pm) - it is a masterpiece of badness. I have never seen such badness. I can't edit  the form in any way (I tried copying it out and back, but it appears to be an image in a format I can't open) - and it it full of spelling and grammar mistakes

"Previous address if less then three years"
 "Allows us to let you know when your due an upgrade"

And so on

Then requires 4 forms of proof-of-identity, address, life skills and pubic hair colour..

Meanwhile the water tower, which tends to wandering, is obviously cold, as it's rushing about all over the place



Then the Civil Service Pension -  Abi chased this for me. "Oh, we take at least 12 weeks, and there's a form to fill in" Have you sent the form? she asks "Oh, no, not yet, then it will be 12 weeks before we can pay out." I know I will get the money, just glad I'm not scraping the back of the cupboards for an odd tin of sardines..

I swore, many years ago when I had the misfortune to have to deal with the Housing Benefit Office, that I would never claim a means-tested benefit ever again...

Birthdays and Future Days

Tomorrow (25th January) would have been John’s 67th birthday. Now, he didn’t give twopence for birthdays, but I would have liked to make him a card and a special meal and maybe open a bottle of good wine for this one.

 
We do not wish to mourn, rather to celebrate this lovely, gentle, polite, creative and always caring man. Even at the very end of his life, he was ever polite and unwilling to demand care.. *

So, please consider one or many of these things to hold his memory in your heart

Raise a glass, preferable wine or cider, as it was a long time since he could drink beer. Or a beer, in honour of that sacrifice. At the very least, a cup of tea.

Make something
Mend something
Teach something
Put your tools in order
Hold someone. No-one could hug like John, and it was a huge hug that sank me when I fell for him all those years ago…
Feed someone, and wash up afterwards
Be kind to someone who needs it
Tell those you love that you love them, for one day it may be too late…

Bless you for reading


*I don’t think being washed by a legion of pretty nurses was too unpleasant for him…

So, today was mostly Paper

Sorting folders, tax stuff, receipts, burning dross (why do we have twenty pieces of paper telling me that electricity prices are going up? What do I want with a thousand stupid "health" leaflets?); making lots of decisions about what to keep. No, I don't want all these hospital papers from John's admissions - somehow they always get something, or lots of things, wrong

Always, they wrote him down as divorced, while simultaneously writing "Next of Kin, Mrs Stormes" - hey, that's wrong too, I was never Mrs Stormes.. Somehow, now, I wish I had been. And pancreatitis? Every time? When questioned "Oh, it was on his notes". There was a lot wrong with my Lovely Man, but definitely not that..

Mostly we just got evasions, imprecision, no help unless demanded (and then perfectly happily applied, but some offers would have been fun), equipment badly installed; people arriving on the wrong days; idiotic appointments made and then grudgingly cancelled.

About a month before he died, we got a blood form. He rang up to ask what it was for. "Oh, it's a PSA" (prostate specific antigen, used to detect cancers of the prostate) - on finding out, he asked why "Oh, it's routine" - "Will you offer treatment for this?" he asked. Well, possibly chemotherapy, or radiotherapy.  "But you aren't offering those for all my other cancers, so I won't bother asking for an ambulance ride to do this blood test"

We did laugh, but now it all seems so hollow...

Here he is with his friend Dave, from Devon.  Dave's widow sent this lovely picture, from their wedding, John was an usher. He looks so young, and so lovely... He was always lovely

And ridiculously smart..

You know what?...

...I've had enough. I'm sick of being sick, of being tired and lonely and sad and sorry.. Damn it all, I don't need this. So, fitness, new bike, no more idiotic paperwork piles, more fun, more breakfasts out, fewer miserable bastards all round. And, you may well know who you are, (and if not, I don't care,) some people who will never get a word from me again. Not worth it..

This new blog is for ranting, writing, and righting..

Poem, sorry about this (actually, not sorry) for my Lovely Man

Dining Room

There’s a dead man in the dining room, mother

His mouth is open and he’s so dreadfully yellow

Did you know he was going to be there?

I knew, and not, and it’s still a surprise that anyone could be so still and quiet

There’s a dead man in our dining room, mother

His hair is all uncombed and his pyjama trousers are wrinkled

But his t-shirt doesn’t have any food on the front, at least

And his hands are so pale and closed, his nails so clean

There’s a dead man in my dining room, mother

And he’s taking up the whole of one wall with his great electric bed

I will lay him flat, so that the undertakers men do not have to straighten him out 

Before they put him in his cheap coffin and roll him away

There’s a dead man in a dining room, mother

Silent, alone, empty, gone,

And he’s mummified, skin like stretched parchment and dry paper

A cartoon corpse

There’s a dead man in your dining room, mother

I hope you will make him welcome, as I cannot

And take his cold hand in your cold hand of bone

And lead him into the light of a new life

December 7th 2019

Testing, Testing

New Persona awaits...