Death and Taxes

It’s been a week.

Between tax preparation and elder care bureaucracy and a funeral, this week was not easy.

I am one of those crazy Americans who believes in taxes. As comedian Ronny Chieng has pointed out, and here I paraphrase, if you love your country, you give it money, just like you would give money to help your mother who birthed you and raised you. Still, late February finds me a bit grumpy as I search through credit card statements, hoping to resolve some last mysteries for my accountant in time for the corporate tax deadline in March. I like my current accountants: they are creative but not too creative. I used to have an accountant in the city who would tell me all the creative things he was doing so I could get a refund, but I lost sleep with his creativity. Another previous accountant made an error that dogged me for months until an actually kind employee of the IRS called me in August, as I sat on a rock in Maine, looking at the sea. She told me that she was a consumer advocate and was going to help me! I started crying with relief. The error had been noted, and would be fixed. This woman, or her successor, is probably out of a job now, thanks to Elon Musk. Consumer advocates, what a waste, thinks he, who hasn’t paid taxes in years, or ever.

Eldercare bureaucracy in New York State involves a new raft of forms, to be completed on a website so poorly designed that I finally surrendered and called up customer service. Another kind person walked me through the correct procedure. I also cried with relief and exhaustion and exasperation, because we live in a country where forms will smash your spirit while you do your best to manage care for your parents, or, in this case, a stepmother who has no children of her own. We live in the wealthiest country on earth, where politicians get the equivalent of Medicare, and the rest of us must scramble. Anyway, I’m thinking that this second very kind person also might not have a job soon.

Finally, we paid our respects at a service for a not quite 31-year old man, the son of a man who has worked for us for a decade doing a thousand things that need doing when you manage property. We do not know the details except that the young man was killed with a gun, leaving behind a wife and kids. It is soul-crushing to witness the human fallout of a preventable death. Barely a mile away, on our drive home, we passed a huge box of a store and the banner outside read GUNS. Of these there is no shortage.

At the beginning of the week, on Presidents Day, I joined friends and fellow protesters in Albany for what was billed as “No Kings” day. It was bitter cold, but turnout wasn’t bad. Slowly, we stunned citizens who believe in government for the people are organizing a resistance. I thought my protesting days were over, but it looks like my graphic design skills will be of use. A few women showed up in their pink pussy hats from the Womens March in 2017. Goddammit, how did we get here, again? Despite the icy cold, there was comraderie. It is good to see that and to feel seen, as we gather ourselves for whatever is next.

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