I opened my new bank account today. I have not been this tired in months.
I was going strong until 30 minutes into the process. The very sweet, very local-Oregon-boy customer service rep was cheerfully setting up accounts for Maddie and Riley when he innocently asked, "Do you want to name your husband as [blah diddy blah blah something about a trustee or something]?"
My reply? "Um, no, um . . . " I looked away. I mumbled. I might have even drooled. I'm not really sure. "I mean, um, yes, I'd like to, but he's dead."
As if that wasn't enough, I had to keep going! "He died. He's no longer with us."
Still, I keep going! "He had cancer. That's why the kids need accounts. For Social Security direct deposit!"
Then I just KEPT ON GOING. "It's awkward. Don't feel bad about asking. You didn't know. It's awkward. I haven't figured out a good way to say it."
I don't know why I was so caught off guard. For at least a year after John died, I went into all such situations prepared to be asked about my husband, prepared to say something simple and short, and prepared in advance for the emotional toll the interaction would take on me. This time, I just wasn't ready.
I'd been enjoying some pretty easy banter with the customer service rep, but after that exchange, it all kind of ground to a halt. By the time I finished blathering on, I was totally spent. Still am. Early to bed with me tonight.