BUREAUCRACY IS IDIOCRASY GONE MAD

The trials and tribulations of a mother and son...

About two hours ago, I was seen at the traffic lights, head bowed over the steering wheel, screaming at the top of my lungs. I was heard too… both windows open. My soon-to-turn eighteen year old son on the passenger side used the ‘f**k’ word for the first time (as in directed at me first time).

“What the f**k mum?"

Can’t blame him. People in the cars around us were all staring at this crazy woman in a four-wheel drive having a manic attack and they were shaking their collective heads. Son was mortified, as I’m not one to usually display bouts of insanity publicly, plus he’d spent the last four hours at my side…

Let’s back up. It’s a long-winded vent here, so bear with me.

I am on what we here in Australia call a Carer’s Pension. Effectively, I am being paid a paltry amount per fortnight to care for my father at home, rather than clogging up the nursing-home system. I also receive what they call Family Tax Benefits, for taking care of my two sons - since their father claims he hasn’t worked a day for fifteen years despite being a qualified locksmith (and you know what they charge right?)

School year ends here the week before Christmas, this being our summer season. They cut the payment I was receiving for number one son, which I’d assumed would continue until he turned 18 in February. Almost $600 a month vanished, never to be seen again. My son however, could start claiming Youth Allowance, which wasn’t as much but still, what with starting University and everything…

Also around this time, my darling mother suddenly lost all sight in one eye and was in and out of three different hospitals with no one able to explain the horrendous headaches she was having; despite being placed on massive doses of a steroid, this to stop the inflammation spreading.

She had no sight in the left eye and a cataract in the right eye so was declared legally blind, at least until we could get the cataract fixed, affording a little more sight. We couldn’t tend to the cataract though until we’d dealt with the cause of the inflammation.

A nurse who I’d come to know at the local hospital and who was aware of the situation with my father, suggested I go to Centrelink and claim Carer’s allowance for my mother as well. It’s not much, just over fifty dollars a week, but it would be something, or so I thought.

So I went, armed with my licence (photo ID), my Centrelink card, the application form and other bits and pieces including a letter from her doctor stating she needed care.

After a two hour wait, the conversation once I’d sat in front of a very tired-looking woman went like this:

“We need proof of Citizenship.”

“You what?”

“Your Citizenship Certificate. You can’t lodge a claim unless I see it.”

“But we became Australian Citizens thirty years ago! Surely you have it in the system somewhere?”

“We still need to see it.”

“You must have a copy surely? Can’t you look at that?”

“I need to sight the original.”

“I don’t know where it is frankly.” We’d moved a few times since then and it wasn’t as though it was something I needed to show on a regular basis... this was Australia, not some... Anyway.

“Then you need to apply for a copy. A certified copy,” she stressed.

“That’s still a copy though, right?”

“Yes, but it’s certified.”

“Why do I need to prove I am a citizen anyway?”

“So we know you’re entitled to the payment.”

“But you’ve been paying me a Pension and Tax Benefits for my children for almost 18 years!”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?”

“That’s right. You have 14 days from today to provide it.”

“What happens if I don’t get it in time?”

“You have to lodge another claim.”

“I lose that fortnightly payment?”

“Yes.”

I left her. I filled the application form online and am still (four weeks later) waiting to receive my proof of Citizenship. Oh yes, I went back again and lodged a new application. I’m due to lodge my third one this week. “No back pay, sorry.”

Last week I finally had the few hours to spare, so son and I went back to Centrelink to apply for his Youth Allowance.

After a three hour wait this time, the conversation once we’d sat in front of an even more tired-looking woman went like this:

“He needs photo ID.”

He hadn’t bothered to get his Learner’s Permit yet. The University he’d be attending in March was a short train-ride away.

He had his Birth Certificate however, my Medicare card with his name on it, his debit MasterCard and assorted other bits of ID, including a Commendation from our previous Shire for his Outstanding Community Volunteer efforts. It had the official State emblem, a big red fake wax seal and the Mayor’s signature with some fluffy words of encouragement and a lot of congratulating. (He’d had to provide ID for that also but he was very proud of it.)

I laid everything in front of her. “Isn’t this enough?”

“No. We need photo ID so he can prove he is who he is.”

“But he’s my son! There’s his name, his date of birth, his

address…”

“I still can’t verify this is your son.”

“I’ve been receiving payments for him since he was born, HE IS MY SON!” Said son kicked me under the table.

“So how do we get this photo ID?” he asked, taking charge, knowing too well my propensity for challenging authority.

“Either get your Learner’s or go to the Post Office and fill in a form. You’ll get a card with your photo sent out in the mail.”

We went to the Post Office nearest us. The form we were given was several pages long. It included a Statutory Declaration to be filled in by someone who’d known him over two years plus an approved witness, plus two photos; one signed on the back stating this person was who he claimed to be.

They took his photo, printed it and I paid. We went to our local Chemist and she and another Chemist filled in the declaration and signed and witnessed everything.

Went back to the Post Office where the application and other documents were scrutinised, photocopied, scanned and after paying for express post, sent off to wherever. Total cost, close to $100.

Four days later, the shiny card arrived in the mail. My son was rather proud of it, despite being unprepared; his longish hair shoved behind the ears to ‘remove shadows’. He wasn’t allowed to smile, and what with everything we’d been through, he looked a little on the miserable side.

Which brings us to today. We went back to Centrelink. Waited the usual few hours. We had two things to do: Lodge his Youth Allowance application and get a rebate for mum for the $280 paid in fees for a specialist Rheumatologist.

We sat in front of yet another tired-looking woman and the conversation this time went like this:

“This doctor’s bill is for your mother?”

“Yes. I’ve already filled in the authority to act on her behalf.”

“Do you have Power of Attorney?”

“No, but you’ve paid rebates into her account before, I’ve done this a few times now.”

“Can’t do it.”

“What do you mean you can’t do it?”

“Without Power of Attorney I can’t deposit the rebate into her account.”

“So what do I do now?”

“Who paid for the bill?”

“I did.” Technically I had, since she couldn’t see. But both the bill and the receipt were in her name!

“Well then I can put the rebate into your account.”

“Okay then.” Sigh. Some part of my brain wondered why I was receiving my mother’s money.

“No I can’t.”

“No you can’t? You just said you can!”

“We don’t have your bank details on record.”

“You do have them on record! I get paid every fortnight!”

“Centrelink does, but not Medicare.”

“We’re in Centrelink!” Breathe. Breathe. Son shot a warning look.

“Yes, but I can’t access your records.”

I looked around the room. “Can’t any of them?”

“Hmm…” She stood and wandered two desks over. Some conversation took place and then I heard my name being called.

“Yes?” I then wandered over.

“Do you live in James Street?” This from a very tired-looking gentleman in a shiny suit and a tie with odd-coloured spots. Or maybe I was seeing spots now.

“Yes, it says so on the card in front of you, and on my Licence and-”

“That’s all I needed.”

“Oh okay, you needed to hear me say it. Right.” Mentally scratching my head.

Back at the first desk. “Money will be in two days from now.”

“Thank you!” BIG sighs from both son and I.

“Now my son needs to apply for Youth Allowance.”

He is far more organised than me. He had a folder with everything neatly held together. He took all this everything out and then he pulled out the shiny new card he’d received this morning, from his wallet.

“Um… I’m afraid that’s not a valid photo ID.”

“Huh?” Me.

“He needs the Proof of Age Card.”

“Then what’s this?” Me again.

“It’s a KeyPass.”

‘We got the form from the Post Office like the other lady said, we filled everything in, and here’s his photo! Compare them! THIS IS MY SON!”

“Ouch!” The kick had hurt this time.

“Yes but this card is not Government approved!”

“Who approved it then?”

“Well… the State Government did, but we need the card from the Federal Government. There’s a difference.”

“There is?”

“This just shows his photo and date of birth. He can use it to buy alcohol when he turns eighteen and get into nightclubs, and gambling establishments - that kind of thing.”

“So he can buy booze, and he can gamble, which both need VALID proof of age but he can’t get Youth Allowance?”

“That’s right.”

“Why weren’t we told this by the other lady?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what do we do now?”

“You go to this Post Office, and fill in the Proof of Age application.”

“But the fourteen day period for providing photo ID expires today!”

“Oh yes, so it does. Sorry. You have to start a new claim.”

“So he won’t get paid then.”

“Not until we get the proper photo ID. He has another fourteen days from today to provide it.”

“But-”

“Let’s go mum!”

Back in the car, and then back at another Post Office. The lady behind this counter was nice. Sort of.

“We have no forms. You have to ring this number and get one sent out.”

“We can’t do it online?”

“No, each application has a unique number. They’re making new forms; that’s why we don’t have any in stock.”

“I see. Can I ask, how long before he gets the card, once we lodge the form?”

“Usually about twenty eight days, but since they’re changing them, I’d say closer to two months now.”

“I see. Is there a way to pay extra, get it processed quicker?”

“No.”

“No?” So much hope in this one word!

“No.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“Mum, the passport!”

Shoot, I’d forgotten. My brother was sending my son and his son to Bali for a few days as an 18th birthday gift. My one needed a passport.

“Can we have the form please? We can fill it in here, since he has all his ID on him right?”

“Does he have proof of Citizenship?”

“Umm… he was born here? Here’s his Birth Certificate?”

“No, we need your proof of Citizenship.”

“But he’ll be eighteen in a few days! Legally an adult. He was born here! We’re talking about his passport!”

“Still need your Citizenship paper.”

“But-”

“Let’s go mum!”

Back in the car, son had an idea. “Mum, won’t my Learner’s Permit be quicker than waiting for the proof of Age card to arrive?”

“Oh my God yes! Just an online test, a photo and you’ll get it in the mail in a few days! You’re awesome! Book the test online now!”

He took out the mobile phone and went to the VicRoads site. He was quiet. A lot of tapping and swiping on the screen, opening and closing emails, filling in information.

I was humming… “My brown-eyed girl,” in-between taking long, long breaths. Finally, we were on the verge of accomplishing something!

But then he frowned. I felt it!

“Hmmm…” More tapping and swiping.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Hang on.”

I hung on. More tapping and swiping. I hung on. More tapping and swiping. I looked down at the piece of paper the lady from the Post Office had provided with the number I had to ring to get the Proof of Age card. Above it, I read the words: Victorian Commission for Gambling and Liquor Regulation.

Ummm... State Government? We were applying for a card that would allow him to do what the other card was allowing him to do... Oh if I had her there in front of me right now!

Then I heard, “Mum, where’s Mildura?”

“Seven hours or so from here hon, why?”

“That’s where we have to go to get my permit. Every other VicRoads Office in the State is booked out till mid-March. There’s an opening at 10am this Thursday. That’s the only one left anywhere till March.” (Today is Tuesday.)

“Book! It!” We’d reached the red traffic lights that moment.

That’s when I put my head down on the wheel and screamed.

I feel better now. I can almost see those wisps of sanity approaching… I might even break open that bottle of wine I've been saving for a special occasion...

Author's Note

Sorry about venting. I had to get this thing out of me today... The pain boss... the pain...