The Administration Here at the Nursing Home Hates Me

They can eat my shorts.

Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

I’m not here to make enemies (intentionally, anyway), but I’m not here to make friends either.

I’ve been a steady stream of complaints since we got here, but that’s what advocating for a loved one means: speaking up for someone who can’t.

I asked for a better chair for my mom (a Broda chair) two weeks ago. When I asked hospice about it last Friday, the nurse said she’d been told not to order it.

???

That turned almost immediately into “It’s on back order”, which then became, “We’ll borrow George’s, he never uses his.”

Thanks, George.

I’m also a bull in a china shop at the best of times (I’m sure this comes as a shock) and I’ve pretty much decided that none of the rules here (or anywhere) apply to me.

Don’t you know who I am?

So you’re supposed to sign in and out when you visit. I never did — places to go, people to annoy — and none of the women at the front desk ever mentioned it.

And then the Rule Nazi showed up at reception, a man who called me “hon” and who I immediately told NOT to call me “hon”.

That was clearly a mistake.