who knew banking could be this (un)comfortable?

I'm an artist; not an accountant. And although I was taught that speaking of money is as shameful as mentioning sex or menstruation, I've got to come clean on the fact that I'm not much good with balancing stuff that involves numbers. So when I went to the gas station the other day and my debit card wouldn't cooperate with their fancy uptown machine, I went to that "la-la-la" place in my head and assumed it was due to some mistake I had made online. It was during a busy time, we were on our way to celebrating Christmas with Brian's family, and the days following that adventure were similarly packed to capacity. So, it was only this morning that I had a few hours to check into the whole banking thing.

Well, actually, I was back to work today, so I got Brian to give the bank a call. Only to learn that their phone lines were jammed due to a storm in Fredrickton and the waiting time was 30 to 45 minutes. Ouch. Brian kept laying the receiver on the counter, baking a couple of layer cakes, then returning to check for a human voice. Unfortunately, the voice didn't wait for him, and eventally Brian returned to a dead phone line....

So, I waited until toddler rest time, and I got on the phone myself. By this point, I had made myself nauseous with ridiculous scenarios of how I'd likely missed so many payments that three men in business suits were very nearly at my back door with large scissors, wielding a copy of our mortgage agreement and slowly shaking their heads back and forth. I humbly waited on the line, praying that the representative wouldn't by this time be enraged by the whole snowstorm in Fredrickton deal. I hoped she had time for a smoke break, with a big old mug of hot coffee to boot.

And the columns were lining up for me. I got a cheery, helpful gal and I even remembered my security password without too many attempts or patient reminders from the representative. I explained to her that something had gone awry on the 28th, resulting in blocked access to my account. I stifled the urge to apologize and offer to bake her an apple pie for her trouble.

Being more an accountant than an artist, she quickly identified the problem. Two cheques that I had depositied had not been cleared due to an error that she could not immediately identify.

I felt immediately relieved, almost shamefully grateful that it had been someone else, and not I who had made an embarrassing clerical error.

But as the woman on the line read aloud the name on the cheque that was in question, my feelings of relief were quickly replaced by nausea that rivalled its counterpart. This time my stomach turned and my tears involuntarily joined the dance.

The cheques were from my dad. My dad, the meticulous bookkeeper. My dad the chequebook-balancer extraordinair. My smart, capable, scrupulous dad.

It is possible that I am over reacting. It is possible that dad had an "artist" day and just didn't quite get all the cheque details right.

But regardless of that possibility, I'm going to cry a little anyway. My dad is 86 and he's finally acting his age. It took him an awfully long time to get to that point, and not that long ago, it was him the "old people" phoned in the dead of the night for a ride to the emerg. But in 2007, dad lost his drivers licence. His ability to walk continues to decline. The stroke has affected his ability to make decisions and process information. Tests show that he has had several heart attacks, in addition to the infamous stroke. His arteries vital to his head and heart are significantly blocked.

And so, 2008 is adding up to be another year to process loss.
(and practice my accounting skills..... seeing as the black suited guys didn't snip my mortgage to smitherines.)