Its Friday. I have written this post every single day this week and deleted it each time. I don't tend to engage this blog in the melodrama of my life. Don't worry, I don't intend to post on this subject regularly. I just feel like I need to get this out.
If I have learned anything from working with litigation and attending arbitrations, it is that we aren't there to argue the facts. We argue people's memories of the facts. The facts they wrote in there notes. The facts as they see them. Whose facts sound the best to the judge?
I found out last week that Alex's health insurance coverage has lapsed. It lapsed a year ago. Apparently everyone knew this except for me. Depending on whose telling the story, either I wasn't told or I'm just extremely thick.
I still don't know which of those scenarios I believe. Either way it seems the majority of the parties involved have decided to blame me. A year ago, Alex's Step-mother asked me if I had a copy of Alex's birth certificate. The insurance company needs one. I don't have one. This is why her insurance lapsed. Because of me. There is more to this conversation, but I'll make a long story short. Step-mother and Father are not responsible for anything. I need to go and get a copy of her birth certificate and mail it to them if I want Alex to be insured.
Now, these kinds of conversations occur about once a year. You know, the ones where something has happened, or not, and really and truly it is all MY fault. I usually just sit, listen and wait for my cue. I wait for the moment when my mouth becomes possessed by demons. Every cuss word is screamed. Every skeleton, no matter how despicable or humiliating, is dragged out of the closet and thrown on the table.
But this time, as I listened to Step-mother babble and giggle (yes, she was literally giggling at me), I found myself uttering the Prayer of Patience which is simply: "Dear Lord, give me patience." I have variations on this prayer. Sometimes I make it: "God give me strength." Occasionally, I just say: "Holy fucking hell." I uttered my prayer, then cut her off. Just as I was about to roar like a mother lion protecting her cub I found myself saying... "I don't care." We were stunned into silence. So I said it again, just to be sure it was real. "I don't care whose fault it is." I was incredibly calm. "Let me send you the web link that will explain everything you need to do to fix this. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, but really this just needs to get taken care of." She started up again. I could hear the adjudication in her voice. So I repeated my new catch phrase, "I don't care" and hung up.
I have thought about this often this week. Could this possible be true? Do I really not care? I'm still mad at them for being the way they are so I guess I do care. But no, I really don't care to talk about it with them anymore. Somehow I feel like Solomon has cut this particular baby in two.