Tuesday. So I’ve decided: I’m going to move back to Cincinnati, my birthplace and home of my mother and siblings, as soon as I can afford it. To that end, I’m seriously downsizing my personal library and will be selling off as much as I can bear of other possessions. I’m going to imagine this winter as a kind of grief tornado that swept, is sweeping, the apartment free of what I don’t absolutely need. More soon.
Sunday. Still no luck accessing the original Seven Kitchens Press site. If no help is forthcoming, it looks like I will have to migrate everything to the new site and let the original one die. I don’t want to do that; it’s very frustrating to be locked out of a site that I’ve worked hard on for years, plus I really don’t have the time to rebuild everything on this site. People are checking the old site every week and it’s been essentially dead in the water since December. I need help.
Shredding medical records. Setting aside documents that prompt memories--I'd forgotten that--then sweeping them all into two piles, shred and recycle. To be unburdened of memory and its frequent consort, guilt.
So there was a letter, dated November 20, indicating a name change of the company administering an insurance policy. So there were the holidays to get through, which is no excuse, I know, because it's an insurance policy when I believed there had been none, but today--today--I finally called immediately after rushing home from work. So there was a policy, but someone named Megan said it had been canceled. I asked when. She said December 1st. I asked why. After a five minute wait, she said it appeared it had been canceled by mistake.
And that it could be reinstated.
And that she could transfer me to the claims department, which she offered to do after I explained that I wanted to file a claim on the policy.
The claims representative, Sally, was very courteous and started the process immediately of sending out forms to me.
My heart rose and sank uncountable times during this conversation. To hope against hope that one might navigate the tide of forms, delays, and red tape that is the insurance industry--to hope that there might be a little money that could help me relocate, if indeed that is what I will need to do this summer--it's almost too much to hope for.
And it should not be such an ordeal. These things should follow as a natural and, indeed, courteous consequence of such traumatic life events. I used to work for an insurance company.
I can hardly breathe for hope that this may bring some small, good outcome.