Widowhood: Day one after the funeral. I made some calls today to notify people about Don’s passing. One was to the medical supply company that rented us his oxygen machine and the backup oxygen tanks to use during power outages that never happened. Who wants to look at those big, ugly monsters sitting there no longer doing their job? Anyway, the woman on the phone says, “And when was your husband’s expiration date?”
Expiration date? I thought, We're not boxes of cereal with expiration dates stamped on our bottoms! If that were true we could have planned our lives better, darn it!
That thought got me to laughing and visualizing poor Don's bare butt with the expiration date tattooed on one cheek. No doubt Ms. Medical Supply Lady thought I was entirely too happy, given the nature of my call. I wasn't happy, of course, but I'd already used up my daily crying quota by noon and it was 2:00 in the afternoon.
How long do you suppose it will take her before it dawns on her that there’s a difference between saying, “When did your husband expire?” and “What was his expiration date?” Then again, maybe I’m the one with a warped sense of humor. Maybe she says that same thing day after day and I’m the only one who laughed and found it even funnier when she got annoyed at me for finding dark humor in trying to arrange for a pick up of medical equipment.
