You can thank Mel Brooks for that title, as well as the rest of his brilliance, heh.
I can thank ______*_____ for my anxiety today. Since the pater falls almost daily now & the va has been of less-than-zero help, I've taken it upon myself to make them re-admit him to their hospital. Now, they can theoretically provide transport for him to get to the local regular hospital, but they want me (who no longer can drive) or my husband (who works from 4am to 7pm) to drive him the hour & half so they can decide if they'll keep him.
Now, I know it is Not So Wise to disparage our military, et al, but for the record? I'd like to send a big ol' Fuck You to this VA we've got here. They've been throwing pills at pater for months now, after they released him waaaay too early on, and now are just fucking with us, it appears. Oh, he's got an appointment tomorrow? Well, fuck you very much for even telling him! That goes for the other Twenty Three Goddamn Times, too.
Buncha fucking jackasses.
I just cannot fathom how they thought it was a good idea to send him here. And then decided months later to give him a wheelchair. Like, did it NOT occur to them that, if he needs a chair, maaaaaybe he shouldn't be released?
What in the actual fuck is going on with them? Really!
Obviously my hackles are up over this mess, which is why I had to take my anti-anxiety meds today. As a direct result of the VA not doing their job, pater is slowly losing his interest in life and health, which leads me to more worry and caretaking on a dangerous (physical, for me) level which then fucks up my own health, lather rinse repeat.
Fuck, man. Some days it is a struggle.
No comments:
Post a Comment