Heavenly Beverley : Hickory, Dickory, Dock...

Hickory Dickory Dock
Centrelink runs the clock
The clock goes BONG
We all fall down
Hickory Dickory Dock...

June is never a terribly great month for me. Winter is beginning to bite, the light continues to retreat and fade as we approach the shortest day and the fifth marks another anniversary for me - Christopher's death on a cold and miserable day thirty-one years ago.

I woke that morning to external gloom and internal poignancy. Even after all this time, I can still see his little face as the day of his death progressed towards its inevitable fate. For once, he seemed at peace and his eyes were open, watching me as I held him close in my arms, his ventilator the only means of keeping him alive. We sat, him and me, exchanging a lifetime of love and memories, in his corner of Neonates at Princess Margaret Hospital. He was tiny, still less than a kilo and a half, with a scrap of red hair, but for once, there appeared to be no pain in his battered little body.

One of the best and worst days of my life. For a precious few hours, he appeared to be alert and engaged; my baby boy was really with me. But as the day progressed, we all knew he was dying and that he would die even if he was still connected to his ventilator.

So we made the decision to turn off all supports and allow him to die without any tubes inside him. His short, traumatic and ultimately sweet little life ended in the rain and dark of a Friday evening. I have mourned him ever since. And yet the legacy of his death was that I was able to have two more beautiful living sons, along with his older sister.

And I am convinced Christopher's spirit is intertwined with that of my beloved Autistic Superstar. Alex's second name is his, Alex was born with a right-sided heart lesion (similar to his brother's) and both of these boys were destined to have autism.

Vanessa was and is an extraordinary daughter and she saved me with her very presence. And Callum, born alive and roaring after the deaths of his brother and twin sisters, provided me with profound and bursting joy after a very dark two years.

I have this family of children, some of whom I can hear and see, others of whom I hold in my heart. There are special days of remembrance and these are often spent in introspection with as few interruptions as I can muster.

Pity nobody at Centrelink is aware of the sometimes subtle, sometimes expressive grief that occurs for me on certain days, often with no warning.

This fifth of June, we were required to visit the Big Smoke for a review of my Active Knee and to deliver Vanessa to her digs so she could complete her final assessment for this semester. This was the least we could do as she had taken over the house throughout the long weekend, given it a good shake, a good scrub, and miracle of miracles, brought our washing up to date.

But I was already fairly low, due to ongoing knee discomfort and interrupted sleep. Then my phone rang. Private number. Hello, this is BLAH from Centrelink. Have you time to talk? I said I had a few minutes but that I needed to get ready for a doctor's appointment.

The boom was then lowered. I had been relieved that, up until now, we seemed to have been immune from the scourge of RoboDebt. Not anymore. There were some discrepancies in the rental income information that we had provided Centrelink between (wait for it) 2013 and 2018 and on the surface, Michael and I had both incurred a debt to the Department of Human Services.

I was completely stunned. The amount of information we have given Centrelink over the years feels about half the size of the Amazon rainforest. How could they have not picked up a possible issue starting five years ago?

Of course, they didn't. They rely upon electronic cross-checking that is known to be flawed, as they don't have enough bums on seats. The onus is on us to prove ourselves innocent. And the last time Centrelink declared that I had incurred a debt (when I was a single parent), I scurried around to pay back the required amount, only to be told weeks later that Centrelink had made a mistake and they actually owed me money.

Once more, we are waiting for the hard copy so we may proceed further. This will involve a trip to our accountant as I am utterly burnt out from thirty years of communicating with this giant disaster of a department. Michael is stressed to the max and refusing to answer his phone. The amounts involved are relatively low, which is some comfort. But this presumption of guilt that Centrelink generates in those of us who rely on support payments to live is unconscionable.

I am currently in a cloud of bitter disbelief. But I refuse to cave into misery and fear. I will be writing to Centrelink, my local member and the Minister, as per usual, once I receive the Letter. And I am on the record, pleading with the Minister for more staff in order to prevent these dreadful phone calls, that often are entirely a waste of everybody's time.

There has to be a better, fairer and more compassionate way than the one Centrelink currently employs.

I am now going to pick myself up, have some breakfast and get on with my day. As we all do.