My No Good Really Bad Terrible Awful Day
I am Not Always Calm
A comment made by a reader has revealed to me an ugly truth. I don’t always tell about my not-so-gracious times in my life. So here’s one of those times. This happened over a year ago, when Mr. J was not allowed to be left alone for any amount of time. I literally had friends and family come over if I wanted to take a shower, because even leaving him in the living room while I showered was forbidden during those awful days. Sometimes, out of desperation, I made him stay in the bathroom with me. My sister, who also happens to be a “J,” came over to watch Mr. J one day, so I could go to my bank. I had lost my bank card, and they refused to mail me a new one. Even though I had the same mailing address I have had since 1999. Even though the teller knew me. Even though.
Planning Ahead
I was told it would take about five minutes to make me a new card on the spot. I was told I had to have an appointment. I was told my appointment was at four o’clock. These details are important for what follows. My sister J agreed to come at 3:50 pm, so that I could get to the bank for my 4:00 appointment. She said she had to leave by 4:45. I thought this might mean I could sneak in a quick trip to Target, or time to grab some takeout from our favorite Lebanese place, or even just the opportunity to sit in my car for a minute, enjoying the silence. Oh, how wrong I was!
Getting There
I arrived at the bank with minutes to spare. I introduced myself to a teller, and she told me to have a seat. “The banker will be right with you,” the teller assured me. I sat down and paged through some outdated magazine. Recall, this was the early days of Mr. J’s journey. I was still reeling from the “No treatment, no cure” diagnosis. I could barely feel my skin, let alone my feelings. I was just a walking ball of numbness and nerves, crying or trying not to cry, living in the overwhelm. Four o’clock came and went.
The Wait Begins
At 4:05, the woman who had come in after me was escorted to her appointment. I was still waiting. At 4:10, I asked the teller, “What is going on?” The teller said, “She’ll be with you shortly.” I sat back down, fuming to myself. At 4:15, I asked, “Is she even here?” “Yes,” the teller acknowledged. “What is she doing?” I demanded. (As a former smoker, I totes understand leaving the building to have a few puffs at work, but this was ridiculous.) The teller disappeared, then returned. “She’s speaking to her manager,” the teller reported. “Is she getting fired?” I asked. “Oh, no,” the teller hastily told me, “They are just talking about a new bank policy.” “Is there a reason,” I asked in measured tones (which is a sure sign I am royally pissed off),”Is there a reason this discussion can’t take place after my 4:00 appointment?” “I don’t know,” the teller responded. “Why don’t you ask?” I suggested angrily. “Oh, I don’t think – “ “I’m not asking you what you think,” I interrupted. “I am asking why, as a customer at this bank since 1987, am I expected to wait while she talks to her manager about a new policy, when I have an appointment for over 20 minutes ago, and I am just left to sit here, cooling my heels, while she yucks it up with her friend, the bank manager.” I wasn’t believing the “new policy” line anymore. “I’m leaving,” I say, as my eyes fill with tears of frustration.
The Appointment Begins
Just then, the person I had my appointment with opened her boss’s door and I was assaulted with their laughter. She came up to me and said, “Come along, let’s get you that new card. Sorry about the wait.” She tossed that last sentence over her shoulder as I followed her to her desk. Instead of being a 5 minute process, it stretched on, ten, fifteen minutes of asking insufferable questions about my day and my plans for the summer, and other useless nonsense while she filled out forms that clearly could have been filled out prior to my arrival. I was unapologetically hostile.
I had to call my sister J to let her know I would not be able to be back at the time we had discussed. We then had a discussion about whether Mr. J could be left alone, just this once, or if her husband could come for a bit, or if my friend A could come over, or if he should just go with her to her appointment or if that would be too much overwhelm for him. We ended the conversation with her telling me she’d explore options and get back to me.
Why Her Apology Wasn’t Enough
I returned my hostile, but teary eyed stare to the woman who wanted me to sign eleventy billion forms acknowledging receipt, and other such legal niceties. As I scrawled my name across the documents, anger oozing from every pore, she exclaimed, “I’ve already apologized!” as if that would make everything okay. I looked up, pen still in hand, and responded, “Your apology does not give me back my time!” Based on the look on her face, I am pretty sure no one had ever explained that to her before.
Anne, I was just about to ask, “What do you think would have happened if you told her what you were dealing with?” Then I saw your reply to another commenter. You would have broken down, probably. She might have understood that more was at stake than manners. Fifteen minutes must have seemed like nothing to her but to you was the piece of string holding your day together.
When my husband died unexpectedly and I had to deal with so much stuff in addition to the grief, I had a short fuse for incompetents. I think you handled it well.