Who Will Act for the Activist?


I have been fully disabled since 1991 having, among other things, uncontrolled diabetes mellitus, nephrogenic diabetes insipidus with an indwelling catheter, chronic kidney disease, immune dysfunction type unknown, and using an electric wheelchair.

On June 27, I was admitted to Iroquois Nursing Home with Dr. Richard Lockwood attending.  He did not do a medical assessment, physical examination, laboratory work or respond to requests for pain medication.

I made requests to see Lockwood as far up as Nursing Supervisor Sue Greer; she repeatedly shook her head, waved her hands and said she wouldn’t discuss it.

I left a message for the administrator, Sonja somebody, who never returned my call.

On July 8, I filed complaints with the NYS Long-Term Ombudsman, which never followed up with me, and the NYS Dept. of Health, nursing home hotline.

On July 9, Alice from the DOH Case Resolution Unit told me she would be following up with Iroquois.

On July 10, Lockwood saw me for six minutes and then worked with Greer to get me railroaded into the Crouse Hospital ER for a psych evaluation.  The ER chief wouldn’t even call a psychiatrist because it was clear that I had no emergent psychiatric problem.  When he tried to return me to the Iroquois, the Iroquois refused to take me back.  The psych consult had been a wrongful ploy to get me off the property.

When my Power of Attorney got my medical records, I read Lockwood’s 1½ pages of admitting notes which included medical history, physical exam and lab work that he never did.

Richard Lockwood did not attend me, which is negligence; wrote notes that implied he had, which is fraud; and acted in concert with the Iroquois to evict me from my home, which is retaliation—not to mention being pretty mean and a nasty way to treat a trusting human being.  God will get him for that one.

Meanwhile, I have been living bed-ridden in an isolation room in Crouse Hospital with nothing to do but watch television for two weeks.  The royal baby is not that interesting.  I want out!

I have called the NYS Attorney General’s Office, which says it can’t do anything.

I have filed a complaint with the director of advocacy, Rosemary Lamb, at the NYS Justice Center.  I was told that it was being referred to CNY Legal.  I have not been able to get any response from anyone at the Justice Center or at CNY Legal.

(Late news flash:  After I left messages for Lamb, her boss, her boss’s boss and the director of the Justice Center, Lamb sent me an email that included the information that she’s done nothing on my case for twelve days.  That’s $19,668 for hospital room and board, and too much suffering for me.)

I have filed a Medicaid complaint with a director at NYS DOH who said he passed it on, but I have heard nothing back from anyone there.

I have filed a complaint with the president of the Iroquois’ Board of Directors.  He has neither acknowledged receipt of my complaint nor returned my phone calls.  His name is Mark Murphy and he is a senior vice president at St. Joseph’s Hospital.

At least two of the members of the board of directors had a meeting with top administrators of the Iroquois:  they talked about me; they did not talk about Lockwood!

I am not the issue!  I have done exactly what I was supposed to do.  Richard Lockwood and the Iroquois Nursing Home have engaged in negligence, fraud and retaliation but I am the one being punished!

Somebody please do something to help me.  Call somebody.  Give me some suggestions.  How the hell do I get any traction to get back to my bed at the Iroquois?  Who will advocate for me?

I have been the activist and advocate for a dozen years.  Now that I’m on palliative care, who will act and advocate for me?

Who will explain to the administrator of the Iroquois that Lockwood has to go and I have to be returned?

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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