So I packed to leave, and they sent in reinforcements. Two nurses and one aide. The three left quickly. Apparently, Grandpa can still project anger. Moments later, the PA goes off. Yet. A. Freaking. Gain. They're summoning my regular doc. I like this doc a lot, and I'd really love to see him as he's generally a straight shooter with me, but I’m also pretty sure he has a full agenda already that does not include talking me off a ledge.
No Dr. Craig for me. Bummer. I wonder if they did that just to get my attention.
So I pack my grip, and then it strikes me that I’m beyond hungry. I pull a Clif bar from the bottom of my bag, grab a glass of water, and settle in with my Kindle. After a few swallows, the bar is gone, the water is gone, and I’m putting away the Kindle.
Here comes a rapping, tapping on the door. One of the nurse practitioners from the cardio joint is here to speak with me. Mr. Penny? This title shit drives me crazy, and if it weren't for the fact that Mr. Jefferson found the title sufficient, I'd be correcting these peeps by the dozens.
She wants to talk to me. What she wants is to get me to stay. I didn't stand as she entered the room. She offered her hand to shake. I took it. Her active listening from an Agape class was apparent. I didn't point out that I took the same damned class. She also didn't appreciate some of my language, and I toned it down to a degree, but not completely. She didn't think swearing was necessary. I didn't remind her that swearing provides a relief known not even to prayer. She's not up on her Twain anyway.
The upshot is that if I leave, and yes I do know how to detach the electrodes and IV, I get to pay it all as the insurance company will dance over the non-compliance. If I stay, whether I stick with the drug or not, the insurance company pays. So here I sit, compounding a poor decision with an even poorer decision based on money, which I know is invariable a wrong decision, all the while being removed from any semblance of the support structure I've managed to cobble together for myself.
I was born to suffer. Much as the nurse practitioner did as she endured my toned-down language.
So here I'll sit, maybe, through Wednesday, while I take their god-forsaken chemical abuse and write on a report so dry that it's probably a Class II Incendiary, illegal in seven states.