Tentatively Tasmanian

Moving back home to Australia after twelve years away (gee I’ve been writing that a lot lately) means that we have completely fallen out of the system.

Drivers’ licenses need to be reverted from French back to Aussie ones; the bank needs assurance that we are who we insist we are, and Medicare has no recollection of us at all.

Hence, a lot of hours spent listening to ‘hold’ music. It’s all so tinny and ear splitting, whether it be pan pipes or guitar strings. Rarely anyone singing, which is a small mercy. When the excremental instrumental tune ends, you know that you’ve been on hold for more than twenty minutes. It is then, and only then, a tiny flicker of excitement emerges from the deepest depths of your soul: oh boy oh boy, what new song will they inflict on me next?

Phuck it, more pan pipes…..

To apply for any form of job whatsoever from packing supermarket shelves to working on an environmental impact statement requires a police check and a Working With Children and/or Vulnerable People approval.

Being officially non-existent, these have been rather difficult to attain.

They insist on me supplying a copy of my passport, which is fine; a birth certificate, yessirree; drivers’ licence, no problem; but then also a Medicare Card and this is the bureaucratic barrel that bowls me over every time.

Way back in April, I was sitting at the kitchen table in France, oh so optimistically believing I was being incredibly organised and applied for Craig* and I to have a Medicare Card.

All seemed tickety-boo and when we finally got here, it was mid-June, and I rang the Medicare number to find out just when the heavenly green card might arrive.

“Oh sorry love,” Maureen replied after several pan pipe classics had been endured. “Your application has been rejected.”

“I never heard anything,” I said, before she interrupted with, “Oh no, love, we don’t send out emails or SMSes or anything like that. You just contact us when you’re wondering what’s going on and then we can tell you.”

That’s helpful. She went on to explain that my application had been rejected because, apart from the birth certificates, drivers’ licences, proof of address, bank statements and marriage certificate, I had mistakenly attached mere JPGs of our passports when they needed to be in PDF.

“Give it a week and then call us back. We’ll be able to look up your application and tell you if you’ve submitted it correctly. Good luck!”

Er, thanks. Being wished ‘good luck’ from a large government agency was not the reassurance that she assumed it was. Hanging up with thanks as there’s no need to vent my frustration on the lovely Maureen, I re-applied.

A week later, I listened to several now-familiar pan pipe classics and asked how my application was going along.

“Oh, it’s in the queue.”

Deep breath. “Okay, but is it correct, at least?”

“Yes, it appears that way. You’re in the queue though, so it hasn’t been processed yet. When it is allocated to someone, it will be processed and then you can expect your Medicare card in six to eight weeks.”

Another deep breath. “Okay, but when does my application get out of the queue for that six-to-eight-week process to start?”

Tina was silent for a few moments. “That’s a good question. Give it a week and call us back so that we can let you know if you’re out of the queue.”

A week went by, and Medicare were due for another call.

“Yeah, nah, you’re still in the queue. Call us back next week.” Neera wasn’t playing games.

By week four, I was fed up. Not enough to harangue the poor sod who had to speak to me after my ears started bleeding from the tinny pan pipe poop pumped into my ears, but enough to INSIST that I at least be removed from the queue and given to a human being to process.

This time, I was prepared. I had evidence and a sense of urgency. “We’ve taken out private health insurance and they said that our premiums will be $50 per month more expensive if we don’t include our Medicare card.”

“So you’ll be experiencing unnecessary expenses?” Doug replied.

“Well, yes.”

Bless his cotton socks (or thick explorer ones if he was working in Hobart), he put me on the line and processed our applications while I waited. This time I didn’t mind the pan pipes and even found myself humming along.

An hour later and a migraine was starting to make its presence felt, but I hung on for dear life, swallowing a painkiller dry. Ack!

“All done. Here are your numbers…..”

And so today. I confidently sashay into Services Tasmania to complete my Working with Children/Vulnerable Adults as a Volunteer certification.

“Have you got your Medicare card with you?”

“I have the number, but the card is going to be posted out for another six to eight weeks.”

Denise shook her head. “Sorry, but we need to see the actual card. Your passport, birth certificate, drivers’ licence and bank statements are not enough. Come back when you have your card.”

There were no pan pipes being blasted into their silent office, but you could hear the disappointment as I quietly said, ‘thank you’ and walked away, parka swishing against my shoulder bag in a heartbreaking rhythm.

I’ll be back……