After my previous blog entry about the cruelty of Farmers Insurance caught the eye of someone at Farmers (not really sure what her position was, but probably something in PR), I got a phone call saying my adjuster would be calling to schedule a meeting that day, instead of calling after he got back from vacation. And, like Charlie Brown seeing Lucy holding a football, I felt hopeful. The people who care about me (and thank you all so very, very, very much) had kicked up enough of a storm for me to be worthy of action.
Would you cause someone intense emotional pain for no other reason than financial gain?
If you answered yes, then you should work for Farmers Insurance.
Imagine a woman. Here is what you know about this woman:
Her amazing, wonderful, brave, hilarious, irreplaceable almost-5-year-old son died unexpectedly less than a week ago. This has nothing to do with you or your job, but she cannot stop talking about, as it has shaped her whole world.
Here is what else you know: Due to faulty wiring, a breaker probably not tripping, and a very cold day, this woman has now also lost her pets. Her entire home. All of her son's baby things. His baby footprints, the book where she recorded all of his milestones and wrote him letters, all the physical proof that this child existed.
When my children were little, I used to wear or carry them around, talking or singing non-stop. I was so tired, always so tired, that I rarely had anything interesting to say. A typical monologue went like this: "And now we're in the kitchen. Look at the light! Do you like that light? I like that light. Your daddy hits it with his head, though. Eric used to always hit his head on the light at Nana's house. You don't know Eric. He was very tall.
To say I have been struggling is an understatement. Every evening, I have a mental list of Tomorrow I Will. "Tomorrow, I will wash my hair, get Damien to school on time, do an art project with Everett, keep the house presentable, and do something for my business." Very, very basic things. "Tomorrow, I will do the bare minimum", essentially. And yet, there have only been two or three days when I have actually completed my Tomorrow list.
If you have a child with special needs, at least three well-meaning individuals will give you a copy of the insipid piece of prose called "Welcome to Holland". I personally stared at it for 20-30 min every 3 hours in the broom closet of the PICU, while pumping breast milk. This tiny room contained a stool, a bedside table, a non-functional sink, and a copy of this tale-of-two-countries taped to the wall. To what? Encourage let-down? Hardly the thing mothers whose children are fighting for their lives need to see, but I felt like tearing it down would be impolite
I took Damien and Everett to their pediatrician (who is also my cousin and dear friend) for their well-checks. It's the first time they've had an appointment together...and the first time I've been there since Atticus died. I did Damien and Atticus's appointments together whenever possible, and everything was full of echos of what was and will never be again.
It's been a hard week. A week where I have been digging and digging for joy, and finding only despair.
Everett turned three! (And Atticus wasn't there to see it.)
My younger sister gave birth to a beautiful, healthy girl! (And now there is someone in our family who never has, and never will, meet Atticus.)
Atticus is bereft, and I am Atticus bereft. Atticus was robbed, deprived of his life. It was too soon, too unexpected. We don't have the full pathology reports yet, but the virus was almost certainly some run-of-the-mill little thing. Something his brothers and I all had and barely noticed. And it conspired with his body, his little fierce body that I so loved, and stole away his