Unpicking the infrastructure of life
No-one talks much about all the little stuff that happens after someone dies.
The big things like loss, grief and shock usually get a good airing but it’s the other things – unpicking the infrastructure of a life – that aren’t well canvassed. Things like legal obligations, and informing various government departments, local bodies, insurance companies, banks, service suppliers and so on.
It’s more than four months since my husband Bill died, our lawyer’s done some sterling work and I’m still chipping away at the rest of it, sending emails and hanging on 0800 numbers. I keep putting this off because most of it is around removing Bill’s name from our lifetime of shared records and that doesn’t actually feel too flash.
Which is why some understanding from frontline staff in these circumstances seems a good idea. And is the reason for writing this column, on the back of a meltdown with our bank last week.
My benchmark experience on sensitivity is an impressive woman at KiwiSaver, who I dealt with before Bill died. I had some business to sort out on his behalf and the woman I spoke to listened to my explanation of his illness, and said immediately: That must be very difficult. We’ll try to make things as easy as possible for you.
I appreciated her approach. And she walked the talk. It was one of the smoothest transactions I’ve encountered.
I also had a good experience with Work and Income (spoke to a very thoughtful man) over Bill’s superannuation, and one insurance company has been right on the mark. Another insurance company behaved as though I may be trying to defraud them, and our bank could certainly use some tips from the KiwiSaver woman.
The bank thing started last week when I took Bill’s death certificate in, to finally change our joint accounts to my name. The banker said he was sorry for my loss and he tapped into his laptop. He said the accounts would be frozen while things were being dealt with. He wasn’t sure how long they would be frozen for.
It was alarming and unexpected because one of the reasons we’ve had joint accounts was to avoid this happening. I said as much to the man. He tapped a bit more on his laptop, listened to my protestations, and repeated that he thought they would be frozen. Then he went off somewhere to double-check, came back to deliver the good news that they wouldn’t be frozen because they were joint accounts. As suggested.
But I guess it was sorted so I took it as a positive. Until a couple of days later when I discovered I was locked out of my online banking.
I called the 0800 number, got through to a man who presumably tapped a few things into his laptop, and said I’d been using an unauthorised access code. It’s the same one I’ve used since I started banking online a decade or so earlier, so I was baffled. He repeated the ‘‘unauthorised’’ line several times. It sounded serious. He didn’t know how it had happened.
I think it was my mistake, that for all these years I’ve inadvertently been using an access code of Bill’s, believing it was for our joint use. It worked extremely well until last week when I told the bank Bill had died. Then that number was clearly shut down and my unauthorised presence with it. At least I think that’s how it happened, and the bank couldn’t seem to throw any light on it.
I didn’t actually want to change my log-in details. I’ve become attached to them; they’re imprinted on my memory. I asked the man if I had a choice and he said no.
He stepped me through the switch and I was soon back online to pay some bills. The only problem was that our payee list had been removed. Maybe it had been loaded against the old code and ditched when this was cancelled (or something like that).
So I phoned the 0800 line again and got a woman who listened to my story about unauthorised access. She said briskly, ‘‘It’s like driving a car, Denise, we all need our own licence.’’ That seemed patronising and unnecessary but she reloaded the payees.
It was an unsettling string of events – I was entirely on the back foot – with no acknowledgment that I may be feeling a bit fragile here. Certainly no magic words of … we’ll try to make things as easy as possible for you.
The bank phoned later with an automated survey to find out how I rated its performance. I rather regret it now but I hung up. I was in no mood to speak to a disembodied voice.
I remarked to Bill (out in the ether somewhere) that he had no idea of the trouble he’d caused.
I think I’ve just got the power company, regional council and Fly Buys to go. I’m not anticipating any problems with these but I won’t bank on it.
It was an unsettling string of events – I was entirely on the back foot – with no acknowledgment that I may be feeling a bit fragile here.
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