Moment of Truth: Disability Marathon | Facts & Arguments Submission

The waiting is chronic and I don’t want jinx it by asking questions. A year ago I qualified to apply for the Ontario Disability Support Program and it’s been a slog. Two years ago I had surgery to rebuild my radiation-damaged heart; I have new parts. Five years ago I was laid off from work. Thirty-five years ago I was a teenager when I was treated with radiation for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

Now I’m waiting to find out if I qualify for financial help.

Last year my analyst suggested I apply. it would make life easier she said. She warned 80% are turned down at first. 40% make it on appeal. You need to have patience and be tenacious.

There are a lot of hoops: a doctor needs to fill in the 14-page Health Status Report including supporting test results and medical material. You can write a letter saying how wrecked you are and that you can’t work.

Six weeks after my doctor sent the package, a letter informed us we’d missed a page. My startled doctor fixed it and faxed it immediately. ODSP give themselves 90 working days from receiving the complete document to vet it. In January they were reviewing September applicants. At the end of January they sent a rejection letter and invited me to appeal.

I went ninja. I found hospital chart records stating radiation disease. All my “ist’s” wrote supporting letters outlining ailments and possible outcomes. I rewrote my self-declaration clarifying anything vague. To get it all together I needed a one-month extension.

In April ODSP sent a bureaucratic letter, which I read three times before I realized my appeal worked. My son said, “Congratulations, you are disabled!”

Six weeks later the follow-up letter hadn’t arrived. So I called and spoke to my worker for the first time. It took four days for the financial information list to travel by mail 15 blocks in downtown Toronto. The caseworker has twenty-one days once she receives my financial docs to finalize my application.

The list asks for five years of tax assessments, income statements, one year of bank statements, credit card and line of credit statements. Utility bill, tax bill, gas and hydro, insurance notice and mortgage renewal, they need an affidavit about my son’s invisible biological father, 36 pages in all. I called to ask if could photocopy there, at pennies a page photocopying this many is expensive, let alone the envelope and stamps to mail it back.

 My worker seemed impressed I’d amassed all the data in 3 days and invited me to come in.

The disability office is several degrees degenerated below any other of the paired-down civic offices I have ever been in.

Outside the street kids are bunched up on the sidewalk. One young lady tosses a tight ponytail, has tattoos up her cheekbones and a cigarette behind her ear. Tiny wearing in a bikini top and black sweatpants rolled over her hips she was coyly teasing a huge guy all in black: mesh-back cap, t-shirt and baggie pants, Jordan’s and gold jewelry.

The ancient building has modernized stucco exterior. Inside I slowly climbed the old twisty staircase to second. A single grey security door opens to a large bare room. There are no periodicals on the magazine racks; there are no posters on the wall. There is no garbage bin or recycling blue box. All there is is painted grey. At the far end a receptionist sits behind bulletproof glass. There are 15 numbered doors around the room. Bolted to the floor are four sets of plastic seats facing each other. Sporadically mumbling loudspeakers deafen our ears.

My American friend suggested I consider going to this initial meeting with a cane. Somebody downstairs could make five bucks a shot renting wheelchairs easily rolled from the hospital a block away. I was relieved I didn’t fake it; the staff has already seen all manner of exaggerated malady.

All us patients sit looking at each other while trying to not being seen. One who doesn’t care is clearly homeless and spreads all his things across several seats defiantly. I thought of a statistic about head-injuries and homeless and consider him the most genuine.

By the time my worker gestured from inside the pen and pointed to room 11, I was exhausted. It the same kind of tiny room where you get your hospital cards or where you go to be admitted for surgery, two seats on my side, one on hers, a computer monitor between us, lots of desk space to slide forms back and forth, all in shades of grey.

The worker and I are almost the same age, same height, brown hair, glasses on top of our heads. She’s better dressed because even though I don’t want to fake it I didn’t shower and my worn cotton top has a little tear near the hem. I think she probably has a kid like I do. We quickly realize we are allies, she passes a pen and we get down to business. She outlined timing: she’ll try to finish my file this week and call me next. She spoke about having me come back for the top-up check; she doesn’t like sending it in the mail, which makes my heart soar, money? She told me the computer would back date my claim to whenever they deemed me disabled, my heart dropped. Six weeks? I don’t want to ask.

My life might change next week I’m trying not to think about how. And I don’t want jinx anything by asking questions.

 May 15, 2015 (revised May 19, 2015)   |    926 words

Put It Together

One of the things I do is rent a room in my house. So far 2015 hasn't been a stellar year.

There was a chef here who peed in bottles and kept them in his room even though we have three bathrooms. A week after I asked him to stop it and “Do you need some pajamas to get to the bathroom at night?” I found a whole wine bottle in the paper bag in the garbage. The thought of the little old Chinese ladies who have to deal with this stuff is what grosses me out.

There was midwife here who did a runner. You could say she was within her rights if she felt unsafe. Her car was parked out front and broken into one night, five days later she was gone. The only thing missing from her car was a light blue suitcase. Full of knitting supplies including partially done projects, I know this because on a community cleanup I found it. Despite being out rent I emailed and invited her to fetch it. Which she did, I realized yesterday because the bag is gone from the front hall. She did not leave a thank you note or email one or anything, its like I don't exist.

We had the vivacious platinum blond lady with mesmerizing eyes and flawless skin who within a couple of hours set off alarm bells. I tried to be patient because at her interview she passed me the phone to talk to her mother so we could set up an e-transfer. Her mom said, "Thank you for taking my daughter. She's just been diagnosed with epilepsy". I took the phone to another room and with a pounding heart hastily explained less than two years ago my niece died because of epilepsy. The mom asked me not to tell her girl.

I was blind; by the second night I thought maybe the bombshell was a sex worker. In two days she'd introduced me to five guys and sexed three. She propositioned another visitor and his girl friend. She also lied about her origin (Ottawa, New York, London, Berlin) and her accomplishments: BFA Photography, Cordon Bleu cook and her chores (guacamole fork in the clean dishes rack, stacks of bowls and pots in the basement kitchenette, blobs of lasagna and half glass splashes red wine on the carpet of her room).

When I reached for the bottles of wine I bought to take to Seder supper both were empty. She had drunk the contents, while I was here, and left them empty with labels facing original orientation and caps on. Classic bad roommate shit.

Today young man from Sweden left. Viktor is only 19 and has been alone away from home for six months. He is self sufficient, friendly, funny and gentle. He bought twenty-dollar vinyl boots for winter that he wore despite the heel gaping. He found a job in TO, made friends here and was nice to cats even though he had didn't like them much. His beautiful and funny parents brought came for supper. His dad received a Nobel Peace prize along with the rest of the Swedish army in 1987. Viktor told a memorable joke everyday, like, “In Sweden you can do conscription with the army or work at Ikea.“ seemed like a good idea to me.

Now he's going back to Sweden bilingual, with work experience but not knowing what his future in Europe might have in store.

I'm crying a little.

And I'm looking for a new tenant.