Impatience, Thy Name is Death

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I’ve always been an impatient person.  This revelation is not going to shock anyone who knows me. I’m not impatient with people, babies or puppies. I am impatient with situations like waiting in line, being in a traffic jam, rude people, and, well, any general loss of control.  Peter’s death has brought my impatience to front and center, and I don’t like it.

Yesterday, I met with my financial advisor, a man I trust and is a stellar part of my community. I adore his wife and their son seems like a likable man. I am happy with my choice.  The web of confusion spun by insurance companies, human resource departments, and investment brokers needs assistance. I understand the hoops to I have to jump through are not there because for kicks and giggles. Just like I understand a truck didn’t decide to turn over in the middle of a highway to piss me off.  All these companies and their employees are doing are what they were trained to do – their jobs. In today’s technology world, strict security is necessary. I should actually appreciate their diligence. And I do, but it doesn’t stop my frustration in the whole goddamn thing.

I am sure, if I broke it down in a therapist’s office, it comes down to the lack of control. Most people don’t like to lose control, and I am one of those over-the-top haters. It ignites my anxiety, or maybe my anxiety causes me to feel extreme irritation. I don’t know. It’s a chicken or the egg type question. And sure, there are things in my background that sparked all of this, but right now, to me, it doesn’t matter. I’ll work through it, and until I get there, accepting patience is not going to happen.  Not now. Not when the one thing I could not prevent, could not stop, could not even see as an eventually, disrupted my life, perhaps forever…the death of my Mister.

Peter was my calm through all my raging storms, tantrums, complaints and heavy sighs in any uncontrollable situation.  When I squirmed and objected of being stuck on the Eisenhower, his response would be “do you have a plane to catch?”. With every health scare,  he countered my “what if’s” with “what if not’s”.  If someone cut me off in traffic and I put my hand on the horn ready to let that driver know how upset I was by his action,  Peter would smile and say, “maybe his wife is having a baby”. If someone stepped in front of me in the grocery line, Peter would chuckle, “they’re must be really hungry”.

Peter had a laid back approach to any stressful situation life threw at him. He would constantly remind me to relax with the question, “why are you worried or upset about something you can’t do anything about?”. Sometimes, it calmed me and sometimes, it infuriated me.  He was supposed to be as upset as me. I don’t have him in my life now to temper the hurricane I’m living in. He died and so did his calm in my life.

It’s not really the paperwork, or the bouncing around on those stupid automated phone calls, or the security questions, or even the waiting, that is igniting my impatience. Maybe it’s not even my anxiety causing me to lash out at people who are just doing their jobs. It’s the loss of control of Peter’s death, my worse possibly imagined situation. It’s the inability to start closing doors on some of this pain I hold with me every minute of every day. It’s the constant reminders of how he died, when he died, that he died with the retelling of the story beginning with, “my husband died”.  And mostly, it’s the no having him anymore to help me navigate through these choppy, agonizing waves of life without him – my Mister, my Peter.

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