Love is Paper

I deal and process through paperwork.

When times are hard, I write and I file and I fill out paperwork. And last year, there were some giant things to process. I am going to preface all of what I write next with this: the Ant is fine. And there’s a reason I have to lead with this. A little after Thanksgiving, the Ant found a large lump in her breast.

The Ant does not have health insurance. My dayjob will not let me add her as a dependent.

This is part of the reason why the end of 2011 was such hell for all of us. Scrambling to get her to the Venice Family Clinic, one of the few free clinics in California. Getting her to the imaging center. And then waiting. And waiting. And waiting. For what was eventually a clean bill of health.

[Through it all, I must especially give thanks and shower blessings on Joyce, our friend from the Santa Monica dogpark. I don't know what we would have done without her support.]

The entire incident terrified me. We lost my Aunt Jan to breast cancer. I have too many friends who are survivors or children of survivors. But most of all, I couldn’t bear to think of what would happen to the Ant’s body of work, should the diagnosis have come back as the worst. Because just that year I had watched several artists die, their estates in shambles, their survivors left to the wind.

And then I remembered Neil Gaiman posting his will form for writers. And I channeled my fear into paper and defiance against the final dark that we face in our lives. Because what Neil had posted? It wasn’t enough. It was merely a start. And I know too many people who will do only that and think they are done. You are not.

The Ant’s scare crystallized it all for me. It wasn’t just about her. It is about every single one of my creative friends who doesn’t have insurance. Who wouldn’t even know where to start.

But I do, because I sit here in the beige cube at the dayjob and I touch these papers every day. The way that the rich plan for the inevitable future. How, touching ten thin sheets of paper, handed to me from one of the attorneys I admire the most, I see written in black and white the depth of love and continuing protection from beyond death. Because the words aren’t always about money. Buried in these documents, are often sudden transcendent, brief paragraphs of prose that have nothing to do with the law, or estates, or property. They are the last breath and wishes of someone who wanted to make sure that whoever was left behind, wasn’t abandoned.

And I remember, still with anger, how my father did none of these things and left my Margie Mom in penury.

I just…

I just can’t let that happen, if it’s in my power to prevent

Not for anyone I love. Not for any of you that I can reach with my words.

So here are the things that you need to do and you need to do now. They are specific to California, but if you search on Google, you will find forms for your state. If you cannot find them, ping me and I will hook you up. I know how to find the forms.

Simple Will

Creative Property Trust (this goes with the Simple Will)

Advance Medical Directive

Durable Power of Attorney

You need *all* of these forms. A will is not enough. You must have a trust spelled out, either a testamentary trust or a living trust. You must have an advance medical directive. You must have a durable power of attorney. Filing fees will cost a nominal amount. It is a small fucking price to pay to take care of whoever is left behind. If you give a shit *at all* about the ones you love and your legacy, you will do these things now.

Because you may not be here tomorrow.

My father was gone at 59.

Will is gone at 33.

I dodged a bullet on a diagnosis that could have been an aggressive and fatal brain tumor.

The Ant dodged a bullet on a diagnosis that could have been the same disease that took my Aunt Jan.

Don’t fuck around. Get this shit done. Now.

Because love is paper and your hand held over your loved ones in protection even unto your death.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Originally published at Angela N. Hunt. You can comment here or there.