I Simply Do Not Understand Medicaid.

I don't. I really don't. I was able to get Ms. J enrolled in Supplemental Security Income (SSI), which I was told would automatically qualify her for Medicaid and thus make her eligible for all sorts of help. Now, you can only imagine how happy I was to find out that we may be able to get some of her care paid for. I think I really did jump up and down. I know for a fact that I screamed like a little girl and waved my hands around Wallace & Grommit-style.

However, here we are a good two months post-SSI approval, and no Medicaid info has come our way. We had a Medicaid nurse visit last week, who told us that we would need to get a waiver to apply for more hours and equipment since Ms. J requires so much care. Okay. Five calls to three separate offices later, I am still none-the-wiser. What would elderly folks do in a situation like this if they have no one to speak for them? I find it absolutely incredible that it is this complicated. Way to go, government bureaucracy.

I don't even know if I fully understand this process, and I would like to think that I'm a reasonably intelligent person. There needs to be a flowchart of some kind showing the different avenues to the right end. Or something. I wish I knew.

Here in this state, it seems to go like so:
1. Spend 5000 hours collecting paperwork for Medicaid. This seems to include, but not be limited to, 2 years worth of ALL bank statements, proof of all assets such as property, cattle, vehicles, jewelry, lock-boxes, savings accounts and any and all gold teeth, nuggets, or krugerrands you might have lying around. This is, of course, to demonstrate an individuals need for assistance. Fine. Whatever. They need documentation. We get it.

2. Spend 5000 hours looking through the government pages in the phone book for anything related to help for the elderly.

3. Spend another 5000 hours on the phone to 5000 more offices trying to figure out what the hell is going on and who to speak to next, only to be sent off to your 5000th voicemail to some woman named Betty.

4. Wait.

5. Imagine spiders spinning webs under and around your unmoving, immobile form as you wait two weeks for Betty to return your calls.

6. Wait longer. They are so busy!

7. Start creating picket signs in your free time. If Betty won't come to you, you'll go to her.

8. Start a one-man protest outside of The Office of Public Assistance in the hopes Betty might condescend to throw a glance in your general direction. ("We need pay! For Ms. Jay!")

9. Be escorted back to your vehicle by an armed guard named Fred. Fred warns you in a jocular tone not to get your panties in a bundle. You hate Fred. And also the word "panties."

10. End up back at home, slumped over in an E-Z chair, letting the cat chew on your arm. Why stop the bloodshed?


Maybe not all of that has actually happened, but you get the idea. Point is, I am on a mini-vacation at Barnes & Noble today because I cannot deal with one more call to this Betty person. One of Ms. J's care-givers is there today, so I sit here on my computer, listening to music, with a stack of kids books and comics nearby. For the moment, I am content.

Betty, if you're out there...you know my number.