And now a little venting…

Apparently I use big words when I’m upset.  My last Facebook status:

Kay is angry and upset and annoyed and aggravated and patricidal…

I got off work tonight feeling okay.  I wasn’t in a great mood, but I wasn’t in a rotten mood, either.  I was just okay.  Then I dug my phone out of  my purse and discovered I had two voicemails.  The first one was from my dad, whose voice was still hoarse from being on a ventilator last week.  The second was from a nurse.  Both messages were to inform me that he was being released from the hospital tonight and I needed to come and pick him up.  WTF?????

The nurse said that if I had any questions, I could give them a call and left a number for me.  I promptly called it and got a hold of someone who promptly put me on hold.  I think I was on hold for close to ten minutes.  I finally got to talk to a nurse and she told me that my dad refused to go to the inpatient rehab clinic in the hospital, which is where all his doctors think he belongs, and he refuses to go to a nursing home, which was their second choice.  They said since he’s refusing all treatment options and just wants to go home, they have no choice but to let him.  I assume, of course, that they’re discharging him against medical advice and I assume, too, that he doesn’t give a rat’s behind if it’s against medical advice or not.  He is so goddamned stubborn!

And so now I’m very angry.  And frustrated.  And I need a drink.  And a hug.  And perhaps some therapy.  Or maybe he’s the one who needs therapy.  I can understand his desire not to go to a nursing home because I sure as hell don’t ever want to be in one, but he needs some freaking help and I can’t do it all.  Bev can’t do it all.  Any nurses they might send in can’t do it all because they won’t be there round the clock and knowing him, he’ll refuse any in-home assistance, too, because he’s too STUBBORN for his own good.  You can’t reason with him; it’s like talking to a brick wall – you could talk till you’re blue in the face and it won’t do any good.  My sister’s the same way.  I’m sorely tempted to drive up there tonight and let him have it; if I thought it would do any good, I’d be in my car right now.

I spent most of my drive home on the phone either with the hospital discussing his incredible obstinacy or with my attorney discussing my apparently non-existant options.  He needs help but is too stubborn and stupid to take it when it’s offered and I can’t ensure that he gets the help he needs because my hands are tied.  I have his Power of Attorney, but since he’s not unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, it doesn’t do me a darn bit of good.  Unless I can get the doctors to declare him unfit to make decisions concerning his health care, he’s going to go home tomorrow night and probably get hurt and there’s nothing I can do about it.

He happened to fall at the hospital this afternoon after all the discharge paperwork had been arranged, so his doctor’s P.A. came up to take a look at him.  She ordered an X-ray to make sure everything’s okay and decided to keep him overnight for observation.  She sounded just as frustrated as me because he won’t listen to her, either.  Apparently the School of Hard Knocks has a higher accreditation than any medical school in the world because my dad seems to think he knows more than the doctors.  He can be so infuriating sometimes!

So I guess I’m going to go and pick him up tomorrow night.  I really hope they’ll get him to change his mind and agree to the inpatient rehab clinic.  I’m not holding my breath, but I can still hope, foolish as it is.  I would just love to slap him silly right now.  He’s so concerned about something happening to derail the results of his surgery that he insisted they put a smoking ban in his discharge instructions so that he can “psych himself up to quit” smoking when he gets home, but he can’t see that going home to an empty apartment is asking for trouble.  He has enough trouble with falling as it is and I don’t think it has anything to do with his back or his legs or his hip or anything else he wants to blame it on; I think a lot of it has to do with his seizures, which he shouldn’t be having problems with if he were taking his medication correctly.  But he swears up and down that he’s taking everything just like he’s supposed to.  He also insists that he weighs 165 pounds but if that’s the case, then I’m a best-selling author and should just quit my job because, after all, why should a best-selling author have to have a second job?  the King of England.

*grrrrrrhisssssfffttfffttffftt* *thwack* *thwack* *thwack*

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