Shelley and I took a Bluebonnet Trip. She was in the early stages of Dementia.
Full of life. Bubbly. Fun. She sparkled.
At the bank yesterday, I closed Shelley’s account.
I wrote the last check in December 2024. I kept the
account open in case of bills came in I needed to pay. I also dreaded another
goodbye. There seems to be an unending assortment of them.
I put it off as long as I could. There’s something so
final about it. She and I opened the account together, and I have written
checks on her behalf for a long time.
The official at the bank wanted explanations. “Did we
do something wrong? Why do you wish to close your account?”
“My daughter passed away.”
“My condolences. So, who do you live with now?”
She asked an odd question. What was the lady thinking
about? She wanted to know unnecessary,
none-of-your business information. Perhaps she was confused about who took care
of whom. She had my ID in her hands and knew my age. I guess she was thinking
my daughter took care of me, and now I was left on my own. People at the
facilities where our daughter lived were always confused as to who I am.
I replied to
her unorthodox probe, “My husband.”
And then, feeling the need to explain, I told her we
had taken care of our daughter for ten years.
Tears kept gathering in my eyes, but I choked them
down while the lady dealt with business and gathered information about me.
Another question she asked. “What did you do before
you retired?”
I replied, “I write books, and I continue to write. I write
about faith in Christ. Are you a believer?”
I decided to do a little interrogation of my own.
She assured me she is, and then she said, “You look
familiar. I must have read your books.”
I highly doubt this, but it was nice to hear.
This transaction
took about an hour, and I left the bank with an overwhelming sense of sadness.
Closing the account was necessary, but am I finished with
all things that need to be done? NO, I’m not. I have boxes to go through and
items to give to charity. I have pictures to put away. I have stuff I need to
send to her children. But all of it is difficult.
Grief is different for everyone. Kinda like snowflakes.
Snow in Houston melts fast. A few get over grief like a Houston snowflake.
Others live with grief like Canadians do in a blizzard.
I’ve loved our daughter from conception, and I took
care of her while she lived inside me near my heart. I never dreamed she would go to glory before
me.
Once, while our daughter could still speak, she
clasped her hands in front of her, and said, “I need to tell you something. Thank
you for taking care of me.”
She was grateful, and if it had been me instead of
her, she would have done the same for me or her dad or her sisters.
Tips for Caregivers
1. Do as much as you can to make final arrangements in advance.
2. If you need to close an account, can you do so without a death certificate?
3. Talk to your banker and ask questions.
4. Talk to your facility, or funeral director and ask questions.