Iroquois, Dr. Lockwood, and Sue Greer, R.N.


7/9  To Gerry,

Yesterday Steve Wechsler was waiting for a call from Lockwood.
I filed complaints with the NYS Long-Term Ombudsman and NYS DOH hotline for nursing homes.
Lockwood has passed my door twice this morning, once standing out of sight and telling someone else that he runs six miles a day, three days a week.
I am having trouble with loss of appetite and nausea, which I believe are drug reactions.

7/10  To Mickey

I awoke at 5:45 a.m., having slept longer and better than usual.  The aide was emptying my catheter bag.  I went to the bathroom and when I came out, the night nurse and Dr. Lockwood were in my room.  Surprised, I stumbled around, trying to get back into bed, while they stood with their hands folded and watched me.  I was gasping for breath—that pulmonary fibrosis thing.

Lockwood wanted to know what I wanted.  I started by asking for finger sticks, which he refused.  Why would I want them?  Because of my cognitive failure, I need reality feedback, I said.  He said, then we’ll tell you:  your glucose is 359 or 450.

I did not have the presence of mind to ask how he would know.  Oh, he wouldn’t know!  He would just travel on old numbers.  How quaint.  Since coming to the Iroquois, and stopping my medication, I have been feeling absolutely terrific (as evidence of how good I’m feeling, I give you the fact that I didn’t go off screaming at this asshole).

What if my glucose was so high from the stress of being forgotten to death?  My GFR went from a barely-living 32 to an almost-normal 58 based solely on sleep.  What if my glucose were to go from near-fatal to near-normal based solely on a caring community?  I guess we’ll never know since the asshole is not going to check glucose levels.

I was arguing for a little reality check and Lockwood was arguing that if you’re not going to treat then there’s no point in knowing.  I had made my point and he had decided not to understand or cooperate, so I quit the argument and moved on to the hypothyroidism.  Lockwood’s position was very simple:  if I wasn’t going to take medication then he wouldn’t do the test.  My position was, do the test, then we’ll talk about treatment.

There was a knock on the door and Lockwood turned to the door and ordered it to shut up and go away.  I knew that behind the door was Tom, with my juice, coffee, and hot Danish.  Tom was perfectly capable of coming in, setting it down, and withdrawing without creating a disturbance.  And I wanted my stuff.  And they tell me that this is my home. Who the hell is Richard Lockwood to take over my home and order away my first coffee?  Nobody orders away his coffee.

This guy is a son of bitch.  I had invited him to sit down; he had refused.  Apparently it was because he has a rod so far up his butt that he can’t bend.  At one point I pronounced Dr. Lebowitz’s name incorrectly (he had the misfortune to enter my life after the cognitive loss was established) and Lockwood sharply corrected me.  He was standing by my right shoulder where I had to twist my neck to see him.  I had to ask him to move around in front to where I could see him.

Then we moved on to anti-anxiety medication.  Lockwood wants to go with Falci’s recommendation, telling me that Falci is well-respected in the community.  Not in my community, he’s not.  I tell the doctor and nurse the little story of Falci referring to himself as “we” and what a number he would have done on me if I’d referred to myself as “we.”

Lockwood tells me that Falci’s recommendation of some medication I’ve never heard of was based on the idea that it wouldn’t cause me to drink more.  Let us keep in mind that Falci thought I was drinking to excess because I was neurotic.  He neither knew nor inquired about the nature of my kidney damage, which causes me to drink so much.  So here’s what we have:  a psychiatrist does a really bad patient interview, then commits it to writing.  The current attending physician reads it and bases his treatment plan on it instead of interviewing the patient.

I then tried to explain my history of immune dysfunction, type unknown, resulting in hypersensitivity to medications.  Lockwood’s response was ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’  He demanded that I move on, so I asked for a medication consult with Dr. Ghaly.  Lockwood ordered it to be so and walked out.

Good riddance to bad trash.  Tom came in with my coffee, et cetera, and life goes on.  The only thing accomplished by Lockwood’s visit is that he got a chance to learn what kind of woman I am. Hopefully that will moderate his behavior in the future.

7/10  To Melia

The Iroquois refused to take me back.  Tomorrow the medical director of Crouse and Barbara Drapola, who is director of care coordination at Crouse and a board member over the Iroquois, are going out for a site visit at the Iroquois.  They decided this with Dr. Kronenberg, CEO of Crouse.

It is absolutely clear that after Dr. Lockwood saw me this morning, he and Nursing Supervisor Sue Greer decided to get rid of me.  HA!  I figure on going back.  I like it there, except for Sue and Lockwood.

I am spending the night in Crouse Hospital’s Emergency Department’s Clinical Decision Unit, Room 4409.  (Since this is part of the Emergency Dept., it is not considered an admission.)

Seriously tired–and probably in very bad shape tomorrow from all the stress today, but safe, sound and fed.

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
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One Response to Iroquois, Dr. Lockwood, and Sue Greer, R.N.

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