In the post entitled, “The Invader” my husband, Steve Massey was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The Steve Series is continued this week:*
Steve sat across from the doctor’s desk in a return visit after his diagnosis was made.
“Dr. Riley,* I’m falling when I walk into the businesses I call on in my job. I have to stop when I’m driving, because I get so tired.”
“You’ll just have to pace yourself and work out your problems with your employer. You can still work,” the doctor insisted.
His inability to complete job related math calculations spurred Steve to take action even without a doctor’s letter. We began our quest for disability payments, fighting the system at every turn.
On a visit to the Social Security Office a representative peered at us over her glasses.
“Mr. Massey are you here about a claim? You look too healthy to be making application for disability.” Steve produced copies of medical receipts including the lab results.
“Where is your doctor’s letter?” she inquired.
“I don’t have one yet.”
“Mr. Massey, people come in here all the time with the type of records you have. You have to show me a doctor’s letter stating the reason you are to be considered for disability payments. Shame on you for coming in here and wasting our time! You need to go on back to work.”
As he rose to leave, he gave the starched government employee a parting shot, “Well, maybe the best thing to do is to go to a psychiatrist and let him diagnose me as a lunatic. I know I can’t do the math work anymore, and I’d rather live on beans than do my job the wrong way.”
Our next visit was to an understanding elderly psychiatrist, Steve explained his plight. “The Social Security office thinks I’m crazy for going to them with medical records, but no doctor’s letter saying I can’t work. If you certify me as a lunatic, maybe that’s all the paperwork they need.”
Throwing his head back in laughter, this warm-hearted doctor and his new patient became instant friends. “Steve, your anxiety alone would certainly qualify you for disability. Your blood pressure is elevated. I see your job isn’t ordinary, calling on customers and calculating mathematical equations looks stressful. There’s no room for mistakes. I can treat your anxiety, but not the MS. Your neurologist has to agree that you can’t work, but you may need a lawyer to handle that problem.”
Steve let out a low moan, “How will I pay for a lawyer if I have to quit my job?”
“One struggle at a time, son, one struggle at a time,” the psychiatrist smiled as he finished writing a prescription for anxiety disorder.
Steve’s next stop was to a lawyer’s office. Harold Crandall* had the reputation of a bulldog in court. If he felt the little guy was being trampled, he sank his teeth into the opposition.
“How long have you been diagnosed, Steve?” He puzzled over Steve’s medical records, half-glasses perched on his plump rounded nose.
“It’s been almost two months.”
“Your neuro doctor friend is less than cooperative. I can either pay him a visit or send him a letter, it’s your call.”
“We haven’t discussed fees yet.”
“Steve, I don’t want a percentage of your Social Security award. Let’s settle on a flat fee. How about $600? If it takes me a year of work, it’ll still be $600.”
Steve replied, “I’d almost feel bad for you with that kind of fee.”
Mr. Crandall squinted over Steve’s information, “I see by your address that you live out in the sticks. Do you farm?”
“Yes, I grow vegetables and pigs.”
“Well, I love both of them; bring me a ham and some veggies and we’ve got a deal.”
After six months of visits and paperwork, Mr. Crandall succeeded in getting Steve’s Social Security Disability granted to him. We had reached a small base camp in our government’s bureaucracy; but the summit of the disease was yet to be scaled.
*Some names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and those in-between.
Stay tuned for Part Two of Trust Me in the Dark:The Steve Series