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yesterday my mother took me to meet her financial planner.

it was as oddly intimate, i would think, as meeting a new spouse.

i wasn't there to judge him--rather, he had her bring me to him so he could judge me. and apparently i was found reasonably worthy because he suggested that she add me to her bank account as a joint owner. he didn't, he said, generally make that suggestion lightly, but my refusal to take money from her, my job ("decent amount of dollars"), cam's salary, the bits of character that he could glean from this tiny encounter... all added up to the idea of a trustworthy sort, i suppose.

then he talked to me about the best way to deal with her retirement money in the event of her death.

for the love of god. i'm not an idiot, i understand that time marches unceaselessly and the waves continue to crash in neverending patterns upon wet sand on all coasts, but must. we. talk. about. how i'm going to collect when i'm the last one standing? when i was 18, i knew my brother had killed himself before my parents could tell me; at 23 i told the doctors not to attempt to resuscitate my father; you'd think at 39 i wouldn't quake at discussions of trusts and minimum required distributions and taxes.



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