In America, The Disabled Are Judged By The Dysfunctional

I have a piece of advice for all of you healthy folks out there: never, ever become disabled.

I mean that sincerely, disability really cramps the lifestyle, in more ways than you'd probably care to imagine. Avoid it like the plague.

What's that? People who become disabled have no choice in the matter? You caught me, they obviously don't. But if your life happens to get run over by the freight train of some crippling disorder and you have to apply for disability benefits from the government, be prepared to be treated as if you'd not only asked for it, but somehow earned a darn good thrashing along the way, just to teach you a lesson.

I'd been an active guy for most of my life, and almost twenty years of it were spent as a professional courier pilot. I worked for one of the smaller companies in the charter business, which involved operating old and obsolete planes (often indifferently maintained) at night through thunderstorms, blizzards and the occasional hurricane while carrying high priority cargo. I was also responsible for loading and unloading up to fifteen hundred pounds of that cargo myself each night. It was a wild and wooly occupation that was a lot like being a Pony Express rider, only with Jet-A fueled turbines instead of horses for power...and the best part, with wings.

I enjoyed the work. The planes were sexy, fast and generally a lot of fun to fly, plus all that exercise kept me in good shape. You didn't get the pay and perks you'd expect if you were an airline or corporate pilot, but you had the satisfaction of knowing that you were able to do a skilled job under conditions that we liked to joke would probably make many of those tasseled loafer-wearing types wet themselves and scamper for safety if they encountered them. Life was fine, I was healthy as an ox, and the future looked bright.

In 2005 I developed multiple sclerosis. It started in the spring of that year with a mild limp disrupting my gait, and by the winter of that year had turned into a shuffling, leg-swinging lurch that made Karloff's 'Mummy' look graceful by comparison. At the time, I figured it had to be a slipped disc or a pinched nerve somewhere, neurological diseases were something that happened to other people, not me. I saw chiropractors, GPs, and orthopedic doctors, but none had a clue what was ailing me. February of 2006 rolled around, and with it came my annual flight physical exam to renew my aviation medical certificate that no pilot can fly without. When I lurch-shuffled-swung into my flight surgeon's office and saw the look on his face when he espied me, I knew my goose was cooked.

In a week my old life had vanished. I sat at home, grounded, collecting vacation pay that was fast dwindling (my company had no truck with sick days). A quick visit to my local neurologist had confirmed that it would be at least three weeks before she could get me in for MRI pictures just to begin diagnosing my problem. I was in a panic, not yet knowing that time flows differently in the medical world than elsewhere. A few phone calls led to a few more, and not many days later I found myself in Shreveport, Louisiana. This new neurologist seemed much more flexible with his time, popped me into an MRI machine and had me diagnosed in a trice. "A child could see you have multiple sclerosis," he said, "just be glad it isn't one of the other diseases that are much worse." A week later I was on my way home, armed with a pile of colorful glossy brochures showing attractive, happy looking people getting on with their lives, hiking, bicycling and dining out at nice restaurants, all while (presumably) dealing with MS.

I was not to be one of those happy people in the brochures, as it turned out. Delays led to complications, which led to more delays, and I never did return to flying. By Christmas of 2006, my walking had reached the point at which it barely qualified as such, my left arm and hand were weakening toward near-uselessness, and I was discovering just how devastating constant neuropathic pain throughout one's body and MS-induced fatigue could be...in short, a physical wreck. Before the New Year I'd thrown in the towel and filed the official application for Title II permanent disability status with the Social Security Administration.

Now the real fun began. The disability lawyer I'd been referred to advised me to file the necessary paperwork on my own, then let him know in a few months when my local Social Security office had denied my claim for the first time. It was pointless, he said, to involve him until then. Whoa...it would take months? And I was certain to be denied? He explained that after working in disability law for years he knew that was just how they played the game. A game where every player automatically loses the first round. I was eating into my 401(k) savings at a good clip by then...of course all funds paid from that were subject to a “penalty” of 20 percent for the crime of “early withdrawal.”

I was dumb enough to call my local disability office soon afterward to check up on my case's progress. Just reaching the worker who had my file was an ordeal; he always seemed to be out of the office, on a break, or “helping” another “customer.”  When I finally got him on the phone, it was exactly like dealing with a clerk at the DMV: he sounded bored, surly and in no hurry to give me any useful information. After a few rounds of being put on hold where I was treated to the sound of soul crushing government Muzak, he eventually made the supreme effort of looking over my file...which only worsened his mood. "You just filed this claim recently," he whined. "We're very busy at this office, we'll let you know when a decision's been made."

Soon after this exchange a letter arrived from that office, not the favorable decision I'd hoped for, but an instruction to see a government appointed psychiatrist to “assess” my condition. On the appointed day, I met with a pudgy fellow in a shabby office nearby my home. I stumped in using the rubber tipped cane I was using by then as a mobility aid, and after a few preliminary questions from him, was handed a sheaf of papers. "Just fill these out," he ordered, using a phrase I'd already come to dread. I explained that my dominant left hand was now almost useless and asked if there was any way to do this with a computer and keyboard. No, I was told, but if I couldn't finish the questionnaires, no worries, any missed questions wouldn't be harmful to my case. Right. And I'm a ring-tailed lemur, I thought.

My lawyer knew his stuff, I'll admit. Just over a month later the letter arrived from the SS office with the predicted claim denial. They politely informed me that they had thoroughly reviewed my physical data and determined there was nothing wrong with me. They also included some helpful information for “vocational rehabilitation,” which I understand is a fancy way of saying "get back to work, you bum." I phoned the lawyer up and told him that he could get on the job. I'd been disabled by the same disease I was diagnosed with...how could it take very long?

Weeks passed, then months. I graduated from a cane to a four wheeled walker after falling once too many times, the insomnia plaguing me was worse than ever, and I hurt all over. I signed up for “indigent care” at a local hospital, which was good because the neurologist assigned to me was a decent man who reconfirmed my diagnosis of MS for the record after seeing me and looking over my MRI films. It was simultaneously bad because he could only prescribe glorified OTC drugs for the pain...most of those served by “indigent care” were alcoholics and/or drug abusers, you see.

By late 2007 things were grimmer. My retirement funds were almost depleted. I had to ask a security guard at the hospital for a lift to and from the parking lot...no way was I going to make the couple of hundred yards from my car to the main building with my walker with my low energy. As for the car itself, it was getting dangerous to drive; my left leg had plenty of muscle to move the clutch pedal, but I couldn't keep my foot located on it. It was a fairly low slung car, too, and I found myself collapsing into it and fighting to get out every time I drove it. I'd started rounding up every slightly valuable item in my home I could get my hands on for sale on eBay, things I'd acquired over the years just because I liked them...now somebody else would.

I got excited for about thirty seconds that autumn when another letter came from “Those People,” as I'd begun calling them. It turned out to be another decree from On High that I see another shrink. He turned out to be more respectable than the first, and administered some tests designed to test my cognitive function. They certainly did just that, and by the end of the session I felt humiliated by the mess I'd made of the memory and sequence tests. At least there was only a single page form for me to “just fill out,” which took me the better part of a half hour using my dumb right hand, chicken scratching the requested data in. Surely, I thought, this should convince them.

Christmas came and went, then New Year's Day of 2008. A few weeks later, another letter arrived from Social Security. Hallelujah, it had to be...

Another denial. There was apparently nothing wrong with me, according to the government.

I phoned my attorney in a dismal state of mind and asked him if there was a single thing I could do. He assured me that the notice was a computer generated form. We had them on the ropes, he said. The last thing they wanted was for me to appear before an administrative judge. All was well if I could just tough it out a little longer.

Three months later I returned from a trip to the store to find a realtor's van in my driveway. No big deal, it was just the pre-foreclosure team checking my house over for sale after I was evicted. I was three months behind on the mortgage and they just wanted to be ready. I don't remember how the rest of that day went, just that it was very dark.

My lawyer had been right. Not long after that encounter, my full approval for disability income arrived, also notifying me that I'd be receiving a substantial retroactive check dated to the day I first applied. No fanfare, just that simple letter. I was saved, though it took a few phone calls from a local reporter to my mortgage company to call off the foreclosure.

Today, I'm surviving. The MS has put me in a power wheelchair, but I get around. There are a few problems left to solve, but I doubt they'll be too big an ordeal...not after waiting for over two years to have an income again. I was one of the lucky ones, I had some assets to fall back on and things to sell. What happens, I wonder, to those who don't when they become disabled and have to play the waiting game? Homelessness? Prison? Insanity? Suicide? I don't know.

I suspect both arms of the welfare/warfare state subscribe to the policy that General Tommy Franks explained to the press in 2002 when asked about the number of Afghani deaths resulting from the US invasion: "We don't do body counts."