I still mother them….

This week has been a lot.

And by a lot, I mean I feel like I have entered some bizarre, grief-fueled obstacle course of phone calls, paperwork, more paperwork, and people saying, “I can’t help you, but somebody else can.” Spoiler alert: that somebody else usually cannot help either.

I swear this process feels like the seven layers of Dante’s Inferno, but instead of fire, it is hold music, call transfers, and being asked to explain the same thing over and over again to people who all seem equally confused. Every road somehow leads to another phone number, another form, another “you’ll have to call this department.”

And can we talk about the absolute insanity of how everybody needs something, but nobody can actually tell you exactly what they need? It is the world’s worst version of Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First?

“Call them.”
“They sent me to you.”
“No, we don’t handle that.”
“But they said you did.”
“Well, you need this.”
“Okay, where do I get that?”
“You need to call them.”

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The truth is, nobody talks enough about this part of grief. Everybody talks about the heartbreak, and yes, that part is brutal. But nobody tells you that after somebody dies, you suddenly inherit a part-time job you never asked for, where the qualifications seem to be surviving on caffeine, frustration, and sheer willpower.

So if I seem overwhelmed this week, I am. I am tired of phone calls. Tired of paperwork. Tired of hearing, “I wish I could help you.” Because at some point, you start wondering if there is actually a person out there who can help, or if we are all just trapped in some bureaucratic merry-go-round nobody knows how to stop.

And if you have walked this road before and somehow survived it without throwing your phone into traffic… teach me your ways.