Funeral for a farmer's wife

Yesterday I attended the funeral for a former coworker. She was 77, and died after emergency surgery to repair an aortic aneurysm (they couldn't get her heart restarted). When I heard the news, I was sad, because she was one of the most clearly, definitely good people I have ever known. And on the other hand, I couldn't help thinking, 'if ever there was a person who would die with no regrets, it had to be her.' Because she always lived her life to the fullest, and was a bright light that pulled everyone else up with her.

The obituary her family composed was a little odd to me. They noted that she had always loved the farm, and that she always put her family first. But the tone they used seemed to indicate that she was being dutiful, and set aside her own dreams to promote theirs. And that really did not ever seem to be the case, at least to me. She had dreams, and she worked with her family to make them a reality. She wanted to visit all 50 states, and eventuallly they did. She wanted to keep close to her boys as they grew up and made their own families- and they were definitely right on board with that. But mostly, she never, ever came across as 'dutiful'. She took care of her family, she did every job on the farm, because she loved doing the work.

What struck me, though, and the reason I felt I needed to post this, was something her husband's brother said at the funeral, during the words from family. They were business partners in the family farm, and he mentioned at one point that someone had recently asked him if he was still farming. He said he was kind of surprised at the question, and looked at his brother and said, "Well we aren't in wheelchairs, or unable to get around..." And I think this is what is getting lost in this world of agribusiness and factory farms. The family farmers farm because that is what they do. For as long as they are capable to do so. Their identity is "farmer." You don't retire from farming, you are forced to quit by physical infirmity or property loss.

Or, you know, death.

Upsetting

Pansy, the cat who had to spend three nights at the vet's, and had expensive blood tests done, came home today with the not-surprising doomed diagnosis of Feline Infectious Peritonitis. The vet's wife dropped her off, told me that she'd phoned in a prescription for antibiotics that I would need to start tomorrow, and made arrangements to stop in three weeks to give Pansy another steroid shot.

OK, I was dreading getting the bill, but didn't ask about it.

This evening I checked my banking online, and saw that there was a nearly $1000 charge from the vet on my VISA card, that I had used the last time with them. That was the kind of amount I feared, but the problem I'm really having is that I wasn't told it would be put there. So tomorrow I will have to call and ask how soon she's going to mail me the bill for which I have already (unknowingly) paid.

Sometimes I get the feeling the vet's wife (who is his tech, office manager, etc.) is a little more money-focused than the vet himself. Which is not necessarily bad, since they need to have money to live on, too, just... in this case, it feels a leetle unethical.

Edited to add: I just looked at the itemized account, and the vet also tagged my card for almost $300 on the Jan. 5th- I had not contacted them for Pansy until the 13th! WOW AM I STRESSED NOW!