1) Is Isaac still disabled?
2) Does Isaac still have needs?
3) Is Isaac still entitled to services?
Last year the assessment lasted about three hours and involved a few assessors, Isaac's case manager, and a friend who knows Isaac well, all seated around our kitchen table.
Last year he interrupted the meeting by approaching me and running his index finger over his thumb.
"Excuse me, he needs me to cut his nails," I said.
I stood up and walked out of the room.
And afterwards when I sat down in the kitchen, everyone saw him tenderly kiss my cheek.
The questions are difficult, and more than one answer is needed per question. Most require an explanation instead of the numbers that they punch into the computer.
I always wish they would ask if he's happy, if he has dreams, if he has a purpose. Does he have friends?
If not, what can be done?
This year the assessment was done via phone. I don't recall this ever happening before, although it's possible. I try to forget about these assessments because they're exhausting.
The assessor called me this morning at 10:30. After asking a bunch of questions about his medical history, appointments and treatment with providers, ER visits, meds taken, etc she asked about broad categories.
Communication, supervision, safety, toileting, hygiene, addiction, elopement, self-harm, mental health, transportation, and on and on...
This year instead of rapid-fire questions, she asked if anything had changed. I asked for clarification a few times.
Me: No. Everything is the same.
The entire assessment lasted nine minutes.
When she said she was done, I was astonished.
"This is the craziest thing I've ever experienced," I said.
She told me it's easy when someone is healthy and nothing has changed.
When the appointment was made, I was told to plan for one hour.
I have a follow-up meeting tomorrow in person with Isaac's case manager, and that might be an hour, but that won't be too painful. Fingers crossed.
When I said nothing has changed, I meant he still doesn't need help toileting, he still doesn't run away from home even though I sometimes wish I could, he still doesn't drive a car, and he hasn't been in trouble with the law.
But lots of things have changed: Noah's living at home, Henry is heading to college next week, the pool will be closing soon, I'm recovering well from ankle surgery, our living room looks like a durable medical equipment store, and a bowling league is in Isaac's future.
Everything is changing. But nothing has changed.
Life is always surprising. I like to say that common sense isn't very common, but I was wrong. Today the MCO only took nine minutes of my time.
That might be the biggest change of all.