Ageing in Place

Ageing in Place

The building has seen some name changes. It used to be the Ministry of Social Welfare – too obvious. Then it was Work and Income New Zealand – too cynical, like Orwell's Ministry of Truth. Now it had been again transformed into the Ministry of Social Development. I made my way in to be socially developed.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the security guard outside.      

"No," I said, "I'm just dropping off some documents to get my national super."

I had done most of the work on-line and had been told that was all I needed to do. The man let me in. There was another security guard inside.

"Do you have an appointment?" he also asked.                

I told him about the documents.

"Do you need to see someone for that?" he asked.

"No," I thought of saying, "I'll just drop them on the floor".

Then I looked at the size of him.

"Yes, I think so," I said.

"Go around to the right and sit on one of the purple chairs," he directed.

I had become categorised as a "purple" client, i.e. one without an appointment. There were four people at desks sitting staring at computer screens, looking like they would benefit from some real human interaction, but they didn't come over.

I spotted a poster on the wall—"Elder Abuse - It's Not OK." Another sign said, "Gang patches and insignia prohibited." The theme song from the movie Moana was playing. "Nice,"' I thought. "How culturally inclusive." Then, shattering my illusion, there was an ad for a local massage business. "Just the thing you need after a hard day on the ski field. We can come to your hotel if you want." Then a different song. It was the local radio station.

In an inversion of the normal social structure, people who looked like unemployed drug addicts were taken to the desks and greeted cheerfully by named caseworkers. I sat waiting uncomfortably on my purple chair, tidily dressed, and probably looking like I didn't need the money.

Appearances can be deceptive. At the age of 30, I worked for nothing for two years, then married a woman with no money. I was never going to be materially rich. I admit to having three children who would probably list their hobbies as winter sports and international travel, and all three have been long-term tertiary students, racking up huge student loans. I have also sunk a lot of my income into our farm. Like most real farmers I know, I could be described as "asset rich and cash poor." I did need the money.

Growing old in medicine can become something of a guilt trip. As a teacher of medical students and registrars, I sometimes feel that it may be time to step aside and let someone else have a go. I am in awe of the younger doctors' more modern and more extensive training, and their knowledge especially of the more technical aspects of medicine. All I can offer at times is a more in-depth understanding of the social and experiential aspects of people's lives, especially the lives of older people, and a greater personal experience of what can work and what can go wrong. Sometimes it feels like that's not enough.

As I approached my 65th birthday, and with the promise of National Superannuation in store, I thought of cutting back on my clinical hours, and giving myself more time for other interests, like writing for example. Then I did the arithmetic. The amount paid annually I discovered, for a married person whose spouse is not eligible for a pension, is currently what I earn in three or four weeks, and some weeks we spend a large part of it. Not enough.

But every little bit helps. And I wouldn't say "no" to the money. As a highly paid socialist, in a modern industrial society, I am a great believer in a universal benefit. Publicly fund healthcare, education, police, subsidised transport, social services, and the rest. Give each person enough to live on, regardless of age, gender, income, marital status, or anything else. Then encourage those of us who are able and willing to do so to remain productive and pay increased taxes. Put more of a tax on consumption if you need to. So, there, that's it, my ideas for managing money to make the world go around. I admit I am an idealist. I am not a politician or an economist; and am never likely to be employed as either.

Eventually a woman came over to me, where I sat on my purple chair. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

I told her about the documents, also that I had already filled out an application on-line and had been instructed to bring in my passport, driver's licence, bank statement and deposit slip. "You don't need an appointment," the computer had told me. The woman rolled her eyes, expressing her disdain that a computer in the national office could be considered more accurate than a hard-working person in the local branch. She didn't tell me her name. I looked back over at the security guards and decided not to offend her by asking. Let's call her Ms X. 

"Do you have a partner?" Ms X asked. "We need to see her ID as well," assuming (correctly as it happens) that my partner is female.

Ms X went away with my documents and spent an interminable time working at a computer. Except, on her computer, I had reason to believe that she was doing something about my application, and not just hiding behind the desk. At last, she came back.

"I'm sorry," she said, surprising me with her frankness, and making further protest difficult, "I can't do it today. We need your wife's passport and driver’s licence and signature and your marriage certificate," she said, having discovered on the computer that I was married. "You will need to come back."

"Will I need an appointment?" I asked her.

"No."

"Will my wife need to come with me?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She paused. "There is another potential problem," Ms X revealed. "The international division may need to get involved."  

I had seen on my computer at home, among other things, that I would need to inform Social Development if I was ever out of the country. In future, I think. Ms X said it in a manner that suggested I would be chased by Interpol all over the world if I didn't produce the right forms. She responded to my quizzical look.

"We need to make sure that you're not entitled to a UK pension after working there for two or three years 40 years ago," she explained.

"Wish me good luck with that!" I thought. "I'm having enough problems getting a pension in my own country."

Ms X wasn't stupid enough to suggest that Vanuatu might pay me some sort of pension after my two years working there as a volunteer 35 years ago.

It is also a requirement to inform the Ministry of Social Development, once you receive a pension, if you are ever imprisoned. I struggled to imagine how that might go.

"You have a right to make one phone call," someone in the prison might tell me. It would be a difficult choice – a lawyer, my wife, my mother, or Ms X in the Ministry of Something.

Later in the week, I had to steal some time off work to make my way back with the remaining documents. There was a different security guard. "Do you have an appointment?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I'm just dropping off some documents to get my national super." He let me in. I was becoming familiar with the routine. I took my place, as directed, on one of the purple chairs. Ms X was skulking around out the back.

A man came over surprisingly quickly and was surprisingly friendly. He can't have been properly trained.

"When do you turn 65?" he asked. "Yesterday," I answered. I asked him some questions about overseas travel and imprisonment. He didn't know the answers. "I don't usually work in national super," he said. He gave me a book about my entitlements to take away. He asked me if I wanted to apply for a community service card.

"No," I said. "I want to continue working".

"Not me," said the man. "I will be out of here as soon as I get my pension." I looked around the office. I could understand his intentions.

Back at work, I sat reading the book. One of the registrars took a photo of me. Everyone thought it was a huge joke. Other people had their own stories. One person I spoke to had visited family in prison and said the people there had been more friendly and welcoming. One of my nursing colleagues, who trained and worked in Denmark, had her application held up because she didn't supply details of her "Irish Bank Account". She has never been to Ireland.

My older brother, when I told him about my experience, said that the process for him had been much easier. He had not tried to apply on- line. "I rang up and made an appointment," he said.