Sorting out my mother’s financial affairs after her death late last month was a rollercoaster affair, both emotionally and administratively.
Sometimes it takes detective work that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud to track down important financial documents. Occasionally it brought joy as unknown savings accounts were discovered – only to be followed by frustration as I had to deal with an artificial intelligence bot over the phone. For mourning? God help us.
My mother, or Helen of Troy as I liked to call her, died after a tough battle with cancer. She was 88, although she looked more like 68.
When we had lunch together, people sometimes thought we were husband and wife. My mother would be happy, I less so.
Although the death certificate states that she died of breast carcinoma, the cancer had eventually spread to all parts of her body, including her brain.
Jeff Prestridge with his mother Helen, whom he named Helen of Troy and describes as ‘a home bird who was proud of where she lived and thought she was invincible’
But until the day she died (January 29), she remained her outspoken self and berated us (her four children) for moving her to a nursing home for the last week of her life.
“I want to go home,” she insisted. “I can take care of myself just fine, thank you.” If looks could kill.
She couldn’t, but Mom was Mom – a homebody who was proud of where she lived and thought she was invincible. Queen of the castle.
For not far from 70 years she had managed several houses in Sutton Coldfield, grooming her four children for independent living, while supporting Dad in his career as a successful commercial salesman (he was able to sell coal to Newcastle – in fact he probably did).
She was a housewife, but she was much more than that. She ruled her house. You simply couldn’t do anything within the four walls of her house without her knowing about it. She gave the Chinese a run for their money when it came to surveillance.
So the urge to imitate wrestler Mick McManus (a boyhood hero) and put my younger brother David in a headlock would be nipped in the bud before I even threw him to the ground.
“Stop it now,” she shouted from somewhere downstairs. “Jeffrey, finish your homework right away.”
A party I secretly organized when Mom and Dad went on vacation only remained a secret until she came crashing through the front door when she returned and immediately realized something was wrong. I was picked up from school and given a costume party to end all costume parties. I still have nightmares about it.
Dad (Stan the Man) loved Mom by taking her (and us kids) on vacations abroad before they had become the norm. He also bought her designer clothes and jewelry. She enjoyed the attention she received from other men. In her splendor she attracted attention.
Yet Mom was an extremely private woman. We were not allowed to tell her oldest friend about her illness – and she refused to see her when the final curtain was drawn on her life.
We were also not allowed to inform her neighbors. The wheelchair was kept out of sight, although she had no choice but to use it when we took her out to dinner. If someone comes by every now and then to take care of her, she doesn’t stand a chance. “I don’t have a stranger in my house,” she raged when we said what a good idea that would be.
We even managed to get a nurse to visit and introduce herself. Mom immediately sent her with a flea or three in her ear. We cringed.
Frustratingly, this privacy extended to her finances. After Dad passed away in 2017, it became virtually impossible to keep an eye on her money. Despite my personal financial knowledge, her opinion was simple: “It’s my money and it’s none of your damn business, Mr Nosy PF Journalist.”
Although I eventually convinced her to give me power of attorney over her finances, all I really managed to accomplish was keeping an eye on her bank account—and transferring money from an associated savings account to that account when the utility bill came due. used up her money.
Whenever I tried to look for evidence of other savings accounts near her house—she’s never embraced the Internet—she would reprimand me and tell me to stop the “meddling, fiddling, and farting.”
She had a way with words, Mom, even if I never quite understood the phrase “oh, s**t on a sandwich.” She used it when she was frustrated – which was a lot in the last year of her life.
Luckily, my sister Joy (along with brother Dave and older sister Pauline, a rock in the last few months of Mom’s life) started to worry when Mom went to the hospital after falling during the night and somehow falling under her bed had ended up.
From all corners of Mom’s bungalow she collected a veritable collection of documents: bank statements, passbooks, policy documents, utility bills, premium guarantees for bonds and insurance policies.
Figuring all this out has not been without challenges. To start with the good, the government’s Tell Us Once service was a dream. Using the unique reference number that Joy received when collecting the death certificates, I was able to simultaneously report my mother’s death online to a number of government services.
This meant I could cancel her passport, state pension and council tax in one go. All I needed was some important information, such as her passport details and social security number.
South Staffs Water couldn’t have been more helpful. A very helpful person said my mother’s account would be closed immediately and no further fees would be charged while we sold my mother’s house. “Mind you, no bathing or washing the car while you’re there,” she joked. Gold stars all around.
Mum’s credit cards at M&S, Sainsbury’s and Tesco were easily canceled; the balance was debited every month by direct debit. And claiming a small life insurance policy that Mom had taken out to fund her funeral was quite simple. There will be more than enough left over to pay for the wake.
The staff at NatWest, Mum’s bank, and Nationwide in Sutton Coldfield were extremely charming and her accounts were closed immediately after receiving a copy of her death certificates. Nationwide told me that Mom had another account other than the one we knew about.
OK, there was only £2.83 in it, but it was nice that the building society was fighting for us (Mum would have been proud of the fact that we hadn’t tracked it down). It has now sent me bank statements that will help with the estate (I’m already losing sleep over that trip).
My mother’s private pension with Aviva – an annuity, originally taken out by my father – was easily cancelled, although it was disconcerting at the time to receive a confirmation letter, addressed to Mr J John (John is my middle name). I think I’ll stick with Prestridge for now.
My most disturbing moments came when I called NS&I to inform them of my mother’s death (she has a number of Premium Bonds with her). I used the phone number provided to report deaths, but instead of being greeted politely, I was transferred to a “virtual assistant.”
Maybe I wasn’t concentrating, but the first time I didn’t immediately realize that I was dealing with AI and I lost my cool at the banal questions I was asked: ‘what is your call today?’
When asked to summarize the reason for my call in one word, I shouted: “grief.” I waited and waited for a response until I suddenly realized that AI had suffered enough from me – and cut me off.
The second time the ‘conversation’ was less charged because I knew what I was dealing with. It pointed me in the direction of a form I had to fill out online.
But should NS&I use AI to treat people who may still be grieving? I don’t think so and I told them what I think.
It states that AI helps the organization to ‘filter calls quickly and efficiently’. It adds: ‘Call wait times may vary, but after an initial conversation with the virtual assistant, a customer should be able to speak to a member of our bereavement team in less than a minute on average.’
Of course, AI is invading our entire lives. But I’m not sure it works for handling grief calls.
NS&I needs to think again. It is certainly not beyond the collective brainpower – or financial budget – of a dedicated bereavement helpline staffed by humans.
Rest in peace, Helen of Troy.
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