The title of this post was taken from the song Through The Glass by Stone Sour.
I try really hard, I really do, but it never fails. I look like a total idiot. Unexpected questions, about my husband, cause my face to turn red, tears to fall, and my voice to crack. I've posted about it before. I hate it most when I know it's going to be a difficult situation, but I've prepared myself for it. I've talked myself through it, and I feel confident that I can handle it. How many times will I be wrong? I build this false hope that this time I can do it, but my grief rears it's ugly head, and then I'm just one big mess.
The kids had dental appointments recently. I love their dentist. They have been going to him forever, and they love going. I knew this appointment was coming, I've been preparing for weeks. Some people train for marathons, I train my responses to potential questions. At each appointment they have us fill out a sheet with basic questions about medical information and such. I knew that I would see Mike's signature from previous visits. I mentally prepared myself for this. I went over it again and again in my head. I thought I could handle it. I also knew I would have to hand over new insurance cards, but I felt okay with that and didn't think it would lead to any unwanted discussions.
We walk in the office, and the receptionist hands me the three sheets, one for each child. I begin filling them out. My lip trembles as I realize that he had filled this form out exactly one year ago to the day. I tell myself to pull it together. I had visualized this moment over and over again to avoid losing it. First form filled out and I hand her my insurance card. She starts putting the information into the computer. She asks where I work. I hadn't anticipated this question, but it's easy enough. Halfway through the second sheet, "So, you no longer have insurance through Westvaco?" My pen hovers above the paper, my hand begins to shake. "No ma'am." Crap! Melanie, you can do this. I repeat those words over and over again as I finish the second form and start on the third. "Is he no longer working at Westvaco?" she asks. My breath catches in my throat, and I can no longer see the form through the blur of tears in my eyes. I can't even look up and meet her eyes as I quietly choke out, "No, he passed away in April." I no longer know what I'm writing or if I'm on the correct line. She apologizes several times, and I can tell I've made her uncomfortable. Now I'm sniffling, because I don't have any tissues. Where are my flipping tissues? Why are they not in my purse? I'm a blubbering mess. I turn around to see several woman looking at me. They must have overheard my conversation, because they are hugging their children as if my grief is contagious. I run to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. My makeup is smeared and my eyes are red. How can a few questions reduce me to this? I slam my hand down on the counter. What is wrong with me?! I had practiced for this dang it! I had visualized that moment over and over and I was ready for it. Why did she have to ask me stupid questions I wasn't prepared for? Why do I have to go through this at all? It's not the receptionists fault. She couldn't have known. I'm mad at myself.