Of all the horrible things we have had to deal with since my son’s passing, navigating the bureaucracy of death is most annoying. On one hand, all of the paperwork, fees, and legal hoops are petty and inconsequential in the big picture of our loss. Many times, people are sympathetic and they waive or expedite matters as much as they can. We greatly appreciate those who put their humanity above red tape. On the other hand some people are just plain assholes about our problems. But at least they are people. One can convey one’s displeasures with little effort. The computers of the bureaucracy are another story.
For some reason, his death has generated a crap ton of credit card offers, vehicle sales brochures, and cigar catalogues. These are easily disposed of. But a letter from a court computer is a different kettle of monkeys. Two days after Christopher died, his brother and I went to court to represent him a minor legal matter. The judge was very understanding and waived the technical requirements for finishing the case. The court computer, however, didn’t get the memo. It keeps sending me form letters prompting me to send the following response in hopes of attracting the attention of its human servants:
5/11/18
Dear computer of the US District Court, State of Colorado:
In accordance with your letter of 4/26/18, hereby referred to as Exhibit A, I am writing to inform you that the petitioner, Christopher Ryan Parent, does in fact have a new address. He currently resides at my house whose GPS coordinates are entered on line 4 of the form you enclosed. Specifically, he resides on the shelf in his mother’s closet. See photo, exhibit B. Also please note the death certificate, exhibit C, which was presented to the court on 3/2/18.
While we appreciate the extra time offered to complete said documents for the court, I assume that the “extremely limited circumstances for waiving of final requirements for case dismissal” mentioned in line 1 of exhibit A includes death. I can assure you that no amount of extra time will allow him to fill out the requested forms and have them notarized. His mother and I wish it were otherwise.
To paraphrase the words of that brilliant barrister, John Cleese:
“He’s not delinquent. He’s dead. He’s croaked. He’s room temperature. He’s passed on, cashed in his chips, and bit the dust. This Parent is no more! He has ceased to be! He’s expired and gone to meet his maker! He’s a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! If we hadn’t cremated him he’d be in a pine box, six feet under, pushing up daisies! His metabolic processes are now history! He’s off the clock! He’s gone the way of all flesh. He’s bought the farm and headed to the last roundup. He’s extinct, kicked the bucket, shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain, and joined the bloody choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PARENT!!”
I hope this clarifies the issue of his not completing the requested paperwork and that you will have no further need to contact him. His death has been a terrible tragedy for us, but I must admit that exhibit A brought a smile to my face for the first time since he died.
Sincerely,
Jerome B Parent
