ElementalMom

I’m working on writing a book about moving aboard the boat. I’ll write more about that more on my other blog. But I’m doing a lot of cannibalizing of content from this blog and the other one. Most importantly to this post, this morning, I rewrote Rowan’s birth story.

Most of my readers here know that Rowan’s birth was insanely traumatic for me. An unplanned, unwanted cesarean, that birth catapulted me into a year of depression followed by some of the angriest years of my life, and a vocation of activism in the arena of birth. No woman anywhere should have to go through what I did, and yet, the (unnecessary) cesarean rate in this country continues to skyrocket. It’s a crisis, it’s a human rights violation, and it’s a complete international embarassment.

But that’s not what I am writing about this morning.

I wrote the story once, when I was still recovering, and it was the sweetness and light that women usually describe their cesareans as. “Totally necessary” they say. Bullshit, says I. But at the time, I’d have killed you for suggesting mine wasn’t. I wrote it a second time, once I was recovering, in the depths of my depression, in the hopes that women reading it would learn from my journey and not have to take the same one themselves. It was all about figuring out where things had gone wrong, in order to make different, better choices later.

This time, I am rewriting it as what its deepest meaning and highest purpose (for me) might possibly be. Rowan’s birth is what finally, unequivocally taught me that if I wanted it done right, I had to do it myself. That relying on the System for anything at all was a sure path to madness, and that while independence carries its own problems, those problems are at least unilaterally the result of your own choices, and not someone else’s. Someone else who almost certainly has their own paycheck and ass as a higher concern than your  well being.

So here’s to Version 3 of Rowan’s birth. It’s taken me seven long, hard, uphill, introspective, kick-in-the-teeth years to get to the place where I am grateful for the lesson, moreso than grieving of the process that got me here.

Because my dental insurance finally agreed to pay up, I had the money, in hand, finally, to pay off one of my seriously delinquent bills. We’re talking, haven’t paid in three months. OK, fine, I’m a bad dog, but if the money isn’t there, it isn’t there, nothing I can do about that. But yesterday, the checks arrived, so today, I decided to give the fine folks at CitiBank a call, and clear up my account problems. There are several messages on my answering machine (sigh. I am a bad dog) from a woman with Collections, listing her number and direct extension. So logically, I’d start there, yeah?

So I call. There is no way to request a direct extension from that 800 number. I get the operator. I give her my social, my account number, mother’s maiden name, address, and phone. She tells me that the extension I’ve given her is for the St. Louis office, and cannot be directly accessed from her switchboard, but she’ll send the woman an email letting her know I am trying to reach her, and in the meantime, transfer me to another department.

I‘m on hold for 9 minutes, when Katrice picks up. I give her my social, my account number, mother’s maiden name, address, and phone. She is satisfied it’s me. Unfortunately, my account is more than 29 days past due, and she can only do those, so she has to transfer me.

I‘m on hold for 8 minutes when Jorge picks up. He’s very perky. I give him my social, my account number, mother’s maiden name, address, and phone. He is satisfied it’s me. I say, immediately “look, I’ve been on hold and bounced around and I just really want to give you guys my money, please!” He laughs. And then cannot get his computer to bring me up. Apparently, his section of the Bad Dog Hasn’t Paid Bills pie doesn’t include me either. I listen to him pound on his keyboard a bit. I offer some suggestions. In complete defeat, he says he has to transfer me. At this point, I’m not terribly surprised. I wish him well, and hear him cussing, in Spanish, at his machine as he transfers me.

Have I mentioned that CitiBank has dreadful hold music? Have I mentioned that at this point, roughly 20 minutes into my adventure, I’ve heard the music track loop twice? Have I mentioned that I’ve heard every ad they have for every financial product, and the irony of advertising investment products when you’re on hold for Collections is just overwhelming?

So I’m taken off hold by Menashi. She’s Indian. I give her my account number, my social, mother’s maiden name, phone number, and address. Just to, you know, change it up a bit. Menashi is far more formal about obtaining my information and hearing my story. But apparently, once I’ve spent two minutes on that, she regrets to inform me (I adore formal Indian phone manners) that she can only deal with people whose accounts are more than 30 but less than 60 days overdue. And that’s not me. So she’s transferring me to Collections (which is where, if you’ll recall, I called in the first place). And sure enough, it’s the same 800 number and extension I tried while making my first call. A total of 27 minutes ago. Menashi is pretty sure she can directly transfer me to the right place, despite my borderline panic at being sent back to where I started. She’s sweetly reassuring, but hits the hold button before I can finish babbling.

Seven minutes after that, Mitch in Collections picks up the phone. Desperate, I blurt out “I really, really, just want to give someone my money. That’s all I want to do. I have been on and off of hold four times, I’ve been transferred around, I’ve been on the phone over 35 minutes, no one can work with me, PLEASE before I rattle off all my numbers, will you PLEASE tell me you’ll take my money?” Mitch is laughing so hard by the time I finish, he can barely choke out a request for my information. I give him my accountnumbersocialsecurityphoneaddressmother’smaiden all in one breath at this stage. I’ve had practice, and it shows. Mitch dissolves into laughter again, and says “yes ma’am, we at CitiBank would be happy to take your money.”

And what followed from there was one of the more pleasant conversations I’ve had in a while. He was funny, he was human, he was understanding. We chatted about why my payment was late, and when I explained the whole thing about having two mortgages and supporting five people on one paycheck, but we had this dream and this boat and blah blah blah, he gave me a really great speech about not letting bills interfere with dreams, and started coming up with ideas to help me out. When I commented on his rare but delightful humanity, he replied “well you know… we’re all just people, and anyone could have a problem at any time, and it’s not that you’re bad, it’s that you’re in a situation. I’d be an ass not to recognize that and work with it.” He also waived my fees, in exchange for my “unusual determination” wading through the phone tree to get my bill paid.

So the lesson here? Even in banking, sometimes you can find a real live thinking human being. And they are blessed amongst bankers, for they still have a soul. And you can bet…they’ll get prioritized in the bill rotation.