May I Speak to Anne Hennigs, Please?

Someone from Anne's health insurance company called today and wanted to do a patient care survey.  "I'm wondering if Anne could take a brief survey to help us evaluate her care while she was hospitalized."  I took a deep breath and said as calmly as I could, "I'm sorry but Anne is deceased."  Massive silence on the other end.  I'm sure this was a paid surveyor who could have had no way to know what happened to Anne.  I was surprised at how calmly I told the woman the situation--some small bit of progress, perhaps.

Poor woman--she tried to collect herself.  "I'm so very sorry for your loss.  I won't bother you further."  For some reason I said, "Well, I could probably respond to the questions, if that's all right."  The surveyor agreed.  Then she started asking about how the patient responded to, evaluated, and/or experienced various parts of the treatment.  I had to interrupt at that point and say, "Well, Anne was unresponsive for most of twelve days, so I don't think we can continue."

The caller thanked me, apologized again, expressed her sympathy one more time, and that was that.  It was surreal--but no more so than any other part of this experience.  The EOB statements from the health insurance now come to "The Estate of Anne Hennigs," and I have to look twice or three times at that weird address.  I was cooking supper tonight and found myself wondering when Anne would get home from work.  After all, the Hamburger Helper was almost ready.  I redrafted my will today to allow for her death, and yet I wondered what input she might have into the decisions.

What is there to do?  I'm sorry but Anne is deceased.  She can't answer your questions or mine.  Yet...yet...yet at just those moments when I am sure that I will never have her in my life again, there is that sense of "presence."  I don't know how to identify it completely, but I know that at moments I am in a very familiar dialogue with someone I know almost as well as myself.  In the midst of difficult decisions or uncertainties I suddenly get this wash of reassurance, as if someone has just said to me, "You're doing just fine.  Keep trying.  It will be fine."

Yes, my dear.  It will.  I know that.  I rejoice that you are well and loved and in that place where only good and light dwell.  I am gratreful that sometimes you can share yourself with me from that place.  If only the rest of this weren't so damned murky all the time...but then you would still be here.

And you're not.