“Not in Assisted Living (Yet): Dispatches from the Edge of Independence!

Welcome to my World---Woman, widow, senior citizen seeking to live out my days with a sense of whimsy as I search for inner peace and friendships. Jeez, that sounds like a profile on a dating app and I have zero interest in them, having lost my soul mate of 42 years. Life was good until it wasn't when my husband had a massive stroke and I spent the next 12 1/2 years as his caregiver. This blog has documented the pain and heartache of loss, my dark humor, my sweetest memories and, yes, even my pity parties and finally, moving past it all. And now I’m ready for a new start, in a new location---a continuum care campus in West Michigan, U.S.A. Some people say I have a quirky sense of humor that shows up from time to time in this blog. Others say I make some keen observations about life and growing older. Stick around, read a while. I'm sure we'll have things in common. Your comments are welcome and encouraged. Jean
Showing posts with label life insurance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life insurance. Show all posts

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Widowhood 201: The Catch-22



When my husband died, within two weeks I got a little money from a life insurance policy. (How did they find out so fast?) To collect it, they sent me a set of checks that I could use just like checks from any bank. In those early months I used some of the money until other things got straighten out like my husband’s pension and Social Security benefits coming in my name and getting my health insurance under my own name so they'd cover medications again, etc. Even credit cards got frozen right after Don died and that alone took several MONTHS before I could use those cards again. It’s a little known fact that catches a lot of widows by surprise: a joint credit card account where you both have a card in your own name is not truly a joint account unless you are both listed as a legal payee on the account. Many wives aren't and I was one of them, even though I'd used that card for decades. Who knew? It takes time to get your widow's work like this straighten out. 

Fast forward to now. That insurance money that I didn’t use up was just sitting there because it pays better interest than any of the investments I have going, not forgotten but I thought the account was nicely tucked away for future use when I needed. This week I got a letter from the insurance company giving me thirty days to let them know if I still want them to manage the money and if I don’t contact them in that time frame they are going to send it to the state of Michigan’s treasury as per the laws in my state! They listed a web address where I was to go to email them. Great. To get on the website I had to set up an account. Fifteen minutes later I had that accomplished and I could see my money sitting there but nowhere in God’s green acres was there a tab for contacting them by email. The ‘Contact Us’ tab led to links to Twitter, Facebook and something equally as lame but no ‘send an email’ tab! After a half hour of frustration looking at every link on the entire site and then some I was nowhere closer to finding a way of contacting them by email than I was before I opened the damn letter. I had also tried their automated phone system to notify them and it listed a zillion choices but not one for: “Don’t send my money to the state!” But if I wanted to buy more insurance, no problem. There were lines for life, health, cars, houses and hangnails just waiting to hear my sweet, little voice. 

Just when you think there couldn’t possibility be any residual widow’s work left---it’s been three and a half years---something like this pops up. I’m too frustrated, now, to do it but the first thing Monday I’m going to call back and when the automatic phone system wants me to say or punch in the department of my choice I’m going start chanting, “Live Agent” and “Live Representative.” That often works with companies and hopefully, it will work with the insurance company. If not, does anyone want to go on a road trip to Pennsylvania with me? I’ve got 25 days left to get this issue resolved. 

Back when Joseph Heller’s popular book, Catch-22, first came out in the 1960s I read and loved the book. It was funny and obviously a memorable read for me. Over the years I have run into my own versions of catch-22 situations like the one described above but the book’s catch-22 was a little more complicated, though no less circular. Here’s how Wikipedia describes the absurd military bureaucratic for soldiers during WWII: “The term is introduced by the character Doc Daneeka, an army psychiatrist who invokes "Catch 22" to explain why any pilot requesting mental evaluation for insanity—hoping to be found not sane enough to fly and thereby escape dangerous missions—demonstrates his own sanity in making the request and thus cannot be declared insane.”

Since the book was written, the term "catch-22" has found its way into common usage and I’ll bet a lot of younger people don’t even know where it came from. None the less we can all identify with the frustration of dealing with bureaucratic logic. Or should I say bureaucratic illogical behavior? ©

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

The I-Don't-Give-Rat's-Ass Insurance Company

Today on my agenda was dealing with the company that insured my husband’s hearing aids. A few weeks before he passed away we had paid for the coming year’s insurance that was to cover any possible damage that might occur throughout 2012---a $300.00 premium. By my way of thinking they should be writing a prorated refund check for the remaining unused eleven months minus a processing fee for canceling the policy.

“It doesn’t work that way,” the perky voice on the phone told me. “We don’t do refunds.” She might as well have said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass how many months are left on the policy. We’ve got your money and we’re not giving it back!”

So I replied, “You mean to tell me that those eleven months left on the policy have no monetary value?”

“Why, yes they do,” Ms. Perky Voice says, “if your husband had lived he could have gotten his aids repaired unlimited times over this coming year. But since he won’t be using them, we don’t do refunds.”

Around and round we went until I finally had to accept the message: they don’t do refunds even if you stand on your head and beg Ms. Perky Voice’s supervisor. God, if I had known that I wouldn’t have notified them of Don’s passing. I would have damaged both aids, then send them back to the factory to be rebuilt at the expense of the I-Don’t-Give-a-Rat’s-Ass Insurance Company. They don’t send you the terms of the contract up front like other insurance companies do, all nicely spelled out in black and white. They don’t do anything but take your money and gamble that you’re not careless enough to wear your hearing aids in the shower. But if you do, of course they’ll tell you afterward, that you can only do that once a year and get covered. Dogs that chew a hearing aid until it looks like a wad of bubble gum with wires sticking out? “No problem as long as it only happens once a year.” Been there, done that and bought the t-shirt. It's only unlimited if you come up with a different method of damage each and every time.

I’ve always hated dealing with the I-Don’t-Give-a-Rat’s-Ass Insurance Company and it’s bittersweet that I’ve just had my very last conversation with Ms. Perky Voice. But not one to let a day go by without at least learning something new, I googled the term “don’t give a rat’s ass” and I learned the term most likely originated at a point in history when there was a bounty on rats because they spread diseases and plagues. To collect the bounty you only had to present the head thus that made the bottom half of the rat worthless. Wouldn’t it be nice if in this modern age we could put a bounty on worthless insurance companies that promise the moon but when it comes to compassionate customer service they deliver moldy cheese? ©

Friday, February 3, 2012

Waiting for the Pension Administration

After playing a dozen mindless games of solitaire I decided to blog my frustrations. It’s day four of a four day window I was given when I called the pension administration where my husband used to work. A window when I’m suppose to hear back from a case manager IF I am entitled to any spousal benefits. If I don’t get any benefits, they’ll send a letter within ten days. “IF?” If I'm not entitled to any spousal benefits? Where did that notion come from? It seemed to me the lady on the phone took great glee at saying the word 'if' rolling it over her tongue nice and slow and louder than the rest of the words in her sentence. Hearing that little word---if---was like getting sucker punched.

“I get it,” I thought. Some people take up hiking or biking for a hobby. This woman, for fun, likes torturing recently widowed women into worrying about whether or not their health insurance will get cut off or they aren’t named on the life insurance. And if Ms. Nasty Ass had her way, widows sure as hell aren’t going to get any portion of their husband’s pension. Out of luck! Sorry. Someone checked the wrong box.

Having dealt with a long and involved, life-and-death incident with an ambulance company where someone checked the wrong box, I'm on pins and needles now. The quality of the rest of my life hinges on the phone ringing in the next four hours. “Ring, damn it!" Why won’t the phone ring? I can’t go out to the mailbox. I can’t pick up poop in the dog pen. I can’t make any of the other necessary calls on my ‘widowhood list.’ All I can do is sit here nursing a case of the nerves while building up resentment towards a tiny word like ‘if’.

The irony in all this is my husband was in speech therapy for six years after his stroke and he never could get his aphasic brain to kick that word out of his head and down to his tongue. ©

 
Edit to Add: I can't believe it! 8:30 PM and the call finally came. I really didn't expect it anymore today, since it was so late after normal office hours. And I couldn't have been more pleased with my new case manager. She said she knew I'd be anxious and took a chance in calling so late because she didn't want me stressing all weekend. She's going to walk me through the whole process once I send in the death certificate. I absolutely feel like I've been on a roller coaster of emotion today but, thankfully, I didn't end up with vomit on my shoes. Thank you, Mrs. Case Manager!