I WON!!!

The way I know I won is that the judge turned to me, smiled, and said, “You win.”

The Iroquois Nursing Home had the burden of proof, consequently they went first.  I never got to testify because the Iroquois failed to prove that they’d done a proper discharge.

So I’ve got this perfectly good testimony and instead of letting it go to waste, I’m going to share it with you.  You are so-o-o lucky!

I was admitted to Iroquois Nursing Home with Dr. Richard Lockwood attending.  He did not do his job, then lied about it.  I filed a formal complaint.  Then Lockwood concocted a false story of me being mentally ill in order to send me to the hospital and get me off the Iroquois premises.  Once I was out the door, the Iroquois refused to let me back in.  I now am homeless and living in an isolation room of an acute-care hospital because of the negligence, fraud and retaliation visited upon me by Dr. Richard Lockwood and the Iroquois Nursing Home.

Sometimes, when a family no longer wants to deal with granny and her multiple ills, they drive up to the hospital, put granny in the ER waiting room, and drive away.  They abandon her to become the hospital’s problem.  That’s basically what Lockwood and the Iroquois have done to me.

Dr. Richard Lockwood, as attending physician on the Alzheimer’s and rehabilitation floors, was required to do a physical examination and medical assessment when he admitted me; see me at any time for any urgent problem; and see me every thirty days.

Here’s what he actually did:  When I was admitted on Thursday, June 27, he walked into my room with Nurse Manager Krista Hardter, introduced himself, shook my hand, and said he’d have me out of there in no time.  Since I was supposed to be there until I died, I found that a pretty shocking statement.  Suspecting that Lockwood didn’t know that I was not there for rehab, I said, “I’m here for palliative care.”  He looked at the nurse, she nodded yes, and he said, “I haven’t read your hospital discharge summary yet,” then left the room.  I didn’t see him again until he shipped me out of the Iroquois 13 days later.

When I got a copy of my Progress Notes, I saw that Krista Hardter’s note [Progress Notes, page3] said, “Dr. Lockwood saw resident for admission assessment.”  Apparently, at the Iroquois, it had become standard practice for a 90-second meet-and-greet to be passed off as an “admission assessment.”  Another nurse told me that the doctors just do a review of the hospital discharge summary without seeing the patient.  Nursing Supervisor Susan Greer repeatedly insisted that I had been seen and had gotten my admission assessment.

This was not a medical assessment.  A maintenance man could just as easily have entered my room, mistaken me for a rehab patient, and not have read my discharge summary.  The exchange between Dr. Lockwood and I did not rise to the level of needing a medical degree.

Nevertheless, the next day, June 28, Lockwood wrote an “Admission History and Physical” note that was not posted until three days later.  His first sentence was “The patient is seen and examined by me.”  [Prog Note pg8-9]

  • He notes that I have “diabetes insipidus due to lithium toxicity,” which would be nephrogenic diabetes insipidus, but later he attributes the DI to the central nervous system, which would be neurogenic.  In a final note, he calls it psychogenic DI.  Lockwood doesn’t know what he’s talking about.  If he ever had asked me, I could have told him the history of testing that unequivocally established the diagnosis as nephrogenic DI.
  • Lockwood stated that I was taking Klonopin for anxiety.  I was not.  I was taking Clonodine. [PN p8-9]
  • He stated that “She takes when she wants when she wants.”  Nobody has the slightest idea what he meant.
  • Lockwood said that I have spinal stenosis.  I do not.  Dr. Ronald Fish, my attending psychologist, had spinal stenosis and was on his way out for surgery.  Lockwood could not distinguish between his patient and his patient’s other health care provider.
  • He reports the details of an “Examination:  General” that he never did, and “Laboratory Data” from tests he never ordered.
  • Nowhere does Lockwood reference chronic hyperglycemia of two years duration or my blood sugar being over 400, which is why I am on palliative care.

Lockwood’s note is a page and a half long and appears to have been copied from my hospital discharge summary.  As Board Member Barbara Drapola said when she read it, “This is troubling, most troubling.”

There were many other problems with Lockwood’s admission note, most particularly he does not address the problem of “immune dysfunction, type unknown, causing hypersensitivity to medications” as diagnosed by Dr. James Tucker, previously my personal physician, and a director at St. Joseph’s Hospital.

Chronic hyperglycemia causes depression and irritability, among other things.  I needed medication to control this pain.  Because of the immune dysfunction, it would be very difficult to find a tolerable drug.  I needed to talk to Dr. Lockwood—and, despite multiple daily requests to aides, nurses, nurse managers and Nursing Supervisor Susan Greer, Lockwood did not see me.  I was sick, needed pain medication, and the doctor would not come.  At Crouse Hospital, we have tried to treat with Xanax, Clonodine, D-something (?), wine, oxycodone and Ambien.

The doctors and nurse practitioner at Crouse are working with me as Lockwood should have.  There would have been no “meltdowns,” agitation or ‘difficulties working with the patient’ if I’d been properly medicated.  Lockwood chose to characterize me as a psychiatric patient without getting close enough to learn that I was sick and suffering from diabetes side-effects.  Even if I was suffering psychiatric illness, Lockwood still had a responsibility to treat.  He shipped me off for a psychiatric evaluation without even trying the treatment recommended by the Crouse psychiatrist, which Lockwood referenced in his notes.  [PN p9]  (To be continued)

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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