I was feeling smug about being more or less on top of my finances and thinking I would write a semi-humorous piece about the perils of leaving financial loose ends and storage units full of stuff for others to sort out after we die. Having just "downsized" into a smaller home and retired from a paying career, I have plenty of material.
During my father's final few years, I had the privilege of witnessing first-hand what happens when one refuses to face reality. My father left himself and his wife (and his caregivers) few options for anything but a life that looked nothing like the one he had hoped to enjoy. Some simple advance planning would have been worth figurative millions (especially when there were no actual millions to be had). At least, that's what I tell myself.
Long-term care insurance didn't exist for my parents. They, like many Americans, thought Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid would be sufficient to see them through their elder years. Also like many Americans, they hadn't planned for any contingencies. My mother's care needs surfaced out of nowhere not long after she was 65 and newly remarried. She suffered for the next 10 years from an incurable, debilitating disease that rendered her incapable of caring for herself. Her husband was able to keep her at home instead of in a facility, but even that was a difficult situation, and she died at age 75--unusually early given her lineage. My maternal grandmother was still alive and humming when my mother died. The reality of long-term care began much later for grandma but extended into her 109th year on the planet.
So I figured that whether I die at 75 or 105, I'll probably need some help, and that help will come with a bright red price tag. Of course I hope my own life and death will be different, but given my limited resources and the government's indebtedness, I choose to be realistic and to spare my kids from having to exhaust their savings just to help me. For the last decade, every December I pay my long-term care insurance premium instead of buying my kids the latest espresso machine or iGadget for Christmas. They seem to appreciate it. At least, that's what they tell me.
However, today's mail delivered an unwelcome surprise--an ACME Insurance Company notice of non-payment!!! WHAT? My checkbook register confirmed my fear--I hadn't written a check to ACME in December. In fact, the checkbook was empty. (ACME is an old-school paper and pen company, so I have to pay by check). Tonight I tore apart my home office, looking in every possible and impossible file drawer and folder for my checks. I unearthed piles of papers and found delicious poem scraps and memoir fodder, art supplies and greeting cards, but none of those valuable bits of paper issued by my bank. At least I haven't lost BitCoin, I thought.
Eventually, I found the next packet of checks (right where I'd left them, of course), but not before I reached for my I'm So Freaking Freaked Out journal which I had pulled off the shelf in the irrational hope that the checks would magically fall from between the pages. That's when I noticed the last freak-out entry dated Feb. 24, 2022, the day Putin invaded Ukraine.
In a world where humans still wage war and insist on premature destruction, no one can rely on long-term care insurance, or long term anything. No amount of planning, no storage unit, no government subsidy, or virtual currency can make up for global stability and peace or personal security.
The only thing I know is that today, right now, caring for one another matters. In the short term and long term, people matter. Freaking out about what hasn't yet come to pass won't do us any good, but caring for one another will. Hope won't pay the bills, but--I have to believe--it does make a difference, somehow. And love won't stop the missiles tomorrow--but maybe that day after that. Even when we misplace the checkbook, can't afford insurance, or have no idea how to ease someone's pain, we have within us the unlimited capacity for love, care, and hope. Let's share.
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