Are you kidding me?

It’s taken two and a half months to begin to get Social Security payments resolved after Jerry’s death.

This week I finally had my appointment- by phone- with a representative from Social Security. Nine weeks after my husband died.

Just a month after his death, I drove to the local office with my tote bag stuffed with the official death certificate, a folder with USPS letters from Social Security, and other documents I thought I might need when I sat across from a government worker to make my claim. I knew the crematory had reported Jerry’s death, so I figured I would sign a paper or two and be finished with the task.

Walking through the door, I glanced at the five or six others seated in the waiting room and crossed to answer questions on a machine to receive a number for my turn. No worries, I thought. Soon, I’ll have everything in place and be able to cross Social Security off my list and have my budget in place.

That’s not how it went.

Instead of meeting with one person to help me get my account in order, when my number was called, a receptionist behind plexiglass told me I’d be talking to someone else later. And I’d have some decisions to make. 

I must’ve seemed flustered because she told me that person would “crunch numbers” with me to decide how I wanted to manage my payments, but I should begin thinking about it beforehand. I scribbled notes as she scheduled an appointment for six weeks in the future.

A phone appointment.

This past Monday, I propped up my phone, adjusted the volume, pulled out my blue file folder, and logged into my Socal Security account at 8 AM, an hour ahead of the appointment. Good thing! The representative called fifteen minutes early.

I had almost as many questions as the rep had: basic questions, like how much longer would it take to finally begin to receive my proper payments? Should I expect any more of my husband’s payments to be withdrawn from my bank account? The rep had questions, too.

On what dates had I last received payments? How many years had I been married previously? On what date had my first marriage officially ended? Where? Did I have the certified marriage license and divorce decree? What is the name and birthdate of my husband’s first wife?

“Uhhh,” I stammered and stalled as I combed through the other folders in my red milk crate, trying to find documents on the fly. Why hadn’t I been told that I would need to provide a certified marriage certificate? I could’ve easily had that in hand as I waited the six weeks for the appointment.

We volleyed questions back and forth, mostly with no answers from either of us.

Was I, in fact, permitted to draw on my first husband’s account while Jerry’s account grew until I was 70, as I’d been told by the kind receptionist? (No wonder the system is practically insolvent with any former, single wives of ten years or more having equal claims to the same man’s account- including multiple former wives of the same man.) And how much would that amount to each month? How much more was that than my own benefit?

He countered by demanding the date of my divorce. I paged through documents– a child support agreement, a filing notice, a draft of terms. When I couldn’t produce the final decree with its date proving we’d been married ten years, he wouldn’t divulge the amount.

Really? Even when the child support document was dated after the ten-year span, demonstrating by its very existence that we’d been married long enough?

I pressed him: “Let’s say I did take a day to drive to the second largest city in the state to obtain the official certified documents. How much longer would that delay my monthly check? Would I have to make an appointment to talk to a rep again? Could I do that now or would I have to wait until the documents were in hand? Would it be another six weeks before I could declare my preference?”

He couldn’t say. But I couldn’t claim both. I could either claim my own benefits now and let one of them grow, or just claim one of the guys’ benefits now.

And because I couldn’t provide proof, he told me he would just process the “death benefit:” a one-time payment of $255 from Social Security. What does that amount even cover, I wondered.

“But wait!” I demanded. “Why was I told about drawing first on one and later on the other by the clerk at the window?”

He couldn’t say.  

Of course he couldn’t.

And as he went into a lengthy explanation, I had a flash. I’d taken notes from my scheduling meeting. The receptionist had given me the monthly benefit amounts of both husbands that day, and despite my widow’s brain fog, I‘d written them down. I found the figures. The difference was minimal.

Nearing the end of my patience, I gave the telephone rep my decision- one that involved no travel outside the county. It did require that I go to the local county clerk’s office to obtain a certified, embossed copy of Jerry’s and my marriage license. Seems I only had a photocopy in my files, which I was evidently useless.

I pushed again. “If I go straight to the clerk’s office now to get the certified marriage license and then bring it to your office, can you say when I will receive benefits? Will this take another six weeks?”

“Well,” he hedged, “I imagine I would be able to process it soon. If you delivered it today.” 

“Soon, as in today? This week?”

“In the next couple of days. I would think,” he vacillated.

I was beaten. He wasn’t going to commit to anything, and he clearly held all the cards. To end on a positive note, I started with a lie. “I appreciate your help, Sam, and I’ll deliver that official copy today.”

I hung up and grabbed my death tote, stuffed more documents inside and unclipped my keys from their carabiner. I was headed to the courthouse.

That was a mistake.

Luckily, I found a parking space, the only one left. I locked the car, climbed the steps and went through the heavy glass doors.  The space looked emptier than when I’d been there to vote. Was that in the clerk’s office?

I put my tote on the security conveyor and ducked between the security stanchions. I sighed at the loud beeping noise and the red flashing light. Oh, geez, would they have to frisk me?

Two white-haired men with badges shook their heads at me. “Knees?” they asked sympathetically.

I nodded, not knowing whether to be offended or grateful.

They motioned me on through, and I retrieved my tote. That’d been easier than I thought.

I looked at the directory hanging on the wall.

“Whatcha need?” one of the men asked.

“Clerk’s office.”

“What for?” the other one asked. Rather nibby, I thought.

“Marriage license copy. Is the clerk’s office right?”

“It’s right, but they’ve moved.”

What? I know I made a face.

“It’s at the Justice Center now,” the first man said, as the second rattled off the address.

Sheesh. Where?  “Oh, the old Wilson school?”

“That’s right!”

As headed back to the door, one of them called after me: “They’re closed from noon to one for lunch.”

“Straight ahead once you get through security,” added the other.

Well, at least some people were helpful.

My already overloaded brain considered the time. I’d have to drive way out south and then come back downtown. It was well before noon, but did the Social Security office close for lunch, too? Siri was no help, mindlessly repeating the hours the office was open even when I reworded my query.

Maybe they didn’t close for lunch.

At the justice center’s security point, I pointed to my legs and just said, “Knees” when the alarm rang and the two uniformed men looked at me in surprise.  They waved me on. After a five-minute wait, I watched the clerk stamp, sign, and emboss the document and paid my $4. Finally, I was on my way back uptown, the precious certificate in my hands.

Back at the Social Security office, eager to submit it, I waited ten minutes or so, grateful to see no signs of an impending lunch shutdown. When X304 was called, I took my tote to Window 1 and sat.

I slid my driver’s license under the plexiglass. “My husband recently died, and I just had my benefit appointment with Sam this morning. By telephone. He needed an official copy of our marriage certificate.” I held up the copy proudly. “I just got it.”

“What’s your husband’s Social?” she asked.

My face fell. Even though the tote was stuffed with documents, I didn’t have my little teal crib sheet, the one taped to a coffee cup filled with pens and highlighters that sits on my desk.

You’d think I’d have that memorized by now, as many times as I’ve had to rattle it off, along with his phone number, date of birth, date of death, and all the other statistics of his life. But my brain doesn’t work that way even on good days, and this certainly wasn’t one of them.

I could feel my eyes starting to well up.  Maybe the clerk saw me open them wider and begin to glisten as I shook my head no.

“Oh, well, if you just talked to Sam this morning, I can probably find it,” she allowed. “Gimme a minute.”

The clerk typed and peered at her dual screens and then announced, “Here it is. I’ll be back.” She took my document, stood up, and disappeared behind her cubicle as I wiped my eyes.

How do other people do this, I wondered. As if losing your spouse isn’t hard enough! How long it will be before this is all filed and resolved? How long will it be before I have a steady income again? Luckily, I had some savings to fall back on if I had to. But not everyone does! Sometimes the money is tied up in investments.

And sometimes, there just isn’t any.

When she returned, the clerk jotted some notes on the paper, then looked up. “Okay, honey. l’ll get this filed.”

“Uhhh, is there a receipt or anything I get that shows that this has been filed? Do you know when this might be completed?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she scowled. Did she think I was accusing her of incompetence? “No,” she said, dragging out the vowel. “It’ll be filed.”

There are times in life when you just have to believe. This was one of them.

“Okay,” I said, all the fight drained from me. “‘I’ll just watch my bank account.” 

As I walked out the door,  I made a mental note to swing past my bank and make a transfer.

Who knows how long this will go on.

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