The problem with paperwork is … it gets lost. Usually because the person who asks for it is drowning under so much of it that they suffocate within it, hence, they never see it, until later, when an archaeological dig is requested.

A phone call began my Monday morning: “I am sorry to tell you that we never received your mother’s re-certification papers.”

I had a foot out of the door. I had an appointment. This is not something I wanted to hear, especially since all the necessary papers were faxed to the appropriate person at the beginning of November. And, I said that to the voice at the other end of the phone as loudly as possible. And I say it with frustration, disgust and the highest level of fed-upness one can have. And I said to my fullest ability “this is NOT acceptable.”

Those papers did go in, with months to spare. But, at a subsequent time, my mother began to receive mail that her papers were due. I called the case manager, I called the entitlement manager. I left message after message; none were responded to. The services kept coming so I assumed everything had been taken care of. Not.

It was another fuck-up that had to be addressed.

There I was when I returned home, fishing through hundreds of folders reconstructing what I had sent and punching numbers into the phone to find someone who could help.

I spoke to three people. None of whom knew of the other. Or what was going on.

I get it: when I was working for a city bureaucracy, I dealt with this all the time. I shuffled piles and piles of papers and picked away at mountains. No sooner did I scale a mountain, another cropped up. I worked in the Alps, the Andes, the Himalayas of details, on hundreds of cases of children in need. Often, to de-spin my aching head, I ingested six to eight Extra-Strength Bufferin a day. Then I went home and tried to function.

By the end of the day several people at the agency knew there had been a problem, their problem. But my rubbing their noses in it wouldn’t have helped; there was no point. What mattered was that each worker felt appreciated and forgiven even though something at their end had gone wrong, something as simple as not returning a call which could have nipped the problem in the bud—months ago.

My surviving kitty is now fourteen or even more years old. She requires a special thyroid medication that is compounded into an ointment and easily applied to the inside of her ear; it’s a lot easier than trying to “pill” a cat.  One of the pharmacists was the “special” person who could prepare this prescription correctly. She was out when I needed a refill and so another pharmacist was assigned the creation of the ointment that had to be mixed and put into six thin tubes of needle-less hypodermics. It was a disaster: the tubes were overly-filled with air and short more than half of the medication. They had to be returned.

The pharmacist knew that she hadn’t executed the job properly. Though she had conferred with the other pharmacist, there was no way she could fully comprehend the air-bubble issue. She anticipated my return with dread. When I walked in she looked terrified.

She descended from her pharmacist’s perch and began to apologize.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry that you had to come back and make another trip.”

“Eleni,” I said, “come here, please, I need a hug.”

So there we were in front of the counter having an embrace, no words needed.

“I have a soon-to-be one hundred year old mother,” I said. The issues have been compounding for ten years. It’s like being on a carousel that starts out circling slowly and builds-up speed. I end up holding on to the pole for dear life and trying to keep the horses from flying off. Day in and out. Over and over. I live in the land of vertigo. I wish all of my problems were like this: making a trip to the pharmacy.”

She looked at me. Just like the women on the other end of the phone looked at me.

Sometimes letting go of anger is the best lesson for everyone involved.

Forgiveness.

This series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

The previous post is here

The next post is here