Chapter Two: “Caring Counts®” — Until You Need It

I thought the worst was over after the fire. But it turns out the explosion was just the opening act. The real devastation came after — in the silence.

My mobility was gone. My legs had been torched along with my trust. But I wasn’t the only one affected. My dog, who had waited through the extreme long and cold winter and health setbacks - his and mine, now waited again. Daily walks turned into distant dreams. I couldn’t let him suffer just because I couldn’t walk — so I booked doggy daycare. As much as I could afford. Every other day. Every week. I bled money to preserve a sliver of normalcy for him. And a shred of dignity for me.

Meanwhile, no one called.

No one emailed.

The battery had exploded on April 2.

I didn’t hear a thing for five weeks.

Then — finally — a voice. A woman from Sedgwick called. She sounded warm, even human. Like a child, I opened my heart to her. I told her everything. How important this was for me. How I needed my legs back to feel vibrant, alive, like myself again. And to spend time with my dog and give him the care he deserves during his such short stay on this planet. She seemed to care. She told me she was on it. She asked for files I’d already sent — so I sent them again. Photos. Documentation. Screenshots. She got them in real-time. While she was on the phone. She thanked me.

That was the last time she called me. She pulled a vanishing act.

“I tried calling. Again and again. Her voicemail? Not set up. I couldn’t even leave a message.”

I tried calling. Again and again. Her voicemail? Not set up. I couldn’t even leave a message.
Did she quit? Was she fired? Was she avoiding me? Did she ever exist at all?

I followed up by email. Nothing.

I submitted request for updates on their website. A supervisor would be in touch, they said. They weren’t.

The game had begun.

The trick was simple:
Say they care. Say they’re working on it. Then vanish.

Weeks passed. Spring passed. In Canada, we don’t get much of it. And Summer is equally short. And still—silence. Still—I’m disabled, isolated, and forced to chase shadows while my summer slips away.

“And that’s when it hit me: This wasn’t incompetence. This wasn’t miscommunication. This was strategy.”

And that’s when it hit me:
This wasn’t incompetence.
This wasn’t miscommunication.
This was strategy.

The agent wasn’t there to help me.
She was there to wear me down.
Slowly. Politely. On my dime.

And it worked — until it didn’t.

Because at some point, you run out of patience.
Out of grace.
Out of bandwidth to be nice while you're being erased.

That’s when you stop apologizing for your anger.
And you say what they’ve earned:

Fuck you!

Chapter 3: When 'Fuck You' Should Be Used – Without Apology. Because sometimes, dignity begins where politeness ends.