“I’m in your Social Security file right now and I’m not seeing any record of your submissions,” Jennifer, the disability lawyer’s case administrator, confirmed this afternoon. Once I’d signed a stack of releases, her office could access my file and perform tasks I couldn’t — like easily upload records — using its government portal.* She would do more digging and get back to me later, but wanted copies in the meantime of everything I’d previously mailed in support of my claim.
Each time I’d sent documents myself, I’d followed instructions and included both the claim number and the barcode that’s meant to ensure your records are all scanned to the proper folder. On one of those occasions, when the submittal was time-sensitive, I also sent it via fax as a precaution (in case there was a USPS hiccup). The library’s fax software confirmed it was successfully received, just as the postal service confirmed delivery of my envelopes. But if the contents weren’t in my Social Security file, where did it all end up?
Fortunately, I’d retained copies and was able to send PDFs to Jennifer. While I was at it, I downloaded every neurology file at my disposal and forwarded those as well, since my denial letter indicated the agency hadn’t received anything from that hospital department. I’m sharing this mostly for educational purposes, so others can learn from my mistakes: I put too much faith in the ‘click here and we’ll request your records’ option during the SSDI application process.
If I had it to do over, or if I was helping someone else with their claim, I’d collect and submit all the records myself. Depending on the nature of your illness (or injury) and the number of doctors you see, that could prove quite daunting. An easy way to be meticulous, provided you’re insured, is to cross-reference your records requests with your explanations of benefits. How far back you could go with that method is limited by how many EOBs you’ve either saved or can access online, but it’s better than nothing.**
The second mistake I’m still kicking myself about is naively trusting the progress bar that appears while your application is being processed. I didn’t want to pester the agent assigned to my claim by calling too quickly or too often to ask for an accounting of what he’d received so far. Since the progress bar inched along so haltingly, sometimes by only 1% to 2% every few days, I wrongly assumed it was safe to wait before checking in and asking whether he needed anything else. (Felix Unger would be so disappointed; he thought he raised me better than that.)
As it turns out, the bar is only sometimes accurate: mostly it’s intended to keep applicants satisfied that progress is being made, which makes them less likely to call and ask for updates. That might as well be a metaphor for the disability application process in general, which is designed to discourage a percentage of applicants from continuing past their first denial. I have less of a problem with that than some critics — I know enough doctors and deadbeats alike to understand that some claims are utterly meritless. But the burden should only be in proving your case medically; you shouldn’t have to do so while also struggling to make heads or tails of a disorganized system that lacks even basic transparency.
Apologies if this has put you to sleep — here’s a favorite jaunty Elvis tune to wake you up. Tomorrow’s the neurology checkup and once that’s out of the way I’d like to write about something more fun than waiting rooms and paperwork and finger-tap tests.
* You can request a copy of your claim file, but it can take weeks (or longer) to arrive. Time is of the essence once your application is denied; you want to have all your ducks in a row when you request reconsideration.
** Patient portals are another way to track your records, so sign up for them if you can. With how fragmented healthcare often is in the United States, this can be a pain in the neck: 10 years ago I saw doctors across four different systems and needed separate logins for each one. Now I only have to keep track of two.