Let’s Work! (Conclusion)
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| Mary Wakefield Buxton |
by Mary Wakefield Buxton
Urbanna, Va.—What lawyers are so masterful in doing is scaring you half to death. Spending each day in a law office was turning into quite an eye opener. One hardly can imagine how government can interfere with the enjoyment of one’s life until one sees firsthand what happens when someone becomes ill or dies without proper documents.
It behooves a person (like myself who never thinks that anything bad might happen) to learn how to protect oneself from the many unpleasantries that may lie ahead . . . or as Shakespeare’s Prince Hamlet called the troubles of life that beset us—“slings and arrows.”
Slowly, by keeping my eyes open, dreadful realities settled into my brain. Like what happens if you die without a will. I knew nothing about this problem until that certain morning when I was sitting at the front desk and a gentleman came in to see the lawyer. His father was dying and he hadn’t signed a will. Upsetting enough, but in addition to that and to make things much worse, his father had over a million dollars worth of assets that would have to go to court for probate because he did not have a will. “Was it too late to have him sign a power of attorney?” was the very first question asked. Yes, the poor fellow had already slipped into a coma.
Later that week when the son returned to try to obtain some of his father’s funds so he could arrange hospice care and pay medical bills, a call came in on his cell phone. His father had just died. In my usual helpful manner, I burst into tears. I cannot yet handle the deaths of fathers or dogs.
Who knows it is imperative that we write a will? Did anyone mention I needed to write a will back in Ohio where I grew up? No. Did I ever hear of such a thing in college or university? Never. I’m not blaming anyone else for my failure to know about writing a will (as is so fashionable today), but somehow I got to the age of wisdom without knowing some basic legal facts.
Soon after this incident, the lawyer called me into his office. “Mary, it’s time for you to write your will.” I stared at the man in horror. Surely I was too young to be signing my will!
“You are 70, my dear,” he said gently, with a kindly tone, as if he were talking to a little old lady suddenly plunked down in his office chair.
“I know perfectly well I am 70!” I retorted with just a wee bit of heat. “But I can assure you I still don’t have any plans on passing away any time soon!”
He told me it was best to make plans now when “we” are healthy and not put things off until it was too late. He whipped out a document he had already prepared and passed it over for me to sign.
It was a terrible shock to read of my coming demise and the disbursement of my assets. I stared at the paper as if it were a snake that was ready to strike. Truthfully, I am not a superstitious person, but I was a bit afraid to sign a will for fear I would drop dead right on the spot. Oh well, I decided, best to get it over with. I closed my eyes tightly and signed. Nothing happened.
Next, the lawyer pulled out a 52-page trust for me to sign. That was too much! Sticking out my Ohio chin that is as stubborn as corn in drought, I absolutely refused to sign it.
“Wouldn’t it be wise to protect your assets from the next Mrs. Buxton?” he asked slyly. I stared at the man as if he had suddenly turned into a goblin. What in the world was he talking about? Didn’t he know there was just one Mrs. Buxton and I was she?
He explained should I die and should he ever remarry, if I didn’t protect my assets for my children, the next wife and her family could possibly help themselves to my possessions!
What? What? My imagination immediately triggered the most pathetic scene. There, in my mind’s eye were my poor children and grandchildren in dire economic straits while some young tootsie was enjoying the fruits of my lifetime of hard work! I signed the trust.
Thinking all the problems over my impending death were finished, I arose to leave. Not so fast. The lawyer then hit me with the “advanced medical directive,” a dire document about eight pages long that discusses a wide range of hideous things that could happen to me if I was ever caught disabled but alive in a hospital and had not thought ahead to leave specific instructions to my caretakers. The last document he presented me was a power of attorney to give him the legal right to act in my behalf in making financial decisions for me if I should not be able to do so.
In a shock instigated stupor (I was thinking dementia had already set in), I signed the documents if only to escape the lawyer’s office. I was emotionally spent, as if I had been to the wars and back. The only good news was this was one lawyer who wouldn’t dare send me a bill (which would surely have killed me stone dead).
As I went home to seek comfort by throwing myself into the arms of the awaiting dogs, dark thoughts entered my brain. Suppose the lawyer had not really wanted to hire me after all? Suppose he had only hired me in order to get me to sign everything I owned over to him?
A trusting person like me who dreams of English poets and pens sonnets on the backs of napkins ought never to enter a lawyer’s office. Anything might happen. Yet, as I write these words, a sense of euphoria passes over me. I have signed every document known to mankind to protect me from all horrifying events. Now I can die in peace.
What? What? Hurrah! Carry on! It’s time to launch a nationwide “Let’s Work” campaign for seniors to save the country!
(Join Mary next week for more fun as she writes that our Christ Church has gone to the dogs!)
