Hard Stuff

I work at TheCompanyIWorkFor, as you all know, and there are many facets of my job. I talk to people, quote prices, take applications. I take claims reports (though I don't work claims, thank God), figure out people's bills and accounting problems when they're perplexed, and write checks to people (that was a coup - getting the authority to write checks is big cheese at TheCompanyIWorkFor). I can go out and measure and inspect your house and tell you how much you should be covering it for; then I can cover it for you. Ditto your personal property if you rent. I'm a jill of all trades.

Then, as happens when you work with the public in a small town, there are what I call the "peripheral duties." The peripheral duties include things like helping little old ladies fill out their DMV forms, or balancing their checkbooks, or organizing their bills as to which have to be mailed off and which can be distributed around town. Or calling a doctor's office because an elderly insured doesn't understand his Medicare Explanation of Benefits. Or looking up the book value of someone's car, or checking out safety ratings of cars for someone interested in buying. And sometimes the peripherals include just sitting and listening to someone who's having a bad day and needs to spout off about their job, their kids, or the fact that their back aches. And although I never ever consider myself a "people person," in fact, I always say how much I hate people, when it comes right down to it, I enjoy the peripherals. (Except, of course the peripheral that drafts me to be a marriage counselor. Oh, the marital strife I've been privy to.) I like seeing old ladies smile and people walking out of my office just a little happier than when they walked in.

Which is not to say it's all sweetness and light here at TheCompanyIWorkFor. There are the rottener times, like being blessed out because someone's bill is 47 cents more than I quoted it. Or being blamed and lambasted over claims I neither work nor settle. Or just being on the business end of mean people who are out to make anyone's life they can miserable.

But then there's the hard stuff.

When you work in the insurance field, unfortunately, you sometimes work with death. And death is not fun. And you never get used to it.

Sometimes it's just the sadness of having someone you've had as a client for years die. And having to deal with the families selling the car, or the house, and needing advice. And they come in, or call, and cry. And yep, I cry right along with them. Cause when I lose a client I really liked, well, that sucks.

But the death can also be insurance-related, like a car accident. We've had our share of those, and it's never easy to get through. I've had to be the one to take reports of accidents that killed a young mother of two, and a 19-year old boy and his girlfriend. And a very elderly gentleman who was so sweet, he used to come into the office and bring us things he liked to cook, because he didn't have anyone to cook for.

Probably the hardest it's ever hit me, though, was Prince. No, not that Prince. This was a man who was a client of ours, who'd moved here from another state, and I happened to be the one he talked on the phone the first time he called. We got along great, and anytime he called or came in, he always asked for me. (That happens in our office sometimes. A client will just click with one of us and always want to deal with that person.)

Prince was a nickname, btw, but it was apt, because he was just a prince of a fellow. Laid back, mellow, smiling. Had bunches of policies, house, motorcycles, cars, antique cars, cars for his teenaged drivers. He paid boatloads of insurance (though he didn't have a boat, oddly enough), and he'd call or drop by and ask me to figure prices if he bought this car or added another son to his insurance. And I'd give him some (usually astronomical) figure, and he'd just chuckle and say, "Hoo boy." But never complained. He was just a sweetie.

I went into work one morning and the very first call I took was from our overnight customer response center. Some disembodied voice telling me we'd had an accident reported overnight that involved a fatality. It was Prince. On his motorcycle, and another car just basically ran over him.

I immediately threw the phone receiver to the floor and said, "Someone else has to take this, now." There was some confusion, because I just threw the phone; I'd forgotten to put it on "hold." Finally someone else took over and got all the information. I sat at my desk all day and sniffed and snotted and boo-hooed. And from there on out, any dealings with the family I did myself. I figured it was only fitting. And through it, I learned what a nice wife Prince had; she's still a client of ours.

This morning, Mr C came in. He came in to file a life insurance claim for his wife. I've known the Cs since I was six years old. When my family moved into this area their daughter was my very first friend. We graduated together, and she was one of my close circle of buddies, the seven of us girls who were inseparable from Jr High till graduation. You know, those were the days when it really did take a village to raise a child, and by the transitive theory of neighborhoods, if you played with a kid, you had to mind their mother just like it was your mother. So for about 12 years of my life Mrs C was in effect my mom, too.

She died this past weekend. I didn't go to the wake or funeral. I used being sick as an excuse, though it was only partially true. Can't explain it, but at this exact point in my life, my mental and emotional health cannot stand seeing a dead person being laid to rest. It's hard under any circumstances, but I just can't do it right now. I haven't seen daughter C in many years; like all of those six girls I was inseparable to in school, I see or correspond with none of them now. Maybe that's another reason; seeing my past.

In any case, Mr C did all the paperwork he was there to do, and as he was leaving, came to the verge of crying, but stopped. I'm so glad, because it stopped me too.

But I reserve the right to cry later tonight when I'm at home by myself.