JUST WRITE!
X doesn't mark the spot
By Tracey Coveart/The Scugog Standard

Until recently, I have always considered it a blessing that my daughter Stephanie is still in possession of her antiquated red and white health card. At 18, however, and with no prospect of ever receiving her drivers licence, Stephie is without photo identification. And she looks about 12.

One of the implications of this was brought home on opening day at the new Shoppers in town. We were among the first customers and for good luck, I asked Stephie to pick out a lottery ticket at the checkout. The cashier requested some photo identification as proof of age. Stephie began to cry. I told Stephie not to worry, I’d just buy the ticket. But because the cashier had “overheard our conversation,” she wouldn’t sell me the ticket either. I’m not sure about the finer points of this preposterous bit of legislation, but we left the store with Stephie in hysterics and me certain the next guy in line was going to buy my fortune for a lousy three bucks.

In the parking lot, I resolved to make the trip in to Oshawa the very next week and get Stephie a photo health card. It seemed like a reasonable goal, but when you have a child with special needs you learn to anticipate the inevitable wrinkle in every well-ironed plan.

At home, I logged on to the ServiceOntario web site and downloaded the Health Card Renewal form. To make doubly sure I had all my bases covered, I called the 1-800 number to verify the documents I would need: birth certificate, a letter proving Stephie’s address and something with her signature. I explained that Stephie is developmentally disabled and has no signature and was assured the other documentation would be sufficient. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, but we nevertheless stopped in at the Oshawa Centre on our way to Stephie’s neurology appointment in North York last Friday, timing everything to the minute and allowing an extra hour for government inefficiency.

After waiting just a few minutes, we were called to a counter. It was at once a miracle and an dark omen.

The woman sitting opposite us was formidable looking, but I smiled brightly into her cranky civil servant face and launched into my explanation about Stephie having no photo identification. The customer (dis)service representative rudely cut me off. “I don’t need to see photo identification.” She was missing the point entirely, but I decided to let it go for the sake of expediency.

I presented the woman with Stephie’s red and white health card, her birth certificate and a letter from the bank clearly printed with her name and address.

“This isn’t good enough. Do you have her latest ODSP cheque?” Yes, I carry her disability pension cheques around in my wallet for weeks, uncashed, because we don’t need the money. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I said pleasantly. “But I do have this letter addressed to Stephanie from the Government of Canada.” Apparently our government is as untrustworthy as our financial institutions.

By this point, Stephie was flapping like a goose and my own agitation was apparent. The witch relented and accepted the documents ‘conditionally.’ Then she dropped the bomb. “I need to see something with her signature.” She doesn’t have a signature. “Library card?” Yes, she has a library card, but I signed it for her. She doesn’t have a SIGNATURE. “Bank card?” Uh-huh. She has a bank card, but she can’t sign it. She DOESN’T HAVE A SIGNATURE. “She’ll have to apply for a new card.” AND DO WHAT WITH IT? SHE DOESN’T HAVE A SIGNATURE! “Get her to mark the card with an ‘x’.” WHY DON’T I JUST GIVE HER CARD TO THE CRACK ADDICT OUTSIDE AND GET HIM TO MARK IT WITH A F-----G X?!

I suddenly understood why decent, hard-working people go postal in government offices. I simply peppered the room with a round of high-volume expletives, snatched back my documents, grabbed Stephie by the arm and stormed into the waiting elevator where I continued to swear and throw things around. I felt a little sorry for the other customers waiting for their turn, but they would soon be sympathetic.

In the aftermath, I’m teaching the cats to mark their litterbox with an ‘x.’ When they get the hang of it I’ll let them loose on Stephie’s bank card and try again.