I am in bed early tonight. Jack and the cat are both snoring beside me. I’m lying here listening to the night sounds: the snoring, the heater cycling on and off, the gentle rain on the roof. The trailer is warm, dark, and mostly quiet.

This is my time of day. I crawl under the covers early, often as early as eight. After a day of looking after Jack, I usually feel pretty tired. This early bedtime is my way of unwinding. It can take two hours before I actually fall asleep.

Today there’s a lot to unwind from. Jack is up for his annual long term care reevaluation, and I have been up to my eyeballs in paperwork. I spent last week rounding up the exact same documents I’d sent in the previous year (don’t these people have computers? And don’t they talk to each other?) and faxed them all in, only to receive a letter three days later requesting I send in the documents. I finally got a hold of the caseworker this morning after two days of phone tag. This was the third call I’d made, and I hadn’t finished breakfast yet.

“You didn’t send in the document for John’s secured credit card.” the caseworker explained. “Once we get that, we can finish out the interview.”

I gulped a mouthful of coffee. “The reason I didn’t send anything is because he no longer has the account.” I said.

“Did you close it?” We had. “Why?” I wasn’t going to embarrass Jack by telling her he’d emptied out the checking account at Christmas. Especially since he was sitting right there. “Its a long story.” I said.

“Do you have proof it was closed?” she asked. “We’ll need documentation.”

“I’ll get it from the bank this morning and fax it to you.” I told her. That settled, we hung up, and I inhaled my cold eggs.

Then I tackled the next call. I’d unearthed a pile of mail from our medical supply company the day before and found we were two months behind on the bill. So I paid that off. But, “We can’t set up an automatic bill pay from here because your payment is different each month.” the gal explained. “Plus you have to pay the $2,000 deductible for Medicare. That bill should be on the way. You’ll have to call our main office and set the auto pay up over there.” I filed that on my ‘do later’ list and walked to the bank in the rain.

I got home with the papers and found Jack in a state of high anxiety. “You need to tell me exactly what you’re doing with my money and why.” he said, as a greeting. I took a deep breath, reassured him that our money was perfectly safe, and spent the next half hour in broken record mode, answering the same questions with the same answers seventeen times in a row. I finally got away for a minute to fax the (hopefully last) document and put another one in the mail for the VA. Then I went home to make lunch.

“What did you do with the money?” Jack asked, as soon as I got through the door. I bit my tongue hard enough to make it bleed.

“Nothing. I–” And we were off and running again, over the same ground. I finally distracted Jack with some soup. By the time he’d finished eating, he’d forgotten about the money. Until I picked up the phone again.

“Who are you calling now?” he asked. I explained as clearly as I could about setting up an automatic payment. “How much is it going to be? Why do we need it? Can’t we just give the machine back?” No, dear. It’s your nebulizer and you need it to help you breathe.

I was on hold for twenty five minutes. Every five seconds I was treated to a different recorded voice saying some variation of, “Your patience is appreciated. Please stay on the line and we’ll be right with you.” I doodled an entire skeleton sitting in a chair, phone clutched in one bony hand, the same recorded voice coming out of the phone: “Thank you for holding. Your patience is appreciated…” I added cobwebs and a large spider. I jumped when a voice said, “Good afternoon, this is LaVonne, can you hold please?” I waited another ten minutes.

When I finally got a person, the actual process took less than five minutes and I was done. Unreal. I made one last phone call and cleared that off the list. Then I composed an email to Jack’s caseworker, who is coming Friday for the in home evaluation.

I finished the email.  Sent it off. Convinced Jack not to eat an entire half gallon of ice cream. “I’m just having a snack.” he said. I ran up to the camp store and got a couple of light bulbs to replace the burnt out ones. Jack watched me replace them, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you do it.” he said, as if changing a light bulb was a huge deal. I guess for him it is. “How did you ever get so smart?” There was no way I could answer that question. I just shook my head and started dinner.

Now I’m in bed. I started typing at eight thirty and it is now quarter of ten. It’s time for me to end this missive and get some sleep. It all starts again tomorrow.