The canicule continues - 40 degrees today and rising. And CPAM, the French bureaucratic health body, includes those my age as those at risk! However, whenever I think I've got the health system licked, something happens to confuse me yet again. From E106, E121, S1 - the forms go on for ever, including the sub-bodies like Secu, CMU.
But now I hear even the locals have trouble with it. M. Rolland from Argenteuil was told by his pharmacist that CPAM wouldn't reimburse costs because the patient was 'dead'. Secu refused to believe the pharmacist, so M. Rolland and his wife marched into the CPAM offices themselves to sort them out. However, a few days later his pension fund wrote to 'the heirs of M. Rolland' asking for a death certificate. When he rang to protest, they told him to get a 'certificate of existence' from his mairie, who subsequently said such a thing didn't exist. The pension company then asked him to provide a copy of his birth certificate with a signed note to confirm he was still alive. All well and good until he made a chasing call and was told he'd died a few weeks ago!
Him indoors says I never See Pam anyway, and I don't get ill 'cos I'm on a seafood diet - when I see food I eat it...
Showing posts with label CPAM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CPAM. Show all posts
15th March 2009
At last - the warm weather has arrived in our region. This last winter was much colder than usual. But the last few days have been gloriously warm and we have been sitting out on our terrace to enjoy lunch.
However, my relaxation was spoiled by two events - the dentist and the tax man - surely the two most dreaded things in anyone's life. The first was much soothed, though, by a wonderful woman dentist in nearby Cordes. Her name is Dr. Julie Bacque and she is so so gentle. Although I needed root-canal work + crown on one tooth - because my old UK filling was more than 30 years old - the only pain I felt was via my wallet! The cost was high - 400 euros - but this was tempered by a reimbursement of 230 euros by CPAM (the French health service) and 70 euros by our top-up health insurance. (I do like the top-up health insurance system because you don't ever need to claim - it's done automatically by CPAM). So, not too bad. The second - the dreaded taxman - was necessary because I had misunderstood the complicated French tax rules. (I never had to complete a tax return in the UK). I had 'foolishly' thought that because the interest paid on my one English bank account was paid 'net', I didn't need to declare it on my French return. Wrong! So, now I need to pay the UK tax for the last few years again and hope to get reimbursed sometime in the future via the double-tax treaty. Let's hope all this is in my lifetime.....life's too short.
But at least I can now relax again in this glorious sunshine - at least until the next unknown French problem hits......
However, my relaxation was spoiled by two events - the dentist and the tax man - surely the two most dreaded things in anyone's life. The first was much soothed, though, by a wonderful woman dentist in nearby Cordes. Her name is Dr. Julie Bacque and she is so so gentle. Although I needed root-canal work + crown on one tooth - because my old UK filling was more than 30 years old - the only pain I felt was via my wallet! The cost was high - 400 euros - but this was tempered by a reimbursement of 230 euros by CPAM (the French health service) and 70 euros by our top-up health insurance. (I do like the top-up health insurance system because you don't ever need to claim - it's done automatically by CPAM). So, not too bad. The second - the dreaded taxman - was necessary because I had misunderstood the complicated French tax rules. (I never had to complete a tax return in the UK). I had 'foolishly' thought that because the interest paid on my one English bank account was paid 'net', I didn't need to declare it on my French return. Wrong! So, now I need to pay the UK tax for the last few years again and hope to get reimbursed sometime in the future via the double-tax treaty. Let's hope all this is in my lifetime.....life's too short.
But at least I can now relax again in this glorious sunshine - at least until the next unknown French problem hits......
I told you I was ill
Part 1.
For a happy marriage
The husband should be deaf
And the wife blind
Old Occitan proverb
It's Summer 06. Our ancient ventilator fan has been moved into the bedroom, ready and willing to crank into life when perspiration in the middle of the night reaches that point of no return.
He who never went to the doctor back home, when everything was free, has now decided he should get his left leg checked out. It must have been whilst wearing his new French shorts that I bought from the open air marché in nearby Caussade that brought him to this momentous decision. He has been limping for more years than I care to remember, resulting in one leg having become wasted and thinner than the other one. There’s nothing like exposing all that flesh to reveal life’s imperfections. My brother once said that everyone should be like him and not wear glasses, as he didn’t want to see everyone’s spots and pimples in all their red and gory detail. But there we were. The shorts definitely revealed H’s leg problem to one and all, so a solution needed to be found.
When we were originally contemplating moving to France – or rather when I had decided and H had reluctantly agreed – I had managed to persuade the medical people at the Centre for Non-Residents in Newcastle upon Tyne that I should be issued with their E106 form. This was no mean feat, as I was pushed from pillar to post trying to get through to the correct office.
Eventually I managed to persuade them that I had been paying full national insurance contributions for nearly thirty years and surely I was entitled to something? But, of course, because I was yet to reach the magical age when I would qualify for a full pension, all they could promise me was an E106 form.
‘But, what am I supposed to do with it?’ I asked, expecting a rude reply.
‘We will send you two copies of the E106. You need to take both forms to your local sickness insurance office. Do not fill in any part of the form yourself (on pain of death!). The foreign authority will then complete part B of both forms. They will send one copy to us to confirm registration and will keep a copy themselves. Once you have registered with the foreign authority, they will deal with any claim you make for help with medical costs. They can also tell you what you are entitled to.’
‘But, you told me that my E106 will run out in January 07 – that’s eleven months before I reach sixty. What will we do then?’
‘When your E106 certificate runs out, you must make enquiries with your local sickness insurance office about the possibility of joining their sickness scheme. Then, when you actually reach sixty, you can apply to us for our form E121.’
Another form, aargh!
I put the phone down, my head reeling. So that was all there was to it, then! We didn’t even know where our ‘local sickness insurance office’ was, let alone how to ask about all this in our halting French.
I decided that the most appropriate place to ask was our local friendly pharmacie, where the helpful owner spoke some English. He told us that the office we needed was in Montauban, the capital town of our region. We thanked him and studied the map. As with all the places we needed, it was situated more than fifty miles away. This was proving the case for everything.
Once I received the all-important forms from Newcastle, we filled up the car and prepared for a long haul. As usual on our journeys we took several wrong turns, screeched via hand-brake turns off many a private piece of farmland before we took the inevitable scenic route to Montauban. The traffic in the city reminded us of back home. Narrow roads, parked cars, no time to stop and look before receiving gesticulations and impatient horns. Before coming here I had led a very sheltered life, but have now learned phrases, arm movements and swear words that I would rather not repeat.
By now our watches showed the inevitable: eleven fifty-five. Too late. No wonder French restaurants do such a roaring trade every lunch-time. Everything shuts (except restaurants) for at least two hours every weekday, just when you manage to find the place you’re looking for. There was only one thing to do. We walked into a restaurant and ordered lunch.
Continued next Sunday..........
For a happy marriage
The husband should be deaf
And the wife blind
Old Occitan proverb
It's Summer 06. Our ancient ventilator fan has been moved into the bedroom, ready and willing to crank into life when perspiration in the middle of the night reaches that point of no return.
He who never went to the doctor back home, when everything was free, has now decided he should get his left leg checked out. It must have been whilst wearing his new French shorts that I bought from the open air marché in nearby Caussade that brought him to this momentous decision. He has been limping for more years than I care to remember, resulting in one leg having become wasted and thinner than the other one. There’s nothing like exposing all that flesh to reveal life’s imperfections. My brother once said that everyone should be like him and not wear glasses, as he didn’t want to see everyone’s spots and pimples in all their red and gory detail. But there we were. The shorts definitely revealed H’s leg problem to one and all, so a solution needed to be found.
When we were originally contemplating moving to France – or rather when I had decided and H had reluctantly agreed – I had managed to persuade the medical people at the Centre for Non-Residents in Newcastle upon Tyne that I should be issued with their E106 form. This was no mean feat, as I was pushed from pillar to post trying to get through to the correct office.
Eventually I managed to persuade them that I had been paying full national insurance contributions for nearly thirty years and surely I was entitled to something? But, of course, because I was yet to reach the magical age when I would qualify for a full pension, all they could promise me was an E106 form.
‘But, what am I supposed to do with it?’ I asked, expecting a rude reply.
‘We will send you two copies of the E106. You need to take both forms to your local sickness insurance office. Do not fill in any part of the form yourself (on pain of death!). The foreign authority will then complete part B of both forms. They will send one copy to us to confirm registration and will keep a copy themselves. Once you have registered with the foreign authority, they will deal with any claim you make for help with medical costs. They can also tell you what you are entitled to.’
‘But, you told me that my E106 will run out in January 07 – that’s eleven months before I reach sixty. What will we do then?’
‘When your E106 certificate runs out, you must make enquiries with your local sickness insurance office about the possibility of joining their sickness scheme. Then, when you actually reach sixty, you can apply to us for our form E121.’
Another form, aargh!
I put the phone down, my head reeling. So that was all there was to it, then! We didn’t even know where our ‘local sickness insurance office’ was, let alone how to ask about all this in our halting French.
I decided that the most appropriate place to ask was our local friendly pharmacie, where the helpful owner spoke some English. He told us that the office we needed was in Montauban, the capital town of our region. We thanked him and studied the map. As with all the places we needed, it was situated more than fifty miles away. This was proving the case for everything.
Once I received the all-important forms from Newcastle, we filled up the car and prepared for a long haul. As usual on our journeys we took several wrong turns, screeched via hand-brake turns off many a private piece of farmland before we took the inevitable scenic route to Montauban. The traffic in the city reminded us of back home. Narrow roads, parked cars, no time to stop and look before receiving gesticulations and impatient horns. Before coming here I had led a very sheltered life, but have now learned phrases, arm movements and swear words that I would rather not repeat.
By now our watches showed the inevitable: eleven fifty-five. Too late. No wonder French restaurants do such a roaring trade every lunch-time. Everything shuts (except restaurants) for at least two hours every weekday, just when you manage to find the place you’re looking for. There was only one thing to do. We walked into a restaurant and ordered lunch.
Continued next Sunday..........
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