Fairbanks – SHIP/SMP Counseling & Outreach

Our Medicare Counseling and Outreach program includes:

State Health Insurance Assistance Programs (SHIP) funds personalized counseling, education and outreach to Medicare beneficiaries and their families

The Senior Medicare Patrol (SMP) program funds education for Medicare beneficiaries and others on how to spot and report potential Medicare errors, fraud, waste and abuse.

SHIP and SMP grants are programs under the Administration for Community Living (ACL)

Our Fairbanks office has certified Medicare counselors who can help answer questions about Medicare benefits and enrollment.

To make an appointment call: 907-479-7940


Kenai Office


(Physical Address)

36275 Kenai Spur Hwy

Soldotna, AK 99669-9234


(Mailing Address)

PO Box 484

Kenai, AK 99611-0484


Phone: (907) 262-4955

Toll free: (888) 260-9336

Fax: (907) 262-4936


Mat-Su Office


1075 Check Street, Suite 109

Wasilla, AK 99654-6937


Phone: (907) 357-2588

Toll Free: (800) 770-0228

Fax: (907) 357-5585


Fairbanks Office


526 Gaffney Road, Suite 100

Fairbanks, AK 99701-4914


Phone: (907) 479-7940

Toll free: (800) 770-7940

Fax: (907) 474-4052

the cloak of fatherhood

The tailor of my spirit

fashioned for me a cloak,

of fatherhood,

Cut from the cloth

of the father I knew,

not just the man

the world saw,

but the father

He longed to be,

if I were to be a father

I could be that man for him….

The Cloak, made over my lifetime,

hidden, all but forgotten,

lay folded in wait,

sprung from its hiding place

fitted itself to me

in less than a blink, at feeling

the first kick of my child, through

the thinning skin of her mother’s belly.

The strong fabric of many lives,

stitched, woven into a garment of identity

often liberating, in its confining nature,

always there, a perfect fit.

Over the years, snagged on reality, many times,

the fabric would fray & fringe,

never failing, always there, giving

purpose to my life, guiding

my every step.

I, in contemplation, am comforted,

seeing loose threads, thought lost,

were chosen by my children

to weave into their own garment,

now hanging in the closet of their soul

until needed.

I know in my heart, Somewhere

my father is proud of the

way his grand children chose

to dress themselves.

T.F. Box

The Mask By T. Frank Box

On the last of my radiation treatments, in September of 1999, I waited to see the oncologist for my chemotherapy referral. I held the strange plastic mesh mask in my lap that had held my head motionless as the six million electron volts of x-ray radiation was beamed through my brain for all of the thirty treatments. The mask was made of a white thermal plastic that was heated, molded to my face and then bolted to a table as I lay there for twenty minutes for it to cool. I was glad my nuclear treatments were over, but was not looking forward to the twelve months of Chemo that would be starting soon. The mask was a trophy to hang on the wall as a reminder of just how far I had come. 2 brain surgeries and 30 radiation treatments completed, only one year of chemotherapy left to go. My Mother and daughter were with me, but I felt very alone. The thoughts of loosing another year to being sick seemed unbearable until I met the man with the blue mask.

A couple entered the waiting area and as they passed I noticed he had a mask much like mine. Unlike my mask, his was blue, and had the eyes, nose and mouth cut out. He seemed alone like me, separated from a world that has no clue what it feels like to have brain cancer. We eyed each other with the interest just as members of any elite group might; a conversation just seemed to start on its own. He seemed to know that I would understand his anxiety from the radiation burns and surgical scars that made my head look like a red swollen soft ball.

Within minutes we were opening up our lives to each other, trading stories, as two long lost friends, or two soldiers in a foxhole with a common enemy that was seeking to remove their life. Two souls met that talked and understood the language of a brain cancer patient. My mask was solid with only the standard holes left by the plastic mesh to see and breathe through, his mask had the eyes mouth and nose area cut out a little, so I asked if he were claustrophobic. He confirmed my suspicions and added that the MRIs were hellish and the valium was the only thing that saved him.

Then our conversation drifted toward our individual prognosis, his cancer seemed much worse than mine. As he opened up to me, in desperation to explain it to someone who might understand it became clear he had only a few weeks to live. As he unloaded his fears and frustrations on me, every passion filled word slammed home. His wife, just a little behind him and to the left, was out of his peripheral vision, and I could her face as she hung on every word as he retold a story she knew too well.

“Its in my liver, I do what they say! Its in my Lungs, I do what they say! And now it’s in my brain, and I am doing what they say again! But they tell me I only have a few weeks! Maybe six. As he inhaled for next verse of his tirade, I locked eyes with him, and then shifted my gaze to his petrified wife; he turned and saw her pained expression, as if her very core were being sucked out. As he looked back to me I nodded toward the hallway and asked if I could have a word with just him, he followed with his head bowed a little as his wife slumped into a chair sobbing into her hands. We had an unobstructed view of the waiting room through the glass of the personal agony she felt in having her husband torn from her. I was moved to speak some words of comfort, and don’t know where the words came from, but the words flowed with clarity that spoke to his heart as only another cancer patient could.

I said, “She really loves you?” He said, “I know.” I continued, “… and she has been with you through this entire ordeal?” He nodded yes. I said, “Your life is from now till it’s over; how do you want her to remember you? If you only have a few days, make them count! Be strong for her!”

He grabbed me in an appreciative hug, and thanked me. I could see them through the glass as they embraced ready to enjoy their remaining time together in this life.

I have reflected on those few moments of clarity over the last several years as I drift from brain cancer patient to brain cancer survivor status. The words I spoke to him were ones that I needed to hear. I have been given everything that man thought he wanted, and he had everything I thought I wanted. He had some one to love him his whole life through. I was given the time he wanted, but no partner to share it with.

Thinking of life as a proportion; it is difficult to say who got the better deal. I was chosen to live, and he was chosen to have love every minute of his earthly life. He felt his life being torn from him as I felt my true love slipping away with the part of my brain that was removed. I guess life is about suffering well, falling with grace, and loving as if your life depended on it, in the end it does.


PS. Three years later while sitting church, a nice lady walked in, and we talked a little… drank some coffee… talked a little more. And we were married in September of 2003.