I became a psychologist, as many do, to find answers to my own
questions. Much of the time I can sort
my way through my angst and agita, but right now I am at one of those points
where there are just too many bits colliding.
Part of it has to do with missing family. Part of it has to do with the chaos and
destruction going on in a country which liberties I had taken for granted most
of my life. Right now quite a bit of it
has to do with chronic pain, and the piece that makes all the other pieces
throb: money.
I am a smart person, I was a good psychologist, later I had a job I loved at
the library, but a combination throughout my life of bad luck and timing and
tough decisions has meant that, except for very short periods, I have lived
with financial insecurity. And right
now, there are unique aspects to this financial insecurity, not unique to me
but unique in this later part of my life.
My mother's death in 1983, at 63 years old, was the first tectonic shift
in my perspective of mortality. Over the
years after her dying, I realized that I had come to see my own life not moving
past 63 years. When my husband developed
pancreatic cancer and died at age 77, my fear of death and denial-based
perspective finally went out the window, but not in a bad way. I would no longer play that game of, “when my
daughter is _____ years old, I’ll be….”
Somewhat to my surprise, I turned a fairly healthy sixty-three. And during Stephan’s dying, I talked and read
about mortality. Christopher Hitchens
had died too young of cancer; Terry Pratchett was dying at the time, and gave
us a last gift of allowing us to walk with him awhile as he approached his death. Today, I don’t do that math game, but think
more short-term of family visits. I
appreciate the fact that despite my
bad knees and arthritic body, I am playing tennis again. The most exciting part of which is the
feeling of being totally in the moment:
watch the ball, anticipate your opponent’s next move, and get
there. When I am on the tennis court, I
may occasionally spazz out as my hand loses its grip on the racket, and when I
run I still don’t get there fast enough, but I feel more graceful than I do
anywhere else in my life. And for that,
that I thought I had lost forever, I am grateful.
But over the years, even though I have exercised some discipline with a
budget, there was always a little more savings.
I’ve always loved to get away, family visits and beach vacations, and
even on a budget they have been times away that I lived for. And then I realized that the savings were
really finite. And shrinking fast. And the wolves in congress are circling the
poor and middle class, which angered me but didn’t frighten me, until lately,
as the dollars and cents of health care costs have been eating away at my
savings.
I worry about leaving the house, more so since my old car, getting
ready to roll over 200,000 miles, finally had that big breakdown that I knew
was inevitable. The getaway I had
planned so I wouldn’t be at home alone on my birthday just wouldn’t work with
the thousand dollar car repair. The car
repair is a gamble; if it is going to be the first of many I will be shoveling
money into it that I should be spending on a “new” car, but if it is going to
be fine for awhile, it is a bargain.
And yet, it is a bargain I can’t afford. I can’t afford all the insurances that we all
pay out, but I have to pay them out.
With less than 18 months left on my mortgage, that $500 a month is a
modest cost for housing, but last year began with expensive plumbing repairs
and ended with Hurricane Matthew finishing off my roof.
I am really, really good at stretching a dollar. But at this point, the things I know I will
need to cut are those things that give my life meaning.
I’ve talked in my other blog about the greed and ignorance by which most Americans are victimized, so I won’t go on about it here.
But that financial insecurity is at the root of the sadness and
depression that play in the background of my life these days. My desire to close myself off from others has
more to do with the cost of leaving the house than any wish to be alone. The anxiety of being stranded by my old car,
exacerbated by the costly and somewhat frightening breakdown, can’t be
understated, because that is my lifeline.
The cost to visit my family, all too busy and far away to come here,
breaks my heart.
The mental math I try to avoid these days has to do with whether my
meager savings will last as long as I do.
If I have a short few years remaining, I may not have to wrestle with
running out of savings. But I get tired,
tired, tired of the acrobatics it takes to save a few dollars, only to get hit
with an unavoidable bill that mocks the dollars saved: after paying $300 for a fairly routine dental
visit, I got a bill a few weeks later for $58.
No, it wasn’t a mistake. No, they
didn’t know why I hadn’t been billed at the time of the visit. Did I want to split it into two
payments? No, I said, because I wasn’t
going to have any more next month than this month.
And I don’t mind not living high.
I don’t need all that much. But
having to agonize over every dollar I spend wears me out more than the chronic
joint pain.
So as I am sitting on the porch this beautiful Mother’s Day, I am
wishing I had more energy and more joy.
I know I am not special. In this
time, in this country, too many of us share these anxieties. My daughter and son won’t have the luxury of
going from good job to good job the way I did; they won’t have the pensions,
and maybe not even the social security that has been chipped away at for
decades. I was lucky to have savings so
many others don’t have. When the
powerfully stupid went to war in Iraq and spent our fortunes, it was the
fortunes of people like me and you, not the fortunes of the rich. As they are about to do again.
And yet I am going to turn off my computer and go outside and continue
to read a gripping mystery by a writer I enjoy
immensely. I may not find joy today, but
I will sort my anxieties out here, and then put them aside for today.
And that is all I know.
