On Friday I told a friend that last week was the first week I’d worked a full 40 hours since my diagnosis. As it turns out I was wrong. It was my second. I felt pretty good, a little tired maybe, but not exhausted. Or so I thought. I slept through most of the weekend. I hadn’t intended to… it just kind of happened.

Last night, after we finished eating pork chops in a ginger glaze (which my dad came over to help us eat – the smell of which remains in yesterday’s laundry), we found out mom had been transferred back to the psychiatric facitilty. I say “finally” like it was some triumph… an unambiguously good thing. Let me just say that I have mixed feelings at best. I’m of a mind that mom’s dehydration was a psychological/psychiatric problem first; which only became a medical problem when it wasn’t monitored closely enough by the facility she’s been transferred back to. Maybe that’s why they didn’t want her back. Maybe they are aware of their own limitations, and aren’t willing to take on the liability that an unmasking of their neglect would produce.

You just can’t make me happy, can you?

My mom needs psychiatric care, but if they aren’t making sure she’s eating, how likely is it that they are treating her other problems? With our options limited, it’s not like we can just go to another hospital. She was already “politely nudged” out of one, and this was the place that would take her without insurance.