By Samantha Partington
My dad, Phil, was a proud and private man,
but he openly adored my mum, Maureen. They were childhood sweethearts
and had not spent more than a week apart since getting engaged aged 19.
So
when Mum was diagnosed with dementia in February 2016 and we were told
she needed round-the-clock care in a home, he struggled to cope. Just
seven months later he had a heart attack, aged 66, and died. In the
space of a year it felt as though my entire life had fallen apart.
But
instead of being able to focus on grieving and looking after mum, my
brother Michael, 42, and I found ourselves facing a financial nightmare.
My dad had not made a will, which meant everything he had, passed
automatically to my mum. She was now the sole owner of our family home,
all the bank and savings accounts and in charge of their equity release
mortgage.
This would have been fine but my mum, who was then 69, was in such poor
health herself that she was struggling to even communicate with us. And
as she hadn't registered a power of attorney, my brother and I were
unable to act on her behalf.
My dad's bank allowed us to draw a cheque
to pay for the funeral expenses. But beyond that, his accounts now
legally belonged to my mum and were off limits — and it wasn't long
before the bills began arriving.
Fortunately,
there was enough money in my parents' joint account to cover essential
bills such as the council tax and utilities, which were paid by direct
debit.
My brother and I then did our best to cover any extra costs, such as repairing the boiler, but it quickly became too much.
My dad's pension company, Legal &
General, demanded to be reimbursed after paying his pension in the month
he died. And the equity release mortgage provider was asking for its
money back now the house was empty.
With
hindsight, it is easy to think we were utterly foolish not to organise
power of attorney years earlier. It seems so obvious that mum's dementia
had been progressing.
But we had
always explained away her confusion as a side-effect of the radiotherapy
treatment she had for a brain tumour in her 40s. It was not until she
went into hospital with a minor infection in February 2016, that the
word 'dementia' was ever said to us.
I
had brought up the subject of setting up a power of attorney with dad on
a couple of occasions. But each time he dismissed my well-meaning
nagging with his familiar, 'Oh Sam, we're OK' response.
 |
| Sam with her mum in 2016 |
Less than a year before he died I tried
again. 'What's going to happen if you die?,' I said. 'Mum will be in
charge of everything'. But he just gently reassured me: 'Don't worry
Sam. I'm not going anywhere'.
In truth,
I think he just didn't want to admit that there was anything wrong with
his sweetheart. So they struggled on, and found their own way of
getting around difficulties.
Dad had
emphysema, a lung condition, and couldn't walk far. So Mum would go to
the bank for them both, with their Pins written down so she wouldn't
forget them.
We
eventually discovered they were keeping worryingly large sums of money
in the house to avoid too many trips to the bank. But by the time
Michael and I finally realised how bad things had become, there was no
way anyone would have allowed mum to sign over power of attorney.
When
we visited our local solicitor to begin the process of wrapping up the
estate, he told us without power of attorney we needed to apply to the
Office of the Public Guardian for something called a court of protection
order (or a guardianship order in Scotland).
Once granted, you become what is known as a deputy, and can act on your loved one's behalf.
As
a financial journalist, I'd heard the process mentioned in passing but
had no idea what it involved. I assumed it was much the same as
appointing an attorney — but I was very wrong.
Setting
up power of attorney is relatively straightforward. You can complete
the paperwork yourself or via a solicitor at any time, as long as you
have mental capacity.
A court of
protection order, however, is usually triggered by a life-changing event
such as a bereavement or serious illness, and is a very long and
complex process.
 |
| Sam as a child with her dad |
Around 59,000 deputies were approved by
the Office of the Public Guardian in England and Wales in the year
ending March 31, compared to 835,950 applications to register a power of
attorney, according to the Ministry of Justice.
There
are also very strict rules attached to a court of protection order.
This is understandable as unlike with a power of attorney, where you
choose who you want to appoint to make decisions on your behalf, a court
of protection order involves someone applying to take charge of your
finances without your permission.
But
it means that family members can end up losing control over their loved
one's life. Ultimately, the Office of the Public Guardian is responsible
for their affairs.
The court of protection order sets out
what the deputy has permission to make decisions about. And then as a
deputy, you are obliged to carry out these duties and report back
regularly.
It took us seven months to be granted a court of protection order.
We
had to fill in complicated forms, declare the nitty-gritty details of
our own finances, including any debt we had, and take identity papers to
a solicitor to be verified. We also had to provide the contact details
of other family members so they could be informed of our application.
Most
upsetting of all, we had to arrange a visit between my mum and a
representative for the Office of the Public Guardian so they could
confirm she really had lost mental capacity. We were not even allowed to
be present to hold her hand and tell her everything was okay.
I
understand why we couldn't be there, but I felt so humiliated for my
mum who would have made an effort to be friendly to the visitor she
didn't recognise, without understanding that she was being secretly
tested.
Much of the delay was down to
the fact that without access to mum's accounts we could not find the
information we needed about her income. In the end I had to apply to
become a so-called appointed person with the Department for Work and
Pensions.
This involved being interviewed in my own
home to ensure I was trustworthy. Only then could we find out how much
state pension she received and what benefits she was claiming.
After
finally being granted a court of protection order, we were assigned a
case manager who arranged a 'settling-in' call for a few weeks later. I
was contacted at the beginning of June 2017 and immediately hit with a
bombshell question.
Were my brother and
I going to sell my mum's house or rent it out? My brother and I had
grown up in that house and planned to keep it so I'd have somewhere to
stay when visiting mum.
To think about
selling our family home, which still had all my dad's clothes in the
wardrobes and an attic full of our memories, felt overwhelming. I'm from
North Wales, and live in London but my dad had said I would always have
that house to go home to.
And to top it all off, we were given just three weeks to make the decision.
I tried to stand my ground. In the guide
book about being a deputy it says that if you knew the person you are
looking after, you should try to think how they would want you to act.
We knew our mum would not have wanted us to sell the house, but we were told we had to act in her best interests.
We
had repaid the equity release loan using dad's savings. But now mum
solely owned the property, she was no longer entitled to state support
towards her care home fees.
Leaving
the house empty was not an option as we would not be able to afford her
care fees. So in the end we decided the best thing was to put it on the
market.
There were also all sorts of extra costs involved with being a deputy that we were not expecting.
As
well as hundreds in legal fees, we had to pay a one-off £365
application fee to the Office of the Public Guardian and a £100
assessment fee. If your estate is complicated, you also have to pay up
to £325 a year in supervision fees.
All
deputies must take out insurance called a surety bond to protect the
estate from their negligence, which is about £90 a year.
We
are also required to complete an annual report accounting for all the
money paid in and taken out of mum's bank account, down to the last
penny. It takes hours to complete and after filing the first report I
had a call querying why I'd claimed the cost of a disabled access taxi
to take her to a family party.
I
understand it is the Office of the Public Guardian's job to look out for
those who cannot manage their own affairs. But these sorts of questions
felt like an intrusion into the close, loving relationship mum and I
cherish.
Having to keep records and
receipts makes looking after mum feel a bit like running a small
business. It would be nice to just take her shopping without having to
worry about justifying every little thing we buy.
I
often wished the staff I had to deal with could have been just a little
kinder and more sensitive. At times it is hard not to feel a little
angry at dad for not just getting mum to sign that crucial bit of paper
when she was well.
But he had no idea
not doing it would leave my brother and me in such a difficult situation
while still grieving for him. It isn't what mum and dad would have
wanted for us.
If this article
encourages just one family to take the necessary steps to protect their
loved ones, I'm sure they would be pleased I shared our story.
Full Article & Source:
When Dad died, Mum's dementia triggered a financial nightmare: Our writer's moving account reveals why you mustn't wait for old age to set up power of attorney
