Police let Corporation Investigate Itself

James Square Rehab Centre and I have been arguing about my use of my power wheelchair. I do what I normally have done over the past decade and then, after the fact, James Square gets upset about it. Before the fact, James Square, despite repeated requests, has failed to put anything into writing.

I have requested, in writing, a statement of James Square’s official policy regarding the use of a power wheelchair by their residents. They haven’t produced such a policy. I have no idea what to do until after somebody thinks I’ve done something wrong.

So last night I woke up in the middle of the night to see a nurse and an aide moving around my wheelchair. I said, “What are you doing?”

They replied “We need an extension cord.”

The wheelchair, which was billed at $8500, is my personal property. I replied, “Well you don’t take it from me! Get out!” And they got out.

The next day, when I sat in the wheelchair and went to turn it on, it wouldn’t work. The charger and the batteries had been stolen. I called the police.

The police called James Square. Instead of sending a copper or two to take my complaint, they arranged for James Square to investigate the incident themselves.

Yep, the employees who had stolen from me would be investigated by their supervisor. And no, I have not been allowed to speak to the sergeant who made this decision.

In the first place, the lying sneaks at James Square stole from me under cover of darkness, and in the second place, the police let them investigate themselves.

Anybody but me think that this is really not the way things should be done?

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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