I'm disabled.
I was born in 1970.
About a year later I was diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy. I never
walked. I got my first wheelchair at kindergarten age, and my first power
wheelchair in sixth grade.
Yet, around 4 to 6
times per year I have to, for one reason or another, prove that I'm disabled.
Granted, I'm 5 feet
nothin', 112 pounds and sit in an electric wheelchair, but apparently that's
just anecdotal evidence… We need science!
The Good Doctor
Every couple
months I have to send my physician a form and ask him to fill it out. He has to
state that I have spinal muscular atrophy, identify the diagnosis date,
explained that my prognosis is something akin to "ain't getting better
any time soon" and sign it.
With new Medicare
regulations, the good doctor is not allowed to sign the said form without seeing me
"face-to-face" to prevent fraud. Although I'm
extraordinarily healthy, hospitalized last in 1996 for something unrelated to
my disability, I go see my doctor every six months like clockwork.
Here's my typical
conversation:
Doc – "Good
afternoon, Mr. Tweed". One reason he is my doctor is that he speaks to me
like an adult. I'm 46 and he has about five years on me. He could call me
Jason, but he definitely shouldn't call me "son",
"sweetie", "hun" or any of the other condescending titles
I've been given by various healthcare practitioners.
But I digress…
Doc – "Good
afternoon, Mr. Tweed."
Me – "Good
afternoon, Dr. P." I'm not going to publish his name, but it's one of
those extremely long last names common to the Indian peninsula. I purposely
learned his name and its proper pronunciation. Given his level of respect, it
was the least I could do.
Doc – "What brings
you in today?"
Me – "Just here to
prove I'm still disabled."
Doc – "That time
again. Let me take your vitals".
Apparently
"vitals" are pretty important to the process. They always take them.
None of the paperwork said that I had to be alive, just disabled, but I figure
it's better not to argue. If I have no vitals, they will probably cancel my
insurance.
Blood pressure – Yep.
Pulse – Yep. Respiration – Check.
Then he looks in my
eyeballs to make sure they are still there. He checks my ears, freshly
de-waxed. He sticks a Popsicle stick down my throat and looks deep into my
soul. Nothing remarkable.
He listens through the
stethoscope and taps my belly. I'm not quite sure why, but maybe he is
superstitious and my belly resembles The Buddha. Good luck.
Then he opens up my
chart. He has a piece of paper in my chart that tells my diagnosis, date of
diagnosis, and prognosis. He copies those on to the form, and handwriting that
is stereotypically chicken scratch, adds a date and the signature.
Doc – "See you in
six months."
Me – "Hopefully no
sooner."
Why Do I Have to Prove My Disability?
I understand some of
the reasons I have to document my disability. Medicare and Medicaid fraud
aren't rampant, but they do exist. I receive disability insurance payments,
which are permanent, as long as I am alive. (Now I remember why vitals are
important.)
However, let's take a
look at some of the things I've had to ask my doctor to fill out over the
years.
Prescriptions for a
wheelchair, actually that takes several. First he has to refer me to a physical
therapist, who has to determine that yes, indeed, I can't walk.
Prescriptions for an
adjustable bed. Apparently wanting to watch television isn't a good enough reason.
Prescriptions for
mechanical lift, to get in said adjustable bed.
Authorizations for a
catheter bag, because they don't want any normal people urinating in a bag just
for the fun of it.
Orders for a shower
chair. After all, the toilet on wheels is a luxury. I'm sure lots of people
would skip the whole walking to the toilet, and standing in the shower.
Maybe I don't want to
shower, how about a bath. I'm going to need a special permit for the device to
get in the tub. Apparently sitting during hygiene must be well regulated.
The Pharmacist
I take ibuprofen for
headaches. It's difficult for me to swallow pills. I can take children's
ibuprofen, but to get those adult dose I have to drink about a quart of purple
flavored phlegm. So my pharmacist mixes ibuprofen into a suspension. I only
need to take one filled shot glass. Apparently, this highly specialized
medicine also requires a note from my doctor.
Pharmacist –
"Well, at least we can charge it to your prescription coverage now."
Me – "Great. Out
of curiosity, how much would it be out of pocket?"
Pharmacist –
"$3.00"
Me – "Seems legit.
Here's my card."
Pharmacist – "Your
plan has a co-pay. $2.00"
Well, I saved a buck
this month. Thank goodness for Dr. P.
The DMV for Non-drivers
So I can't drive. Pennsylvania used to charge a fee to have a state ID. The ID card used to be called a
"nondrivers license" (WTF?!) It was $15 for a license not to drive.
The DMV rocket
scientist brigade offered me the chance to get my ID for free since I am
disabled. Terrific.
We just need a doctors
note verifying your disability. Apparently, sitting for an hour in the DMV in
my wheelchair wasn't verification enough.
Back to the doctor.
Verified. Another hour at the DMV.
DMV - Here's your card and your fee has been waived.
Me - Great,
how much did I save.
DMV - $15
DMV – Would you like to
apply for a disabled parking permit?
Me – Yes, please.
DMV – Great. We just
need a doctors signature on this form verifying your disability!
Me – Doesn't the other
form I gave you today apply?
DMV – No, we have
to have an original signature on both.
Me – Why wasn't I
giving both forms at the same time?
DMV – You
requested a non-drivers license. We didn't think you would need to park.
My parking permit would
arrive in a week or so. It'll hang on my mirror with its oversized bright blue
wheelchair. Then I'll be able to park in a space with an oversized bright blue
wheelchair on it, marked by a sign with an oversized bright blue wheelchair.
It's conveniently near curb cut, marked with… Yeah.
Busted!
Under the wipers, a
ticket.
My van has a raised
roof, a lower floor, and a ramp that slides underneath. The body extensions to
cover the works make me feel like I'm driving one of those GTA vehicles,
running from the cops, and shooting at pedestrians. All I needed is some lights
underneath to be a playa'.
Then I remembered that
I'm driving a Toyota minivan. I ain't no playa, it's just how we roll!
Apparently the Parking
Enforcement Officer, which is only one initial shy of a PEON, gave me a ticket
for parking my accessible van in an accessible parking space. Handwritten on
the violation was the words "no permit". Apparently this permit thing
that I haven't had for years is a bigger deal than I had imagined.
Went back inside the
DMV. They said they couldn't do a thing. Fill out the form and plead "not
guilty" and write a letter explaining the situation.
Form filled. Form
mailed.
10 days later, I open
the mailbox.
DMV, office of handicap
parking. Looks official. Yeah, parking permit.
District Magistrate,
Office of Appeals. Also looks official. Boo, my not guilty plea means I have to
go to the magistrate in person a month later.
I rolled into the
magistrate court with parking permit in hand.
The Judge
Me – "Not
guilty."
His Honor – "Do
you have a parking permit?"
Me – "Yes, it's
right here."
His Honor – "Why
wasn't it on the vehicle?"
Me – "I was inside
dropping off the application."
His Honor – "So
the permit was not yet valid on the date of the ticket?"
Me – "No Sir. Am I
required to have a permit to use the space?"
His Honor – "No
Son (again with the "son"). The permit prevents fraud."
Me – "Is there an
abundance of parking fraud?"
His Honor – (Clearly
getting perturbed) "Apparently there is, we wouldn't have a permit."
Me – "So I am
legally allowed to use the space if I'm disabled, even without a permit."
His Honor – "Yes,
absolutely. As long as you were disabled at the time of the incident."
Me – "Okay. I've
been a wheelchair user for 40 years."
His Honor – "No
problem, I will find you not guilty pending documentation for the record."
Me –
"Documentation?"
His Honor – "Yes,
it's simple. All we need is a note from your doctor!"
Yep. This is how the ablebods keep themselves in jobs. By endlessly harassing us crips. Jumping through their hoops - but wait - we can't do that so I guess we would need another stupid certificate from the doctor.
ReplyDeleteThat so true. It wrong. It you life long disabilities they should just respect your identity
ReplyDelete