The IPRO Appeal (Part II)

Greer’s communication with Steve was such that Steve said to her, “You’re trying to get rid of Anne, aren’t you?”  Then the call was interrupted by another call.  (I later was told Greer was talking to Lockwood.)  Steve says that when Greer came back on, her tone had changed and she announced that I was being sent to Crouse for a psychiatric evaluation.

Greer came to my room and told me.  I asked why.  She replied, “Because even you admitted that you had a complete meltdown on Saturday.”

I replied, “And today is Wednesday.”

Greer said, “This morning you spoke loudly and used swear words.”

(N.B. The Iroquois maintains an Alzheimer’s unit; I assume they are accustomed to dealing with loud speech and curse words.)  When I asked who would decide what happened to me after the psych eval, Greer said that would be up the hospital.

When the ambulance came, Greer announced that they would pack up all my belongings and they would be safe.  I proposed that she not do that until after the hospital had made its decision.  Clearly, they were trying to get rid of me.

In fact, Greer and Lockwood, working together, manufactured a false story of psychiatric disturbance in order to get me off the Iroquois premises.  I believe this to have been in retaliation for me filing an appropriate complaint with the NYS Dept. of Health against Lockwood.

In the Emergency Dept. at Crouse, I was interviewed by both a nurse practitioner and the ER chief.  They both concluded that I was fine and there was no justification to bother a psychiatrist to do another unnecessary evaluation.  The ER wanted to discharge me back to the Iroquois, which is what I also wanted.

The Iroquois refused to take me.

I am now homeless because the Iroquois staff kept telling me that the Iroquois was my home, and my POA started shutting down my apartment.

I was admitted to the Crouse ED on July 10 and admitted to an inpatient bed on July 11.

The CEO of Crouse and other top administrators as well as Steve and me have been having serious discussions with the administrators of the Iroquois.  Steve got a copy of my medical records.

Starting on page 8 is a page-and-a-half note from Lockwood.  It is dated 6/28, the day after I was admitted, but it was not posted until 7/1.  It is headed “ADMISSION HISTORY AND PHYSICAL.”  It is a complete fabrication.  Lockwood has described a history that he never took and an examination and lab work that he never did.  Most appalling, Lockwood asserts “She is taking Klonopin for anxiety . . .”  In fact, I was taking clonidine.  The attending physician does not know what he has prescribed for his patient.

Richard Lockwood not only has failed to meet the standards set by the Dept. of Health, but also appears to be engaging in Medicare/Medicaid fraud in that he claims to have provided services which he did not.

Meanwhile, Crouse Hospital is taking good care of me.  In addition to the uncontrollable diabetes mellitus, I also have nephrogenic diabetes insipidus with a 24-hour urine of seven liters, stage 3 kidney failure, severe and unstable obstructive sleep apnea, pulmonary fibrosis and a bunch of other stuff.  I drink a lot, don’t eat much, sleep a lot, and have increasingly severe chest pains.  I am on palliative care.  For months, all I have been asking is to be kept comfortable until I die, which Crouse is doing.

Crouse is trying to find an appropriate discharge.  I was very happy at the Iroquois with its dining room, friendly patients (and their families), activities, aides, LPNs and nurse managers.  I would like very much to go back to the rehab unit there (rehab because I am cognitively competent, as are the rehabbers) but without Richard Lockwood, M.D.

It is not fair for Crouse Hospital to have to absorb the cost of my care.  I think you—the IPRO?  Medicare?  Medicaid?  The DOH?—should pay Crouse for housing me pending a safe discharge, then go sue the hell out of the Iroquois and make them pay you back.

Or, better yet, make Lockwood pay.

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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