Like I have no other choice, buddy on the other end of the line

Um, excuse me, buddy on the other end of the line.  I’m very tired of this “no care” baloney.

I guess at some point today I realized nobody actually knows how bad it has gotten.  Nobody.

Psst: readers, I will tell you why.

They, some ladies I knew a while back that is, told me to stop talking about it.  That they couldn’t take it anymore.  It’s your choice, they said. You choose your anorexia or us.

So hey, who in their right mind is going to stick with friends like that?

Did they really love me?  Of course not.

They blamed me for their own food and weight problems.  It was Julie, the baggage in their life. Julie was the dirt they had to get rid of so they could LOOSE weight, as they put it all the time.

Gee, that little spelling habit drove me nuts anyway.  If you’re gonna be so loose, I think you got loose screws, not lost weight.

Are they any thinner and better off and in better shape now that they’ve gotten rid of me?  Now that they’ve done this purging of the group?  Who knows?

I’ve been kicked off a few other websites since.

Oh, mostly because they find out I have anorexia and they tell me “this board is not appropriate for your diagnosis, goodbye and good luck.”

Very weird.

So I phoned a local treatment place and we have not yet discussed why I want to have treatment there.  Um, I’m expecting a “no” response tomorrow. Due to diagnosis, insurance, or liability.

Thing is, I wanted to go in tonight and they “forgot” about me twice.  Lost the paperwork entirely.  I had to phone twice and ask, “Hey, did you forget me?” I guess that’s life, eh?

See, I’m not such a loser after all.

We have to figure out the Puzzle piece but I’m not thinking about that yet and haven’t broken the news to my fur bundle.

I feel like I’m such an imposition on these folks.

Um, excuse me, buddy on the other end of the line.  This is instead of walking off the planet.  So let’s get things straight.  Don’t you one more time forget I exist.  Cuz I’m gonna keep at it until I get what I need.

Friday night

Why does Friday night always suck the worst?

I’m not talking about TV.  I don’t own a TV.  I’m not talking about dates.  My boyfriend died ten years ago.   Ten years ago, and they say it doesn’t matter, cuz we weren’t married.

Well, I’m tellin’ ya, I was bawling over him on the bus just yesterday.  I saw a truck that I knew belonged to his family’s business.  So I said to myself, “No one else knows this little fact.”  And I sat on the bus not caring one bit if anyone saw the tears run down my face.

“So I’m a bit crazy, ” I told this guy on the street later on.

“Yeah, the economy sucks, too,” he said.  “You can’t get a job.  No one can get a job these days,” he said, shaking his head.  He was smoking a ciggie.  No, I didn’t tell him he was gonna drop dead of lung cancer or put him down for wasting his dough.  I don’t criticize or tell people to go to hell for having a good time now and then.  I do get pissed off when people act like assholes, though.

“That’s why my brother won’t let me talk to his daughter, cuz I’m crazy,” I told the guy.  “They don’t want their daughter knowing her crazy aunt.  I’ve met my niece like three times in her fucking life.  Three times.  Cuz they are ashamed of me.”

He shook his head.  “It takes all types,” he said.

Then my bus came right past us and stopped a bunch of feet further up.  I ran to get it.  It was hard to run, I don’t recall quite why, maybe I was carrying an umbrella or something.

What the truth is…lies and coverup and forced drugging

I’m not sure…but I feel that I am being forced to take this medication…told that I have to take it and that I have no choice….Told that if I don’t, I am screwed, basically.

Well, I took one of those pills last night, and slept only two hours.  Dr. P kept telling me these pills will make me feel oh so much better, however, I feel like crap, as you can imagine.  I feel like the waking dead, kinda like, as I have told Dr. P in the past, someone is holding toothpicks (as they used to show in the cartoons) in my eyelids to keep my eyes open, to keep me awake. When I am on this Abilify I am unable to sleep even in a state of complete exhaustion.  The higher the dose, the worse it gets.  I took only 5 mgs last night.  Jeepers, that was only one pill.  I can’t stay on this, and I can’t “disobey” Dr. P. This is forced drugging.  I can’t ask her to switch me to a different antispsychotic because then she will put me on fucking Seroquel or some other “weight-gainer,” something nightmarish to me.  No one with an eating disorder in their current or past should ever be forced onto medication that puts weight on them.  Or some med that gives me Tardive Dyskinesia.

So that’s happening.  Forced onto meds the are fucking up my sleep.

The hospital gave me, I guess what you would call, in plain English, BAD CARE in 2011, and they are lying about it and covering it up, denying that it ever happened.

The whole time that I was there, I had no visitors.  You know something?  I almost died then, having starved myself, making myself thin.   The irony was killing me.  I was all alone, lying in that bed, being glared at by those “sitters” with no witnesses.  My roommate was dying of cancer, and every day her Loving Family came to see her, they surrounded her with hugs and cards and stuff.  They showed up and stayed into the night, and there were so many doctors and specialists in to see her, pain specialists and the like.

Oh yeah, my therapist came, which I thought was “great,” but I did not realize then that she was discussing this “state hospital” plan with the hospital staff behind my back.  It was revealed to me a couple of months later, told that it had been in the works.  So she would come see me.  She was trying to get me institutionalized.

So I left, traumatized, I ended up there twice, the second time not as bad but still bad enough, and still no one believing me, and finally suffering with trauma I had to go to another hospital to be treated for trauma because of the trauma I had experienced from the Bad Care.

At hospital #2, they believed me, I told them how bad it was.  They believed what I said.  I told them about the peepholes and everything.  And the guy that kept taking off his clothes.  You know there are guys like that at psych units.  You gotta laugh…or you will cry.  They kept telling him he needed to put his freaking clothes back on.  I suppose if you’ve been around as long as I have, you will end up seeing a guy take his clothes off at least once or twice.

So….

Folks, I am not the only one who was either threatened “state hospital” or sent there.  There have been other patients.  I have witnessed this and heard stories and the hospital staff tried to shut up the patient who was telling the story to me last July!

So now…

I have told you Mass  General stated they gave me bad care in July-August 2011.  As it unfolded.

They refused to give me a therapist based on “insurance” this past spring.  And I wrote this here in my blog.  Dr. P says it’s a bad thing for me to write this?  It’s a bad thing to say how sad it is that people can’t get care in the big rich USA?  Here in Boston, the Medical Hub of the Universe?  It’s not okay to say it out loud?

Do you understand that insurance can dictate life and death in our country?  Do you understand how badly that sucks?

Dr. P says the Five Fundamental Rights are trivial.  Not important.  And she even said at one point that they did not exist?  Folks, it’s incredible that our state even has Patient Rights.  At other states, patients die because they don’t have the same laws we have here in Massachusetts.  So right now, they are talking about a Sixth Right.  If I didn’t have my eating disorder, I’d probably be following all this more, and getting more active in this stuff.  But I keep swearing up and down and promising and crossing my fingers about changing the world.  And I guess in a big way,  that phone booth up there at Alcott is proof that NEVER, EVER SHUTTING UP can indeed change things.

So folks, keep on talking. Keep writing.  Don’t stop.  Tell your stories.  Write down what happened to you.  Remember all the bullshit and write it.  Yes, all the Bad Care.  All the times they put you in restraints illegally, all the times they yanked you around as if you were a dog on a choke collar, cuz you know it happened.  All the times you were thrown into empty rooms, all the times you were stripped down and your stuff was taken from you, your valuables lost and never returned to you, please, tell everything.  Why?  Because there is no reason not to.

I am being denied care because they are afraid of my writing.  Yep.  They are scared.  They lied to Dr. P.  What they told her was not true.  Of course, she herself was not involved in my inpatient treatment while I was there anyway.  Is any of this legal?

Jeez…forced….

I am screamingly funny, Puzzle is the cutest and life is a big joke

Well, yes, it’s true….I’ve got a darn cute dog.  We were out today and she got an awful lot of cuteness compliments.  I told folks she always wins those types of contests.  Just joking around.  Saying that I was older than her, you know, she being only six-and-a-half, you can kinda tell that maybe I am a little older than that.

Someone said, “You are only as old as you feel.”

Well, tell that to the insurance companies.  Tell that to the drug makers.  Tell that to Dr. P.

So I walked into my appointment today pretty much knowing what I was gonna hear.  That she is leaving her practice at the big hospital where she works.

So instead of going in there wicked early today, I sat outside the big place and enjoyed the outdoors, me and Puzzle, just hangin’ for a bit.  Yep, that’s about when Puzzle got the compliments.   I’m telling you, she was obsessed about this piece of gum on the ground that someone had spat out, just staring at the darned thing for quite a while.  I know she was thinking about nabbing it.  Dogs love gross stuff.

I do recall that was a topic earlier, at a church get-together.  Someone said her dog had rolled in poop and then she had hosed her dog down.  I believe that started off our conversation.  Now, how weird is that?  The conversation went on to the topic of me, myself, eventually, that is, Julie, and I guess the folks who were there were drinking tea and telling me I am depressed and isolated and never leave the house and stuff  like that.  We have an agreement that we don’t talk about what’s talked about outside of there, but I think the rolling in poop thing is rather universal and…screamingly funny…which is why I think nobody minds me sharing it right now.   And the me part is me, so I can tell you.  And you know already about me hanging around here and not going out, if you’ve been reading this blog for a bit.

So I guess I cried my eyes out.  Which may or may not have been a good thing.   You guys know I think crying is pretty much okay and right and healthy and if you start to cry, you sure got the right to do it and it ain’t against any law.  That’s the cool thing about crying.  It doesn’t hurt anyone to do it, and you can cry pretty much anywhere.  You can cry on a bus, and no one will notice cuz they are busy with their cell phones and ipods.  You can cry yourself to sleep, and the next morning, you might not remember except there will be little goo spots on your pillowcase, and then you’ll tell yourself, “Oh, gee, yeah, some asshole was mean to me yesterday,” or whatever the reason was that you were crying about. Or you will get to your desk and see the damn credit card bill you were crying about and start crying all over again realizing you still have to pay some of it.  Or you might wake up in the middle of the night and feel your dog on top of you and realize, “Gee, what a miracle, I am alive and breathing,” which was pretty much what I said to myself in the middle of the night last night for whatever reason.

Which I did not tell Dr. P.  No, I hardly told her anything, because I got a damn lecture when I finally reached her office. I suppose I never know exactly what to expect from these appointments.  And as I write this right now, I realize she’s gonna come to this site and read these words,  maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. So I’d better be screamingly funny and make it all worth her while.  Yes, Dr. P spoke about me and my writing stuff online.

Oh, Dr. P, I have never called you anything else.  Cuz I know I’d get in trouble if I called you Dr. Poop if that in fact was your real name, but it isn’t.

Dr. P, don’t you realize the hospital is lying to you, covering its ass about the abuse in 2011?  If they in fact had been limiting me to four glasses of water a day due to “dangerously low sodium, due to polydipsia….” which is what you said today….No, this does not add up.  Do you want to know why?

Dr. P, you said you had put me on “suicide watch,” while I was on a medical floor.  Okay, that in the first place was not right, but I am not going to argue that right now.  So I was being watched 24/7, followed constantly, right?  I was too weak to walk on my own, and I never went to a canteen, so I was brought everything I drank by the nursing staff.  If I recall correctly, I inspected everything they brought me.  I made sure everything they brought was calorie-free, so every can of diet ginger ale had to be unopened.  I insisted on this, and if the can was opened already by the nurse, I would not drink it for fear that the nurse had snuck in some sugar or something with calories to fatten me up while I was not looking.  Anyone with a severe eating disorder might have this fear.   I also insisted that the vegetables not have butter on them, but the butter be on the side.  Again, folks with eating disorders are like this.  You folks with eating disorders know this deal well.

So everything I ate and drank was controlled by the nursing staff, Dr. P.  How could polydipsia occur?  If I were drinking too much, they would just have decided to stop bringing stuff, or just said, “Julie, you can’t have any more.”  I remember I came in severely dehydrated and they were very happy that I was finally drinking things.  Upon my arrival, I was immediately given two bags of fluids, rapidly, in the ER.  And if this were true, why was I not told this once?  I was not once told in the psych unit that my sodium was “dangerously low” and I was instead many times told “four eight-ounce bottles of water is protocol for eating disorders patients on this unit” and given no medical reason for this “protocol.”  Once, I was told it was to “prevent edema,” and once, I was told it had something to do with “refeeding syndrome” and I was repeatedly told that this was some kind of torture that I had to endure or like some kind of religious discipline, not drinking water the way I had taught myself at home to stay away from food.

Well, fuck you, all you doctors.  All of you.  Sometime around when I was 27, a doctor named Charles Capers (probably dead, so it doesn’t matter now about fucking liability) never checked my lithium level, and was practicing without a license anyway (no, I had no clue, nor did my parents, who were paying him a fortune probably because he refused to do his fucking insurance paperwork because he couldn’t…with no license, right?) so my kidneys got kinda messed up.  Now, back then, folks, lotsa patients ended up with wrecked up kidneys, cuz a lot of doctors were not particularly careful with lithium.  So lots of us ended up with lithium-induced nephrogenic diabetes insipidus.  That’s what I have.  It means not too much except your kidneys don’t work right anymore.  Permanently.   And folks like us have to drink a lot of water to make up for it.  Do you hear me loud and clear?  Our kidneys spit out too much water.  That’s why I am thirsty a lot more than most people.  The thirst I feel is natural and right and it’s my own body telling me the right thing to do and I’ve done it all my life.  I’ve never particularly thought about it until your fucking hospital decided to torture me by limiting me to four tiny bottles a day.  And yeah, if I’d stayed and not left AMA, I would have shriveled up like…remember that orange in that show…when they were all arguing…Gilligan’s Island?  When they were arguing about vitamin C and who was going to have that last orange? Who was the most important and deserving of that one vital orange, the one that contained Vitamin C, and while they were all sitting there arguing over the fucking orange, it shriveled up into nothing?  Yes, Dr. P.  Julie Greene right there on that fucking psych unit holding her pencil, writing about everything that was happening around her, making sure everything that happened to her got recorded, because she felt for some reason the world should know, would have shriveled up just like that orange.

So who is most important, most deserving of that vital last bit of life?  If you could change one thing in your life, make one thing different, what would it be?  If you could change the world, what would you change?

Imagine: world peace.  If you could only say the words, WORLD PEACE, and this would make this thing, world peace, happen, imagine this.

Now imagine, if you could make yourself happy by saying, “I am happy.”  Imagine that for a moment.

Imagine nobody ever having to live on fucking 844 dollars a month.  Imagine that.  Imagine never being told this is what you “deserve.”  Imagine saying, “There is no bullying in the world.”  And presto.  Bullying no longer exists.  Anywhere.

Wow, I am saying that what you say is powerful, ladies.  Personal is political.

So Puzzle and I came home.  On the bus ride, I made a few phone calls.  Told my minister I was looking forward to doing a bunch of writing.   Told him at least I have a lot to write about.

And folks, I have been denied care by the big hospital because I of liability.  No, not because of any medical reason, but because I will not shut my trap.  And I do not intend to.  Yes, I’ve been denied care because of my words.  Right here.

Never, ever shut up.

I will not back down.

And I don’t want you to, either.

Goodnight.

 

 

What happened on Friday (I am writing this on Sunday)

Every Friday, our church puts out a newsletter.  I always feel good getting the newsletter.  It makes me feel like I matter.

I read the newsletter.  Lately, I’ve been sort of skimming it.  Like I feel sort of pissed off at things, so I skim and say, “Well, I’m not gonna be there, so what does it matter?”

Then I saw something that hit me real hard. And I didn’t know what to say or think.

It was the photo taken of us folks that attended last year’s Pride Parade.  I knew I was in the photo, but I sort of couldn’t find myself.  Then, there I was.

I saw myself so damn fat I almost cried.

I asked myself, “Why didn’t I kill myself, I looked so horrid and bloated?  Why did I allow myself to go on living looking like that?  Why did I allow my photo to be taken looking like that?”

In a mere second, everything seemed to change.

I was pissed off that the photo was in the newsletter, for every church member to see.  Me fat.  Jesus.

Now, I don’t want to march in the parade this year.  I don’t want to be seen and I don’t want to leave the  house.  Even for Pride.

I took Puzzle out wearing a fucking knee-length raincoat tonight.   And no, it wasn’t raining.  I was hiding the weight gain.

Well, I suppose if I can lose 20 or 30 pounds in a week, then I’ll march in Boston’s Gay Pride Parade and feel okay about myself again.  Otherwise, there ain’t gonna be no photos, please.

A post I wrote last night, written by a person desperate for care for her eating disorder

Apparently I wrote a post last night but forgot to post it.  It’s a good thing I did not post it, and I’m going to post it here tonight, but I am going to edit out some parts of it.  I am not going to correct the typos.

Here it is:

will I live or die, and does any9he really care? In case you are wondering about the tyoes, I have been having trouble with my keyboard that I have had for a milion years.  It’s  a terible waste of time going back and correcting every single one, so I am lettting them stand and I apologize for tthis in adavance.

I ran into someone from church at at al places, the sleeziest liquour store in town.

Now, I am not buying liquor to get drunk or get high. I am buying liquor so it will clash with the meds I presntly take and defelop a very baad reaction.  I am hoing that thsis bad reaction is that I an totally unconsious.  If I am unconcious, I will nt binge eat.

This, folks, is the level of desperation I have reached.

I  have no care if I live or die because so few humans actually give a shit about me anymore.

I’m sure my blood levels, eveyry signgle one of them,is way off.

I’m gonna die without real treatment soon. treamtne dont dicted by insurnce but but by dictaed by real medcal kowleddge. apparently, htese commeunitactions have not tken place.

I have a shrink appintment schedule for next wendesday atfternoon.  I see no point in showing up uness there is sme ocmmuincation between person x and my practioner.

If you are rich and have never knwn what it is lie to scrape then trust me, you ar clueless.

I happenignng to be logged ito hy facegok facge at teh omemet,, more info is goven ther, but it is cagey,

Folks, I am not the oly one who is dying.  Man y other s are. Spmeting has to do be done.

Beweare of practitioners who charge an arm and a l let forservodes;  the are bogus.

[edited out]

God help me,  don’t ko whow i nyone heasrs hw =at aoam saigng, or ebn blieves me.

**********************

Please note: I wrote this post last night.  I saved the draft, then copied it onto this post.  I am okay today and rested all day. What happened afterward was this:

I guess I got really delirious.  I did not drink very much alcohol, but whatever I took was enough to put me into a very bad physical state.  I was unable to stand up.  Every time I tried to stand up, I fell.  I broke a bunch of things in the apartment, including a shelf of one of my bookshelves, and furniture got knocked over.  I ended up with a bloody nose. Books were all over the place.

I was stupid enough to post to Facebook. For whatever reason, I posted to Facebook on a private page for people at my graduate school.  I suppose folks were concerned.  Eventually I made it to bed and went to sleep.

As it turned out, someone saw what I had written and deciphered all the typos, figured out that I had fallen a number of times, and phoned the police.

I got to the door and I suppose the police decided I was coherent and okay and they didn’t even come inside.  Little Puzzle scared them off.  I signed a paper saying I refused an ambulance.  No way did I want to go to an ER.

I have more info for you.  In another post, I will tell you.

sick and all alone in the world

Guess that ab0ut sums it up.

The police were here AGAIN last night.  No, I didn’t call them.  Someone else did.  I was dumb and for whatever reason, posted something rather incoherent on Facebook.  Two hours later, I guess someone saw it on Facebook, got concerned, and called

OUR GREAT HERO WATERTOWN COPS

who got as far as the doorbway and no further, thanks to scary little Puzzle (she’s a teensy 14-lb Schnoodle) and then I told them to please leave.

I guess I’d been asleep about two hours when they arrived.  I did not appreciate being woken up.

My CBFS worker called today.  She was clueless that any of this had happened.  Of course, I said nothing.  I told her I did not want her over here.  Our conversations are not helpful to me at all and I do not want her here, period.  She asked me if I had a medical appointment set up yet.

Well, has SHE helped me get a medical appointment set up?  Surely, not.

I’m telling you, these people do nothing.  They spend more time playing with their cell phones than anything else.

Meanwhile, last night, I smashed into a bookcase and knocked over a bunch of books.  They are lying on the floor.  I fell a number of times.  Like every time I tried to stand, I fell.  Another time, a dish broke.  Another time, somehow, my nose started bleeding.  Some of the furniture got knocked over.

But hey, I am alive and the roof hasn’t caved in.

I slept a bunch today.

Puzzle is right here beside me.

I might go back to sleep.

Will I get that medical appointment this coming week, or will I have to wait yet another week?  I have that shrink appointment, which will probably be a waste.

Now, they say David Foster Wallace’s suicide was “justified.”  That he was suffering and that he’d “tried everything.”

Well, he was famous and probably had money, too, and had lots of friends and fellow writers who supported him and I do not have money and I lose friends {probably cuz I have no money and no car to drive people around in) so if I do something like that, it’s not justified, it’s selfish.  Go figure.

My phone actually rang last night

It was the usual recorded message reminding me of the appointment that’s been scheduled for ages now with Dr. P.  A recording.  Not a human voice.  I think a good 80% of the calls I get are recordings, and the remaining 20% are wrong numbers.

I refuse to go to this appointment unless Dr. P and Person X have an actual conversation with each other prior to my seeing Dr. P. I don’t mean phone tag.  I mean a conversation.

Otherwise, it’s yet another wasted 20 minutes of mine and Dr. P’s time.  I waste Medicare and Medicaid money.  That’s your tax dollars, folks.

It’s going to be a long, long weekend.  A hot one.  But my AC works, and I actually own a little fan now that sends the air from the living room into my bedroom.  I bought it for a steal.  Smart thinking, eh?

I am sleeping the day away.  Me and Puzzle, cuddling up.

Human interaction

According to my Google Voice records,  the last phone call I received on my home phone number was two days ago from person X.  We spoke for about 15  minutes about how on earth I was going to get care.

So far, no such “care” has happened.

What the heck is “care” anyway?

According to my Google Voice records, my CBFS worker called three days ago and I told her I did not want her to come over here, but I gave her permission to phone me.  She has not phoned since, however I do know that she does not work Thursdays or Fridays. She is rather useless and I see no point in talking to her anyway.  I’ve discussed this enough on here and I don’t want to get into it further right now.

Now regarding this “care,” I’m supposedly going to get a “therapist,” but so far, no “therapist” has phoned me and said, “Hey, Julie, I’m so-and-so and I’m from such-and-such agency, and person X or your CBFS worker has contacted me and I’d like to set up and appointment with you….”

I did ask my CBFS worker to inquire about therapists, and person X is supposedly looking into the matter as well.  If, indeed there are openings….Person X was going to speak, I mean have an actual voice-to-voice conversation with said therapist….I guess this has not happened.

Actually, it was two weeks ago that my CBFS worker was supposed to get back to me about the matter of the therapists, and she did not.

But more than this so-called therapy, I need a medical appointment.  Now it is late Friday and no medical appointment has happened.  I guess my doctor has been poisoned, as I said in my previous blog entry, by a spiked pina colada, while vacationing in Aruba.

Person X said that if she could not get my regular primary care doctor to TAKE ACTION, she would find another doctor for me.  So maybe that’s what’s in the works.  I’m kinda scared to make any phone calls to find out whatever bad news is in store for me, such as….

…there is a six-month waiting list for doctors….

…there are no primary care physicians specializing in eating disorders that take Medicare and Medicaid (actually, I’m sure this is true, it’s got to be) that accept ADULTS……

….Julie, you are fucked……

Guess what?  I am 55 and alive, and you know something?  The doctor who told me, back in the 1980’s, that eating disorders were not very important, that they were minor and that people with eating disorders were probably “faking it” and that he would not even bother seeing me because schiz and bipolar were oh so much more serious….

He’s dead, of course.

More power to me.

Well, the time passes, the phone has not rung in two days, but I did make a business call I think the night before last that (as I think I told you) I sort of screwed up and resulted in the clearing out of my checking account.  I now have negative balance in there due to a red tape error.  No, I have not lost money or fallen for a scam, it was just a paypal thingy. I was dealing with an honest company and it was not my fault or the fault of the company, the whole thing happened  in a flash and then I figured it out, but I’ve got money in temporarily locked my paypal account instead of my checking account. Anyone who does business with PayPal knows the deal, and has probably made the same error.  On the third, namely Monday, I will get my federal check.  The remaining negative balance will come out of that, and then I’ll have something in my checking account again…until it all runs out rather shortly.  And life goes on.  I have never before overdrawn my checking account so I have no clue what the overdraft fee will be.

Bigger than a breadbox?  Or do we not talk about food?

And I have $13 left in food stamps and thankfully, some cash, and Puzzle has plenty of meat (which is why I only have $13 left in food stamps to last me till the 11th).

But I wasn’t going to talk about all those minor glitches.

Every doctor on the planet is off for the weekend and taking the next month off, folks.  There are no covering doctors, so don’t have appendicitis or break a bone or you are screwed.  Never mind something trivial and vain such as an eating disorder.  Those things can wait, right?  I’ve been waiting for “care” for 34 years now.  Maybe I’m just “faking it,” like that doctor said back in 1982, shortly before Karen Carpenter died.  Only the doctor himself died, so we can’t really cross-examine him on the witness stand.  Maybe he is only playing dead, but he’s been playing dead a while himself.   I mean, when they rolled back the stone and found Jesus not there, it had only been three days.  If we roll back the stone on this doctor, it’s sure gonna stink bad, whether he’s there or not.

 

Friday, and life goes on

I was told on Monday that I should see a doctor immediately, preferably that day, even though it was Memorial Day.  Person X tried to get me an appointment, but I guess there was no communication, or she communicated with the wrong people.

I do know she has communicated directly, that is, voice-to-voice, actual conversations, with the head of Team 2 of CBFS.  However, CBFS is a totally useless organization that does nothing.   I mean, they are not even going to give me a RIDE to the doctor’s, so what’s the use of talking to these people?

I guess there is still no communication with anyone medical.  It’s mid-Friday and I have not seen a doctor, not had any blood tests, not seen a stethoscope, not had an EKG, not had my blood pressure taken (not that I need it) not been weighed…and I sure don’t WANT to be weighed but you get the point.

Are all these MD’s on vacation?  Are they all on pregnancy leave?  Have they all been in car accidents?  Are they all in comas?  Maybe they are all in Aruba, sipping on pina coladas.

Friday, and I am still alive, and meanwhile someone has slipped poison into those pina coladas.