Jimmie Has Been Living On $858 A Month Since 1984
It’s not that he can’t read. It’s just that he doesn’t. He’s not much for small talk and gave up on reading before getting started. If I had to guess, I’d bet his education ended before he reached puberty.
Jimmie was referred to me by his neighbor, one of my other clients.
I earn a living as an Insurance agent. My niche is Medicare, and my approach is simple. I make healthcare for seniors and people with disabilities easy to understand. As a broker, I focus on the wants and needs of my clients, not an insurance company, and everyone’s needs are different.
Medicare is a fantastic option for a lot of people. Helping folks find the most affordable options with significant benefits is rewarding. If I do my job right and we’re both lucky, I’ll be around to answer their healthcare questions for life.
I’ll never forget the first time I knocked on his door that hazy August day. After a handful of alerting knocks, Jimmy answered the door looking out reluctantly as I stood there sweating through my shirt. He opened the door all the way, and the cool air from his living room spilled into the heat of the day.
Jimmy has a polished look at five foot five with silver hair and Sinatra’s eyes. He appears to be immune to wrinkles and wears a crisp button-down that’s tucked with military precision into his faded blue denim. He ties it all together with a black belt and shoes to match.
Smiling, I think, he invites me in. I smell kerosene. He probably spilled some on the carpet filling the heater he uses to warm his single wide in the winter.
His place is clean as a whistle inside and out. As I assess the situation, he offers me a seat at the kitchen table. We both sit down. Neatly arranged on the table were coupons, paper, clips, and several pill bottles. I immediately noticed the labels had been removed from the bottles and the contents were silver. Quarters and dimes. This man counts his change.
“I don’t think you can help me.” He said, straight-faced. “Maybe not,” I shot back, “but I’ll try.” “That’s what Tara said. So I called you.”
There was a pause while we looked each other over. Leading the conversation, I start off with the basics. “You’re on Medicare, I believe. Do you have your red, white, and blue card?” “Um. Yeah.” He replied, fishing it from a wallet stuffed with everything besides money. “Here ya go.”
I take the laminated card from his shaky hand and look it over. I noticed right away he’s been on Medicare since the early 70s, the same year I was born. At 76, Jimmy would’ve been 27 when he qualified for Medicare. This means he has a permanent disability. Nothing stands out.
“So you’ve been on Medicare for a while now. Can you tell me why you started getting it at such a young age?” “Um. I can’t recall.” He said automatically. “Okay, no biggie. Please tell me what you have to go along with your Medicare. Do you have a supplement you pay premiums for or a Medicare Advantage plan where you make payments each time you go to certain doctors?”
Jimmie was confused by my question, and after a long pause, he said, “Uh, just that.” “Hmm, okay,” I say. “Do you have Medicaid as well as Medicare?” “Nope,” he answered flatly, “I used to until the governor came and took it from me.” “How long ago was this? When the governor took your Medicaid away?” I asked.
What he said next broke my heart.
“I don’t get much of nothing. I’ve lived on $858 a month, or less, since they took my Medicaid away in the early 80s. Close to 40 years, I guess. I’m telling you, don’t nobody wanna help nobody these days.” I let his words sink in.
Explaining things to Jimmie was going to take a lot of work. For some reason, this man slipped through the cracks when Ronald Reagan was still president. He has trust issues. I get it, but I know I don’t.
“Well, Jimmie, I gotta tell you, this isn’t gonna be straightforward, easy, but I’m gonna help you the best I can. The first thing we need to do is get your Medicaid back in place.” As it turns out, Jimmie never filled out his annual Medicaid letter because he couldn’t read it and was subsequently dropped from the program.
As far as Jimmie was concerned, he was just dropped by the government. This man slipped through the cracks, losing his medical coverage in 1984 because he couldn’t read well enough to fill out a form. His social worker or case manager never followed up. I’m beside myself over this.
After some digging, I discovered Jimmy had been paying his monthly Medicare part B premiums directly from his Social Security benefit check. This was more than $150 or close to 25% of his monthly income that he paid without getting any benefits; for nearly 40 years! When I explained this to Jimmy, he was perplexed. He didn’t understand.
We spent another couple of hours on the phone with the Department of Medicaid Assistance Services or DMAS, applying for his Medicaid. It became clear to me that getting the Medicaid piece was vital because it would waive a permanent part D drug penalty. His drug penalty had been growing steadily since a wall divided Germany.
Jimmy grew frustrated with the long, complicated process, and I had to offer him constant reassurance. As we were completing the call, it was agreed that I could also receive his documentation to ensure he got everything set up correctly. And at that, we closed the call. His application had been submitted to the state; now, all we have to do is wait.
I told Jimmy it could take a month or two to find out if everything was approved, but I’d let him know as soon as I got word. I assured him I felt confident he would regain his Medicaid. That’s when he asked me about the benefits he would receive if everything worked out. He also asked me how I was getting paid for all of this.
I explained a few things in a vague enough way to satisfy him in case this didn’t work out. Then I told him I wasn’t getting paid until his Medicare was set up. I reminded him of his escalating party penalty nearly 4 decades in the making. If he didn’t get his drug penalty waived, he could have Medicaid and Medicare but not an additional insurance policy.
There was a moment of silence, and he shot laser beams from those bright blue eyes, swallowed hard, and said, “Bullshit! Nobody works for free! Don’t sit there and lie to me! You ain’t doing this for nothing.” I was more shocked than I should’ve been at his accusation.
Without hesitation, maybe as a reaction, I said, “You’re dead wrong. I’m just trying to help you. I think what’s happened to you is awful and makes me mad. But the facts are this, and I don’t give a damn if you believe me. I’m working for free, trying to help make your life easier.” He wasn’t buying it. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Nobody works for free. You’re getting something for all this.”
I wasn’t about to argue with him. If that two-hour call was a lot for me, it was more taxing for him. We talked a little longer and agreed to meet again when he received his Medicaid approval letter. “Or denial.” He reminded me as I stepped back out into the haze. I drove home in silence.
Almost 2 months later, I received a copy of Jimmy’s Medicaid approval. He called me that evening before I could call him to tell him the good news. When I answered the phone, he said, “Uh, Joe, it’s Jimmie. Those good for nothin’s over there turned me down. I got the letter.” I told him I received an exact copy of his letter, which was an approval letter.
“Jimmie, that’s an approval letter. You got approved for Medicaid. This is going to work out for both of us. I’ll come by and see you tomorrow, and I will explain everything. This is great news!” There was a long pause, and I may have been getting through to him. “Okay, Joe. That sounds good. I’ll, uh, see you then.”
Sometime before lunch the next day, I parked in front of his trailer and made my way to the door. I gave the screen two hard knocks, and Jimmie opened up almost immediately. He welcomed me into the smell of kerosene and offered me a seat table.
Jimmy was wearing what I’ve come to expect is his uniform. A button-down shirt, pressed crisp, tucked into his jeans, with a black belt and shoes. I get the feeling he dresses like this every day, not only when he’s expecting company.
Sitting at his table that day, I got to tell Jimmie that Social Services would no longer be deducting money from his check to cover his part b premiums. “This means you’re getting a pay raise of nearly $200 every month. I expect that’ll go a long way for you.” When I said this, Jimmy smiled sincerely, looked down, and said, “Uh, Joe, I don’t know how I can thank you.”
“Well, that’s not all you’re gonna be getting my friend, and you don’t have to thank me because now I’m going to start getting paid for the help I’m getting you.” I shot him a grin, and he received it with a chuckle.
“You’re gonna get a health insurance plan you don’t have to pay for, and it comes with all sorts of benefits like the commercials you see on TV. This policy is gonna get your bridge fixed so you can eat comfortably. You’ll be able to get new glasses so you can see better, and if you need hearing aids down the road, they’re covered too.”
“Jimmie, once this plan is effective, you’ll receive help on groceries, utilities, over-the-counter stuff like Tylenol or cough drops, and the list goes on. This will be in place for you on the first of next month. I’ll come back to help you set up everything, show you how to order stuff, and access all the benefits I’m telling you about. How does that sound?”
He was speechless. I’m not sure he didn’t wipe a tear from the corner of his eye that day. Jimmie and I met in August a couple of years ago, and I’ve been checking in on him every few months since then. Shortly after his Medicare Advantage plan was working for him, he began to see the additional money in his bank account from his Social Security.
Recently, I received a handwritten letter from Jimmie. The shaky print on the outside of the envelope let me know he’d written it himself. The cursive inside was his as well. I’m sure it took him some time to get those three sentences right, and I’ll bet Tara checked his spelling.
Jimmie thanked me for helping him when nobody else seemed to care. Over the years, I’ve received many thank you notes and cards, but this one’s extra special. I’ll have the letter to remind me of Jimmie long after the checks stop coming in. Proof positive money isn’t everything, but it sure helps, especially if you’re living on less than $1000 a month.
