I have been in a lot of pain lately over something that initially made no sense: having my satellite service disconnected on January third. I’ve known I would be moving for months. Hiring a mover? No problem. Planning to get cable hooked up? No problem. Cancelling my Dish service? I want to cry. Huh?
Talking about it with one friend, she reminded me of how certain things coincided time-wise. In 2008, Barry retired at the end of June. As part of retirement, my parents arranged for us to have Dish hooked up. One week after Barry retired, he had a big tumor on his neck and that was the start of the cancer drama of chemo, radiation, and surgery. Even when we moved to the apartment I am in now, Dish moved with us. And we have never had any problem with it whatsoever. But the new place doesn’t allow satellite and the buildings are kind of close together and I don’t know that they could get a signal.
Then I talked about it with another friend and she talked about how it would be a disconnection from my past. It hit me hard how it would be an actual, literal disconnection from some of what Barry and I had shared together. This is no metaphor. And I will have to do without any form of TV at all for a few days before I move because of my job. No TV? Part of me is panicking. And it’s not like I have no reading material.
Part of me has no sympathy for myself. One of my friends, the one in Maryland, left Michigan in bankruptcy and foreclosure. Right now, there is a bill that might not get signed into law, leaving many renters out on the street. Millions of Americans have no food. And I’m whining that I’m having my Dish service discontinued. I have some high-class problem and I know it.
At least I have some clue as to why I’m on the verge of tears now. Before I talked to my friends, it felt like such an odd over-reaction. Now I get it.