Post-Mortem Frustration...

 "I measuring his affections by my own,
Which then most sought where most might not be found,
Being one too many by my weary self, 
Pursued my humor not pursuing his,
And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me..." -- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Mrs. Overlord may be gone, but she's still giving.

Among the (few) unattractive qualities my beloved once possessed were laziness and a penchant for drama.

These are being worked out in a senseless fight over The Estate, the sordid details of which I shall spare you, Gentle Reader. Suffice to say, that when I haven't been accused of being a thief, I'm a liar, and when that accusation falls flat by examination of evidence, then I'm some sort of evil genius con man, and then my eleven years of devotion to her in sickness merely makes me an employee who has been "adequately compensated for his services" regardless of what The Will actually states.

And, after insulting me, then they have the nerve to ask me to voluntarily renounce my claim on The Estate.

Whatever relationship there ever was (and it wasn't much to begin with) is now sundered, irrevocably.

She warned me, repeatedly, that this would happen: then she did nothing to prevent it from happening. And I can't help but think that somewhere -- wherever she may be at this moment -- she's enjoying The Drama she set in motion by signing a will that she never wanted to sign in the first place (to "avoid a fight in the family", you know) and by ensuring that her brother, the Executor -- stroke-addled and narcissistic to the nth degree -- would fight a stubborn rear-guard action to prevent giving up money that he has never had a claim to.

But legal issues and intra-familial (borderline-) personality battles will certainly bore you all to tears, so let me give you some information on some of the other -- usually unremarkable -- residue of a life that is no more.

You see, dead people leave things behind, often a lot of them, and disposing of these things gets to be an exercise in futility.

As an example: Mrs. Overlord used wheelchairs. Useful things, wheelchairs, and I have two of them sitting in my living room. One was delivered just weeks before her demise and was, therefore, never used. She literally sat in it once.

It cost $3,600 (although our co-pay was significantly less).

Try and sell wheelchairs, these days, and the response you get from prospective buyers is the kind one would expect as if they were buying a luxury automobile with vital organs instead of cash. I can't even get my co-pay back on the new chair, and the older one -- serviceable and in very good condition -- is looked upon as if it were the poor relations.

Try and donate said chairs, attempt to donate anything, and you run into a myriad of new problems.

It is definitely an indication of just how bad The Economy is that charities -- friggin' CHARITIES -- will no longer accept donations of perfectly-good-and-useful equipment, no matter what it is: wheelchairs, shower chairs and benches, household items, furniture, even a hospital bed.

Everyone will tell you the same thing: our warehouses can't take the stuff (never mind that someone ALWAYS needs it, to judge by the dramatic pleas of the charity crowd, so why then  does it sit in a warehouse?)...but if you'd like to make a cash donation, we can help you all you'd like.

Doesn't matter who you call -- Disabled American Veterans, Red Cross, Catholic Charities, B'Nai Brith, Wounded Warrior Project, Salvation Army, my list goes on for quite a bit -- no one wants stuff: only money.

Even the local nursing homes will not take it, FOR FREE, with one person even having the temerity to suggest that donations of such type are now prohibited because of COVID protocols!

(Apparently, one cannot disinfect a shower bench).

But, of course, if I'd like to make a cash donation...The warehouse always seems to have room for cash, somehow.

On the personal front. I'm about as well as can be expected. The Process, I'm told, is a roller coaster ride of perverse twists and turns, wild ups and downs, with sudden and often-violent mood swings between depression, anger, sadness, and the entire smorgasbord of human feeling.

It is certainly true.

Two months and some days after, and I've already understood that while she may be gone, she's still here in an often bewildering array of ways and forms.

I could have sworn that I smelled her perfume in the bedroom a few weeks ago. And none of it was still in the house at that point.

I keep finding little reminders of what a pain in the ass she could be when it came to treatment: lift the cushions to clean the couch, and lo and behold!, what does one find? Pills. Either dropped or deliberately stuffed between the cushions. She hated taking her meds, to the point where I had to start watching her taking them.

A few weeks in, I started drinking again. Heavily. I have since become aware of the problem and have taken the necessary steps needed to rein in that behavior.

I'm back in therapy.

The worst thing of all, however, is the feeling of being stuck in place. I find myself with literally nothing to do, no one to talk to, and wondering what my future is going to look like. This is one of those times where you have to take stock and it is a frightening proposition, for a variety of reasons, most having to do with age (I'm 55) and a desire to go back to work (a year-plus off is more than enough, and eleven years of (mostly) working from home has taken the shine off that particular apple).

Try getting hired in the IT industry as a 55 year old, regardless of experience and qualifications. One gets the impression that the biggest concern is that we "Old Guys" don't upset the Children on the shop floor, because Management is frightened that the Kidzzz might revolt.

Or worse, file a lawsuit.

Which is a far cry from my own salad days, when The Children were routinely told by management to "shut the fuck up and do your job, Asshole " and you were expected to take it like a man. This was obviously when the Managers were running data centers and offices at serious, profit-driven firms, and not Day Care Centers for overgrown adolescents afraid of dying of a really bad sunburn in a post-Apocalyptic dystopia devoid of Avocado Toast and Starbucks.

Oh, what a windy road! The potholes appear deep enough to swallow you and the wreckage strewn upon the shoulders is enough to give one pause. Such is Modern Life, I reckon, in the Post-COVID, Bidenesque Present, where nothing make sense, nothing works like it used to, and the lucky ones are probably the folks pushing up daisies because they don't have to deal with this bullshit, anymore.