Giving Tuesday

The holiday season is in full swing as we are a day away from Thanksgiving. I will be spending my day at St. Raymond’s in Dublin, California with my homeless friends enjoying a notable spread. It sounds exiting. I miss Thanksgiving with my in-laws. I miss Thanksgiving with Dad.  I have no family, so this is the closest I can get.

I wrote a letter to the East Bay Times today. I am including it for your edification

Email: local@eastbaynewsgroup. com

RE: Contra Costa Health Plan is committing malpractice

Contra Costa Health Plan could have killed me by doing it slowly and painfully. Here is what happened and I have filed with the California Medical Board.

I had a stroke 11/29/2016. CCHP failed to follow standard stroke protocol. My eating issues was an eating disorder. My incontinence was “the Change” though I’ve never given birth. I have Pseudo-Bulbar Affect, a neurological imbalance that can be treated with medication (I wail if I become slightly emotional), but I need to seen by a psychiatrist for my eating disorder and depression. But I wasn’t given referrals as I didn’t have “real” symptoms and the doctors were busy with real patients. Not just one doctor – it is systemic. A Nurse Practitioner, lied to her colleagues and accused me of assaulting her during a routine appointment where she had failed to refill several blood pressure medications, a psychologist claimed I was “grandiose and delusional”, though I had stability issues and used a cane to walk.
On November 1st of this year. I received a diagnosis of Vascular Lacunar Stroke by UCSF Vascular-Neurology Services, and they used the 11/29/2016 scans which showed a history of vascular lacunar infarcts. Something CCHP all but denied.
They said I had a lacunar stroke, an aneurysm, but VLS is specific and a rarity when not in your mid-60’s. I was 51 and it can be an indication if Vascular Dementia, Alzheimer’s nasty cousin.
Being 5150’d and falsely accused was traumatic enough. Getting the bill for the ambulance was adding insult to injury. Not addressing my stroke was criminal and impacted my ability to secure SSI. which I was denied the first time since there was no history of doctors appointments for my stroke recovery.
I have a diagnosed cognitive brain injury and CCHP actively and intentionally committed malpractice, even though they were being compensated by the State via Medi-Cal through the Medicaid expansion via Obamacare.
I won’t bother to go into detail about Contra Costa Social Services. Simply put – they suck, are woefully mismanaged and dehumanize as opposed to “helping”.
Sincerely,
Venka Anderson
And I emailed the California Medical Board to revise my complaints to include Contra Costa Health Plan, not just 2 doctors. Their overall medical practice is atrocious. I can’t be the only one.
I remind you this is Giving Tuesday and I still have my own campaign http://www.gofundme/com/life4v which deperately needs your support.  Please let me know what you think – here or on Facebook under the page @onetinysoapox. Thank you for joining me on this journey. I’m not done yet.

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

I’m at Asbury Church waiting for a shower and laundry. They’ve stopped showers due to lack of hot water. I’m cold already, taking a cold shower would hurt and be the manifestation of hell on earth.

They are looking into it, so I am typing to have something to do.

I have a doctor’s appointment. Ears are still plugged and my intent was to go for that. But I have realized my coginitive decline has become worse. I need more sleep than 8 hours. 8 hours isn’t enough. And I just had a brain fart over “isn’t”. My brain is not in good shape and this homeless thing is making it worse.

I have spent several nights in various warming shelters since it’s so cold and smokey. I have slept on the floor, and as a stroke survivor, it isn’t easy to get up and down. Locked door handles are really helpful. I can pull myself up.

I drag my left foot when I walk. Getting therapy would help, but daily exercises would be a challenge. Have to live with that until I have a roof over my head. Whenever that will be.

I’ve met a few people: Cindy, Eddie and Lorraine. I will share some stories in the future. Just leaving a note here as a reminder.

And, just to remind you http://www.gofundme.com/Life4V

Homeless and Hopeless

I don’t enjoy my life. I don’t have anything to look forward to, except doctor appointments and diagnosis. That’s a double edged sword. Diagnosis for something that won’t get better. Or restore me to my former self.

Though I have shelter, it’s not mine. My home. And though I have some of my things here, now on pallets with tarp on dirt, it isn’t the bulk of my stuff still in storage and will be lost too quickly for lack of payment.

Since I can’t work and earn money, former 6-digit income worker who can’t work – ironic – I don’t have any income to pay for my storage units. Homeless losing the bulk of everything and I didn’t do “this” intentionally. It’s a waiting game for Social Security and I didn’t have medical care – other than prescriptions to keep my diabetes and hypertension and cholesterol under control with no management or explanation and I can’t eat like a normal person BECAUSE of a medical condition caused by the stroke, but it’s an eating disorder that needs pyschiatric guidance. Bullshit.

They brought on my suffering due to ignorance and apathy. And if I had care, or even an explanation of the type of stroke I had, it would be easier to accept and adjust to. But, I’m alone with no close family, so tough luck. Too bad, so sad. Loser.

Should I think any other way? Why? I am dealing with this alone and the few who do deal with me don’t get what I am going through. Every hiccup is a major road block, a landslide, and I have to wade through it and not drown or sink to the depths. And succumb to death, which would be so much easier.

I went to a resource provider for Alameda County, and she gave me a list of meetings I could go to, to train you about renting a home and all that it entails. Goody. What I did for 30 years. It’s depressing and frustrating and so much to handle – alone. Nothing is easy anymore. It’s all so difficult and more just piles on every day.

I need help. I need someone with answers, not more questions.

gofundme.com/Life4V

I am Disabled and I Have Little Hope

I’m 53.

I had a Lacunar Stroke 11/29/16.

No doctor cared for my medical issues for 19 months. No one. I was even told I didn’t have “symptoms” and I wouldn’t be referred because the doctors didn’t have time for patients who weren’t truly sick.

When I said I couldn’t eat, I was told I needed a Psychiatrist for my eating disorder , even though I choked on my own spit, would reguritate when trying to eat, had no hunger, thrist, or produced saliva sufficiently. My speech therapist recommended a barium test, which he scoffed at and informed me that no speech therapist is trained to practice medicine, and it was an eating disorder.

Uh-huh.

And first time stroke patients don’t have Pseudo-Bulbur Affect. Yeah right. I need a physciatrist because I’m crazy? I’ll believe you. You were a geriatric doctor for years and you should know? I’ll pass on your “knowledge” you dumb fuck.

An actual neurologist said I had a “minor stroke”. I needed to see a physciatrist for my depression. First time in my entire life I walked out on a “doctor” when she told me that.

I was physically restrained by police and bound to a gurney when a Nurse Practitioner accused me of assaulting her. I have PTSD after that quaint encounter and visiting Psychiatric ER and being told I was grandiose and delusional.

I now have medical coverage that treats me like a human – not a number and a file and nothing is wrong. I have Contra Costa Health Plan to “thank” for nearly 2 years of hell. I now have coverage from Alameda Alliance. I had to “move” to Alameda County, but I’m homeless so I just had to find a home to sleep at. I have an old friend who gave me a spare bed and safety. Better than being raped or murdered in my car.

I do research when I don’t know something. I have done more research and came across this:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binswanger%27s_disease

Binswanger’s Disease. Similair to Alzheimer’s but can be caused by a type of stroke. Vascular Dementia. I see a doctor on November 1st at Neurovascular Services of UCSF. I am hoping that I don’t have Binswanger’s, but I am still dreading the outcome. At least I will know. Finally. But it’s me and I get weird stuff no one diagnoses for years, so it’s probably true.

Onset is usually between 54-65. I was 51 when I had the stroke, but there is evidence I had an infarct, and I know when. It was in the Spring of 2014 when I was caring for my adopted sociopathic narcisstic dementia ridden mother and she had already thrown out my meds and I had to go to Emergency, and they did no tests to find out what was wrong. I just had a BP of 3xx/17x. They released me when my BP was normal and I got no meds or a followup with a doctor. I was a few months from 50 then.

Figures. They refused to put in writing that “Mom” had demntia, even though it was clearly noted in her medical file. I know. I saw it. They mishandled her care until she died in May 2015.

That was in Southern California. I returned to the Bay Area after my SoCal sojourn and moved in with a friend who siad I could stay with them until I found a job and a new home, since I had to sell Mom’s, because that crazy bitch tore up her living will and the grant deed adding me to the house. She was bat-shit crazy and it ruined my life more than once. And since I paid the bulk of the mortgage, and it was a 2nd mortgage, I technically had been paying on that house for 8 years.

But, I came back here with a pittance of an inheritance to start my life again. She got me fired from my job, though they called it a layoff due to plant closure, but they stayed open for another 2 years, and I had been there for 5 years and knew where the proverbial bodies were buried.

I couldn’t work and take care of Mom. She always made everything about her. Kinda like Trump. Full-time chaos. Grrrr.

I came home and within 2 months I had the stroke. Most of my belongings had to be stored, including what I had to move to storage when my “friend” said they were moving and I had to go because I was ruining their happiness. You know what? They’re still there! Jerks.

I got no help from Contra Costa in finding a home. I’m running into the same problem with Livermore Housing Authority, but I have organizations to call. Whatever is wrong with me, it makes daily functions hard to figure out. I get overwhelmed and need to sleep. Or pass out. I don’t “decide”. It just happens.

I have filed for Social Security and am waiting for a hearing, as I have been denied, but I can’t blame them. There is no patient history other than an ER visit and hospitalization. That’s pretty much it, other than tons of prescriptions for things I did not have. Not enough to give me early SSI.

So I have a GoFundMe campaign. There is a reason for that. I am broke. I have food stamps (which Contra Costa screwed up this month) and I have General Assistance I have to pay back. $192 and $300 for each. At least I get GA through Alameda. CC said if I had $50 in the bank, I didn’t qualify. I had to find a job. Yeah right. I can’t do 3rd grade math and I was a finance analyst/assitant controller amd FX was one of my speciaties, but I’ll find work. If I could walk and stand up without tipping, or become so confused if I hear two things at once and I forget what I was doing, but I’ll figure out some mundane task to be paid minimum wage if an employer wants a fall risk on their payroll.

You need money to live, especailly if you’re a hypertensive diabetic with pernicious anemia and retinopathy. I take 9 medications by mouth daily. I take an insulin injection once weekly (better than twice a day just 1 month ago) and I take an injection once a month for Pernicious Anemia. I take blood sugar tests 2-3 times a day and my BP reguarly. That’s a lot to keep track of, but I manage. Everything sits within view and I set up my meds on a weekly basis, morning and evening. I have OCD, which comes in handy now.

I have carpal tunnel and a doctot has recommended surgery. My glasses prescription is 6 years old and my eyes have changed and not just because retinopathy. I drive a 1998 Oldsmobile Cutlass that my Dad bought before he died and it needs maintenance and wiper blades. I’ve got a Dell laptop from 2008 and it needs some time at Best Buy for worm removal and driver restoration.  I can’t use my Tower because no currently paid virus protection.  And my AAA Road Service has lapsed for non-payment. I stopped paying my credit card (just 1 – in case of emegency) months ago.

The GoFundMe is to provide for the cost of living until SSI comes through, hopefully soon. A friends’ sister was recently approved and that took 3 years. I’m a year and half in and had a lousy lawyer for the first 9 months.

My main storage unit is at Towncentre Self Storage in Brentwood and they won’t take partial payment per the district manager because it screws up their lien process. I am behind and the site manager has been told she can’t take a partial payment.

I am getting screwed out of my belongings – my life – because the District Manager is doing her job. Yes, they know about my situation. Yes, the site manager has compassion, but it’s still a businesa of real estate and that real estate has a price that needs payment.

Could I pay them $300? No. I need to pay them $660. I might be able to get $600, but I won’t be paying my car insurance, gas for that car or cell bill this month. $660, or she can’t take it.

My other unit is paid until November 29th. The rest of it is under a tarp on the patio where I am staying.

I need a place to live that has my things and not in storage. I purged everything I could when I packed Mom’s house. Gave away all I could. Even had a garage sale and listed on Criagslist. I lived in the backwater of Riverside County and they are CHEAP! 7′ aliminum ladder, months old that cost $70 at Home Depot, a little shit got it for $10 and it was SO EXPENSIVE. I sold it to him just to get rid of it, and he was pissed because I ripped him off.

Sure I did. That’s what privileged white people do that live in retirement communities. I hated it when Mom pulled “But I’m not from here, I don’t speak your language” crap. They know. They just assume you’re stupid or racist. I’m neither. I just hate that “I’m foreign, feel sorry for me” bullshit.

Think I don’t know? If you had any idea how many times I’ve told people I was born here and they don’t believe me – because of my name – and compliment me on my “good English”, I’m surprised I’m still free , because some folks need the stupid smacked off their smug mugs.

I’ve tried going to the press/media but I guess some one crying wolf isn’t sympathetic, even if it is real. I’ve lost my ability to work, to enjoy hikes, to drive to a nice area to walk away my worries for a few houra in nature, to sit and knit or do needlework or needlepoint, even to read for an hour or two, without my chaosed mind refusing to cooperate. I need some peace and that requires money. If I have to think about that, it becomes an obsession and I can’t sleep until I pass out, which for me varies amd depends if I have eaten well or just enough. If it’s just enough (1 meal a day and hopefully not Ramen), I can go 2-3 days without restful sleep, and my brain can’t take that.

Please go to my Campaign gofundme.com/Life4V and donate. I need help. I want to Live for however long I have and with my memories and savored remembrances of a life well lived.

How Life bit me in the Ass and it Won

This post won’t be pretty or “polite”. There will be curse words and the truth.

You have been warned. Sorry/Not Sorry. I’ll spare last names, except two – those of my family. And one other because she is a worthless Bitch.

If I repeat myself ^^^^

You should be aware I am a Scandinavian Socialist and a Democrat. And if you don’t know what that is, READ. We don’t read enough about other countries and other people. The life we are now subjected to, not America but Trumplandia, is sick, disgraceful and circling the drain with the shit the GOP (Grand Old Prick’s party) has colluded to make real and oppress every American who isn’t rich enough to pay them off. Gerrymandering is one guaranteed way to keep poor and non-rich-whites and anyone of color very, very quiet. That is, if they can’t just get rid of them or kill them. God forbid anyone respectfully kneels during our National Anthem when sung at a sporting event.

What do soldiers do when they come across a  grave of a comrade in arms? They kneel. How unpatriotic, if you believe the bone-spur-draft-dodger-in-Chief. He likes heroes that aren’t captured, after all. Anyone else who doesn’t think just like him is a son-of-a-bitch. Or has a  low IQ.

God bless John McCain, a war hero that served and gave his Being to this country. Thank you, Sir, for your complete and untiring service. You are a human being more people should be like.

Life has been a bitch,  but I tried to do the right thing for everyone else except me. That was disastrous.

If a Jorgensen reads this – fuck you all for ignoring everything and staying in your self-righteous cocoon. If you are an Anderson – I am so sorry. Dad and I had our own hell to deal with and thankfully you were excluded from most of it. Except Karsten. I am so sorry for everything. I didn’t know, damn them all for lying. Especially, that self-righteous bitch who married your father. I know he regretted what he did. How he raised me was testament to that. All the things I learned that he wanted to teach you. Even soccer.  I became the person I am because of him. Gunn had nothing to do with it, If anything, I wanted to be the exact opposite, or a good and decent human being.

But let’s start from today and work our way backwards. That’s so fun. The culmination of my end. Some stuff left out…because length of post.

I had a stroke an, anoxic brain injury that killed part of my brain. If I had served in Iraq, I would be considered a Wounded Warrior. No, I am just a silly civilian who had a medical problem. Screw her. There are people with worse, REAL problems. But, I can type so I’m normal! HA! Not anywhere close to who I used to be. At this point, I have no idea if I ever will be again.

I had no actual medical care for my stroke, my brain injury, for 19 months. Why? Assholes were “taking care” of me. Medical doctors who didn’t do their jobs, but prescribed pharmaceuticals without followup. I had “symptoms”, but I wasn’t referred to specialists because I had to get over them. See a shrink for an eating disorder. No referral for that. Can’t swallow? Eating disorder. No hunger or thirst since the stroke? Eating disorder. Throw up or regurgitate while eating? Eating Disorder. Persistent nerve pain? Here’s a pill. Difficulty sleeping? Here’s a pill. Excruciating cramping of toes and calves? Here’s a pill. One of them shouldn’t be given to those with history of stroke? Give it to her anyway. A Barium test the speech therapist recommended? She’s not a doctor. What does she know? More than he did when I was tested because another doctor believed Jess and it showed a Hiatal hernia and Schatzi ring (again – look it up – I had to).

Trying to see a GI specialist who only took new patients on Friday mornings and in Martinez, when I was in Alameda and had to deal with the morning commute. Sorry if you’re late. Can you come in again in two weeks at the same time? Sure. Maybe it’ll only take an hour and a half instead of the 40 minutes during the day after the commute. At least less than two and a half hours if there isn’t another truck crash on the 580 and a vehicle crash on the 680 and lookee-loo’s who are as slow as fuck.

Another accident and bad traffic. Missed another appointment,

I am scared to drive in traffic now. The Road Warrior who put 100,000’s of miles on cars, driving all over the Western US, but way too much on the 5 between SFO and LA, is scared to drive because I don’t want to hit anyone or be in the way. I miss my Beast. She was a good truck. I can hear TAPs in my head. It’s a comfort.

I had to donate the Montero to charity in January past this year. New engine, but fucked up carburetor that bleed gas and I had no spare money to fix her. Couldn’t pass SMOG.  And my off-roading days are over as far as I can tell. I miss that shift and drift quality in that a bread-box of a Surfer Jeep. 30 years we were together. Oh well. Everything comes to an end eventually. Hopefully not me. Not now.

That day in January I waved  goodbye to her – it was two days after I saw Nurse Practitioner Berg. Bitch. On that Wednesday, we had an appointment so I could get refills for meds (the one’s that weren’t refilled and were out since before Christmas and her vacation when no one did anything while she was “out” or unavailable) and referrals to therapy and neurology and whatever else I needed because I couldn’t eat. Dangerous to a diabetic.

She went through my prescriptions. my therapy request (physical, occupational and speech), a neurologist and what else?  I didn’t know. My brain isn’t working. I said “I don’t know” and rapped my cane against the tile floor. She screeched and ran from the room. I heard voices and what sounded like “Fuck”and “hit me”. There was much commotion and a “Ranger” (security guard) came to the room and blocked the door. A psychologist came in and spoke with me, never saying what the trouble was, just that I couldn’t leave.

I was upset. Anxious. My mind reeling with confusion and uncertainty. Stupid me, I thought she was there to determine what had happened. All I could do was babel about how a woman who was once a MENSA candidate could end up here and no one would listen to her because she had a stroke. A lot of good it did me.

A short time later, when the police and ambulance arrived, a police officer and the ranger took me into custody, which meant they each grabbed an arm and forced me to a gurney so I could be restrained. I fought back. I was told not to resist. In my mind, it was too much like all the times Mom would grab my arm and beat me on the head and shoulders as recently as 2014. Yeah, an 87 year old woman with dementia beat me because she didn’t like how I cleaned the hallway and she wouldn’t stop until I was crying and in the fetal position. Something she had done to me since I was a child over anything including being late coming home from school after talking to a teacher, not having a communal gang-bang behind the classroom which she assumed I was doing at 12 years of age.

Not true Anna? Were you there for any of it? You’re too much like your big sister. Happy now? You’re more like Gunn than you know.

The police officer never told me what I had supposedly done. Just said for me to calm done (that  is so easy with my broken brain) and pretty much behave and just  take it. They both hung on until I was secured on the gurney. Two hands gripped to each arm and bodily control.

I was taken to Martinez from Brentwood, to CCRMC ER. They asked me some questions. I pee’d into a cup. And a psychologist told me the folks in Brentwood, especially a psychologist, Ruiz I think, had  said I was “grandiose and delusional”.  He wanted to make sure I understood what had been said and that I was being released because I wasn’t a threat to any one.

They provided a taxi to take me back to the car in Brentwood. I still had to drive to Alameda where I was house sitting, having been driven out of the house I was in in Brentwood.  I’ll get to that.

It was 10:00 pm and I was dead tired but still had to drive using GPS ’cause I can’t find my way around a cardboard box anymore and it’s dark and my eyes are shit. I make it to Alameda, unload the car ’cause I had stuff still left at Amanda’s and passed out on the bed and didn’t wake up until Diana found the car open the next morning with the keys on the roof, the car door open, the garage door open, the patio door open and me groggily dealing with being shouted awake.

The aftermath sucked. I dreamed that night. The first time I know of since the stroke. Of mom beating me and the cops helping her. Mmmm, happy memories.

I tried contacting news agencies, including 7 On Your Side, but nothing. No one gives a shit. Hey, at least I’m not black!  They wouldn’t have released me then. Probably.

And six weeks later, I had a knock on the door at 11:45 pm. It was the Alameda PD and they were checking on me over a suicide treat. A what? Facebook had called them because of a post I had made earlier that night. Yeah. a Facebook post for my GoFundMe campaign where, in the 2nd to last paragraph I had written, “would rather wrap my car around a post”, was a suicide treat. Frisked, handcuffed, and boarded onto an ambulance and taken to a Psychiatric ER in San Leandro where I was released 13 hours later when they had determined I wasn’t about to commit suicide.

Why did they take me in? That 5150 in Brentwood a few weeks earlier. That FALSE police report by that Bitch Berg and her Psychologist partner.

You know what else Contra Costa has done to me? Charged me for the ambulance ride to Martinez. They also banned me from using Brentwood Clinic because they want to spare their employees from unruly patients.

How about sparing their patients from do-nothing, lying staff? Terrorizing patients?  Physically detaining them? Why not start with that, Director of Ambulatory Services?

Then there was the whole bit with my dear friend Amanda and her fucking “happiness”. Why not try a new therapist after 8 years and not blaming everyone else for your issues? I had a stroke with brain death. Didn’t know? Neither did I. Did you ask? Neither did I, because I didn’t know what to ask even  and I couldn’t form words, dumb fuck. Did up on look it up on your phone like you do everything else? I had a tendency to cry. Not because you. Not that I could control it. It wasn’t meant to upset YOU or cause YOU distress. My brain isn’t under my control anymore. I wasn’t “doing” anything to you, you fat selfish fuck! I wasn’t conscious of any it.

When I made that Facebook post, I didn’t include you BECAUSE I WAS ALREADY LIVING WITH YOU AT YOUR INVITATION. I had to leave BECAUSE  YOU WERE MOVING. I asked if any of the people I knew had room to spare, and you went ballistic and MOVED UP THE DATE I HAD TO BE OUT. Not February as you first said. Not even January. But NOVEMBER JUST A FEW WEEKS AWAY.

You accused me of doing something to your skirt (ugly shit) and Brandon’s  boxers. Like what? WTF? I did your laundry every week, put it all away, fixed your closet so you could find shit one place in your fucking house that wasn’t a pig sty, and  you wanted to know what I had done with them? How fucking sick are you? After I had been doing it for months, falling and stepping over shit constantly. Cleaning up after myself just as I had in my own house which you hardly ever do except put it in the sink. Maybe. Bitch at your daughter for not cleaning up the bathroom to your expectations. When the fuck did you ever cleanup after yourself? Use a garbage can, not a bag on a hook in the kitchen that would be overflowing so trash was on the floor and all over the kitchen. Empty Dr. Pepper bottles on the couch. Candy wrappers between the sofa cushions. Shoes all over the floor at the base of the stairs for someone with a limp and movement issues to slip or trip over?

I was keeping Lili from doing her chores? I loaded the dishwasher so there would be plates and utensils to use for eating, not just stacked in the sink until she got to them eventually.

Sorry I had a stroke Amanda. It was cruel of me to have one and impacting you. How rude of me. What a rotten way to abuse our friendship. What a terrible thing to do to our  business. That same business that 2 weeks after my stroke, you needed to know if I was “in it or not”. Two fucking weeks, and I could barely talk, yet I have to have  give you an answer because you have to know because of your mental issues? Fuck that shit! Everyone has to kowtow to you and your issues. There are other people in the world. No wonder you have difficulty being partners with anyone else. You’re a self important bitch who can’t deal with anyone else suggestions until you can usurp them. Get a free ride and bitch how they do nothing. How about you not sharing but just taking over?

That weekend in Sonora? I assembled the shelving I had and you “helped” by holding the uprights while I drilled and fastened them together. I took them in from my car and I took them out to my car. Pine Ikea Ivar side rails and shelves. Shelves weighting 8 lbs each and there were more than 20 of them. I had brought enough for 21′ of shelving, but I stopped at 12′ because You didn’t want that much. You have a bad back, so you were useless. I have a bad back too, and that might have been the reason for my brain being deprived of oxygen when my neck muscles spasmed.  I wanted the show to be successful for you and it almost KILLED ME.  But, I am complaining out of turn. At least I got $160 from that show. How much I spent – who knows. I really enjoyed having to return the shelving to storage by my self. Moving boxes just to get to the space to return all that to my rented space A WEEK AFTER THE STROKE. Just so I could save you money and Brandon didn’t have to build anything.

I treated you so well. Like a little sister. If I were a lesser person, I would say you’re a self serving cunt, but that’s not me .  And I was never “critical” of your parenting, never said you lied to your kids, never made a claim against your narrow minded anti-immigrant rants. I had a different view and it was non-confrontational. Pity you never learned civil discourse. “They did stuff that affected me” isn’t an excuse to go off on someone else. A Muslim high school won’t impact your property value.

How did that move to Vacaville go? Oh wait. You didn’t move. Oops. My mistake. Good thing I got out of your life.

You did take me to a couple of doctor’s appointments. You did come  to the hospital when I had the stroke. I drove myself because ambulances are so expensive and you had your twice weekly therapist appointment that day – and needed it – so I drove myself. 3 days in the hospital. The only time I have ever stayed at the hospital that I can recall. Drove home too. I didn’t want to upset the little one. And that’s my problem – I don’t want to be a bother.

Less than two months before, I had a cousin  from Dad’s side of the family find me on Facebook. And I found out how much Mom and Dad lied about, especially Mom. I had a brother. Dad had a biological son and she alienated Dad’s family so they wouldn’t lie about what she had done FOR YEARS.  I knew I was adopted when I was 11, because Mom was a lousy liar, but Dad? Because of her, of course. Whatever kept her happy and quiet. Gunn was wife #3 and he had a child with #2? God forbid she was a STEP -MOTHER. She was barely a mother. That was too much to deal with and with a complete and healthy brain.

And 2 years ago I moved back to the Bay Area after taking care of Mom, her life and her estate, in Southern California with no help from anyone and she had Alzheimer’s Dementia.

That is my life in 24 grueling months. Good times, right?

Thank you to my Norwegian Anderson relatives, for your support and caring, especially since I needed that for my mental health and well being. Dad was a good man with serious flaws, a screwed up 3rd wife and in-laws. I got nothing from the Jorgensen side who lambasted me for telling ugly truth about the dead and didn’t say one fucking word about my stroke. That meant so much. Especially Freddy and his “good words”. Fucking lies and opinions based on NOTHING.

How Life Sucks Now

Not a hopeful title, but real.

I want to be a writer, a teller of tales based on actual facts. No lies for me! Had a lifetime of those, and lies damage the lives of those lied to and about.

I will continue to write about Dad. Too many happy memories are because of him. And if recounting her behavior is part of that it’s cathartic. Exorcising the demons, if you will.

Now to exorcise, and accept, the demons of today. Namely, life with the aftereffects of stroke.

I have been seen in the ER 3 times in 6 weeks. I have 3 neurological referrals and 1 from my current PCP. Paperwork and rote acceptance of scripts made it impossible for me to affect a reasonable and acceptable response on the phone calls.. Gee, if humans just listened and thought beyond the script! You know, thought like humans – not automatons! Situation has been resolved with plenty of phone calls, bitching and I can now be scheduled to actually see a neurologist. Geez Louise what a pain. Or simply FUCK!!! This is not NC17 rated folks.

I was seen in ER last night – again – and my friend Myrna took me because I didn’t want to kill anyone while driving the 5.8 miles to Valley Care ER. Or call an ambulance cause those fuckers are expensive. In by 6 pm, out by 10:30 pm, not too bad. Had blood work, EKG, Cat-scan, an bag of IV and I was advised to go home, rest, and make an appointment with a neurologist within the next 3 days. Hence, the rigmarole with insurance. He’s not covered, call here. You have to call back Sept 1, I can’t schedule you until then. Your PCP needs to see you for her to process a referral. OMG! Are you serious! I saw an ER doctor and I have to make another appointment to verify I need a neurologist when I already have 3 including one from her??

You know, next time a nurse asks me if I want to kill myself I’m tempted to say yes just to get a doctor who can get me to someone who will figure me out. SHIT! I am seeking medical help not the quickest way to ease my perpetual frustration with the medical profession. (Via euthanasia)

I received a call this afternoon from a person who is handing referrals. After I interrupted her enough and told her “let me finish!” I was able to explain I had handled the issue that kept them from handling it. They had to call to verify, but it can move forward now since they had already been notified. Twits. Listen, You may learn something.

I have barely enough money to live on, thanks to General Assistance from Alameda County and CalFresh (food stamps). $ 500 a month, $200 strictly for food, and certainly not “fast food”. The $300 in General Assistance pays for my car insurance (it’s AAA and I’ve been a member for 20+ years, there are cheaper, but better? Nope), my cell phone (Verizon – I like “coverage”) and tank of gas, maybe 1 1/2. A little bit left for I don’t know, toilet paper, Jack in the Box, soap, shampoo, laundry. Not the movies. Not shopping, Not anything “fun”. And certainly not rent for keeping my things. That would be $595 a month, not counting current late fees.

I could get a job. Sure. I’ll get right on that. But wait….I can’t do what I used to do and certainly, not 40 hours a week from 8-5. My mental capacity has bee ruined. Part of my brain is dead. I don’t know “how to” anymore. But your resume says….. That was before a devastating lucanar stroke changed and diminished me.

Dad did this amazing thing when I was little. We went grocery shopping and he would say. “The total will be around $51.75” or something. That never included tax, but did include produce. This was amazing to my young mind, until I figured out he was keeping a running total in his head of a full shopping cart of the family’s food needs. I wanted to be impress Dad that I could do it too, so I started to keep my own total. I told him when we got to the checker (leaned over and whispered, I think it will be…) and he stated his belief, and he was $1 off and I was $2. I was happy I had made a close total, and he said “not bad! Keep it up!” And I did. He eventually asked me what I thought it was, made me say it out load for the checker to hear, then gave his own total. We were never the same, but we were close to the total, usually produce threw me off more. Then, one day, I gave my total and he said nothing. I was perturbed, but knew better than to show it. I was 3 cents off! Holy crap! Mine was the narrowest margin ever, and I was 13! When we got the receipt, Dad noted the total on it and folded it and put it in his wallet. I asked him why. “You were closest to the actual total. I want to remember this day, because you bested me.” That was a very proud day for me. Knowing I had made Dad proud and it wasn’t just a grade.

We kept up our private competition until Dad died, or more succinctly our last trip to the grocery store November 2001. I still did it until I had my own stroke in November 2016. To stay as sharp as Dad and it was a happy ritual. I often hoped for a child who would want to do it too, and not because he/she was eager to please, but because it was fun to compete with the older set! Didn’t happen. And with the stroke, that “skill” went away. I can’t add more than a few numbers without using a pencil and paper. I keep trying, but I just cry now. That Pseudo-Bulbar Affect is a nuisance. Subtraction without a calculator doesn’t work. Multiplication either. Percentages become fractions causing much head slapping and mutterances of “Idiot” before I can get to the number. And I’m a Finance Specialist, with Assistant Controller, Operations Manager, Vice President of Operations and Director of Finance on my resume. I can’t do that, the finer points, for 40 hours a week from 8-5, so good luck finding a job! I would fail miserably, if I could physically manage to get to work and remain cogent, functional and awake by noon Friday. Or even noon Wednesday.

Yesterday, I tried to deal with the insurance debacle. and after 4 phone calls, I was so exhausted I had to lay down. I woke 1 1/2 hours late feeling worse, confused, barely able to think clearly, but enough so to ask Myrna to take me to the hospital. There is something wrong with me, because I feel like I am dying. And I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. There is so much I have to do to insure no one is treated as dismissively as I was by the medical staff that was charged to take care of me after my stroke.

Not like the doctor who asked me if I wanted to have another aneurysm by not taking a drug that made my retinopathy worse. Like having eye hemorrhages was enjoyable. Having routine quasi-lobotomies via eye injections was fun. (Excellent Optometrist – I never feel it, just see it, feel the pressure of it.) I had a stroke – my head was never cracked open. No doctor ever told me I had an aneurysm. Know something I don’t? Refer me to a neurologist then. No? You’re the “expert”, I guess. You never even said what kind of stroke I had. I just knew it was lucanar from the ER doctor who treated me, my speech therapist had to explain what that meant – 8 months after the stroke.

I’m bitching. Sorry. I may have some reasons to be bitter after a year and a half of persistent ignorance and apathy. I am hoping that will change now that I have new insurance through another County. Hell, they approved general assistance. If I had more than $50 in my bank account, the other County would deny me. I had enough to live on, supposedly. And people wonder why homelessness is such as issue. I know why it is in Contra Costa County.

They have medical practitioners who lie about their clients, even have them arrested and taken away on a 5150 for not actually doing anything. Have the Fire Department send a bill for the ambulance because Contra Costa won’t pay for that when it’s a violent incident by a patient against county workers. Don’t investigate – patients lie. How sweet and justifiable. I have PTSD now. The police and their “ranger” took my arms and “controlled” me until I was strapped to a gurney for transport. The Policewoman never said a word on what reason I was being restrained. I didn’t know until a psychologist informed me that I had supposedly hit, or tried to hit, my nurse practitioner, and her friend/associate informed County I was “grandiose and delusional”. I was released within hours because they found I wasn’t a threat or a harm to others. Then more stuff happened when I got to Alameda at midnight, including passing out due to exhaustion, leaving a garage door open and my car door open with the keys on the roof. Nothing was taken and I started “dreaming” again (I hadn’t since the stroke). Well, nightmares returned, especially of Mom beating me. Maybe that is why I “resisted arrest”, besides having no idea what I had done, just like with Mom.

I was so emotionally distraught after this event, having gone to Brentwood for my appointment, transported to Martinez on a 5150, having to take a taxi back to Brentwood, and driving back to the home I was housesitting in Alameda. And I had started my day at the house I was living at in Brentwood, packing and removing my belongings because my “Friends” wanted me out as they were selling the house supposedly and I was impeding on their (her) happiness. That is another tedious story. Let’s just say the “her” is nuts and a selfish bitch who doesn’t know anything about a stroke, it’s impact or what it does to a person, other than it had a “negative’ impact on her and I had to go. They are still in that house. I drove by there last week and they were in their front yard. Happy, Amanda? You got rid of me and your problems. Being friends with you was among the stupidest decisions I ever made, and thinking we could be business partner? It’s all yours now. I hope you fail astronomically. Two weeks after the stroke you ask if I want to continue? I could barely walk a straight line and could barely speak, but I cried too much for you and I was a potential trigger. So much for being your “big sister”. I never questioned your parenting (I could have), you were so paranoid over everything, even my Facebook posts. I couldn’t have my own opinion if it didn’t match yours? Controlling much? Many of your thoughts disgusted me and I never wrote about any of them and mentioned you, did I? I did your laundry and put it away as a way to say thank you for living there, and you ask me where your skirt and your husbands.boxers are? Where would they be other than where they were intended to be once washed? You criticize your daughter that she didn’t clean the bathroom to your standards…what standards? A plastic bag is the trash bucket for the house hanging from a hook in the kitchen, and you complain it isn’t clean enough? When you were at my house, where I had plenty of trashcans, I went around after you and picked up after you, even empty Dr. Pepper bottles. Did I say anything? Your house is a perpetual pig sty and you dare to comment about neatness? Accuse me of doing something with a polyester skirt I wouldn’t be caught dead in? And what would I do with male boxers? Moonlight as a transvestite? Where is my Rowenta iron by the way? Never could find it after you took it out of the laundry room. Or the yardage counter. I received $140 for my investment, time and energy. How much did I spend? I took back a few items you didn’t care about, and you got tons of my stuff when I moved for your “studio”, though I traded 3 months of cell coverage for the white shelving that you used, and some was destroyed or just gotten rid of. Just like gifts to your children, don’t want that anymore and who was it from? Off to Goodwill or trash. It’s just stuff, after all.

There are other episodes over the last year with other friends that has made this entire experience more than depressing. I’m vomiting words, because if it could happen it happens to me.

I am not lying. I have witnesses to actual events or gave emotional statements immediately following with proof of what had happened. And some people actually saw that behavior from them. I have been through too much and I didn’t cause it, just a victim of it. And I hate being a victim! Especially a victim to someone’s mental instability.

I need help….not agencies that can’t help. I need a neurologist to diagnose and help me, not lipservice from a idiot with a medical license. Talking is still hard for me, some days worse than others like yesterday. Some days I can write eloquently, or in a similar style that I used to but not consistently but it’s better than speaking.

I need financial help and ideas for jobs that I can try to do. A research assistance, for example. I can do that! I did plenty of research on stroke, enough to write an extensive paper on. And I have done it before for personnel manuals, startups. business manuals, product development. I’m a bibliophile. I can research anything from correct and valid resources. Not just the Internets. I did an application for Barnes & Noble for a Book Seller, they needed one at my local store, but I’ve heard nothing. I have completed applications for many jobs and positions, but they want a full time commitment and that is something I cannot guarantee, or really even try without needing to lie or end up in the ER or have a hospital stay

I don’t want to loose what I have worked for and many well loved memories and past endeavors, decades of heritage and ancestors. It would be like setting fire to my past and doing nothing. I don’t have much else. Family I barely know far away. A few trusted and loved friends. But is it enough to want to continue to live? No, it isn’t. It isn’t enough. Life is too miserable when you are alone and don’t have the ability or means to do anything. Or just the will.

Thank you for reading this. I wrote it and it made me happy to complete it. You have to take the small victories when you have them.

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live&rcid=r01-153397110751-a09cf352a5ba4bee&pc=ot_co_campmgmt_w

Just When You Think It Can’t Worse

On January 24, 2018, I had an appointment with my PCP, a Nurse Practitioner. It would have been  a typical appointment but for her reaction.

It started pleasantly enough, but I hadn’t seen her in a while. Christmas, her vacation, her scheduling, her assigned Nurse team leader’s attitude, failure to issue refills for prescriptions, a colossal cluster fuck on attending to her patient’s health and scheduling accordingly had been an “issue”, but I soldiered on and treated her respectively while refraining to say “What the fuck, lady?” Hadn’t seen her since November, but I was thankful to see her now.

During the appointment, we were reviewing my list of needs (I had emailed her – her nurse complained I used more than 5 sentences). We were reviewing my referrals to therapy – Physical, Occupational and Speech, and to a neurologist. When she asked what else, I became upset and confused, as I am apt to, and said “I don’t know!” I have asked repeatedly for a neurology referral and been consistently denied because they wouldn’t refer me to specialty doctors over any little ‘problem’ I had. They were busy people and had to deal with serious medical issues. I feared this excuse again.

I was using my cane that day and seated several feet away from her as she was standing behind the computer. I rapped my cane once against the floor, showing my frustration. I couldn’t come up with a word that wasn’t vulgar, so I used my cane instead of hitting my thighs with my fists. She screamed and ran from the room, yelling for security and the police. I was stunned. I didn’t know what was happening. Something I would continue to think for many more hours to come.

I didn’t leave the room. I should have, but I did nothing wrong. The door was open. I heard yelling and exclamations. Even “Get her the fuck out of here!” and something about hitting. I was more confused and could only think I didn’t do anything. A Ranger,  a security guard, came and barred me from leaving. A psychologist came and talked to me. She never brought up what had just happened. I have met her before. I thought she was nice. Hah! I prattled like I do know. Effectively, my personal version of “RainMan”. I feel like Dustin Hoffman too often.

We spoke for a while, I even told her about the process I went through with MENSA in my 20’s and how boring I found the people I met. I was 20-something and they were old to me then. We kept talking, how things were so frustrating for me now, until the female police officer showed up. She asked questions. Kept asking so many questions repeatedly. No one ever said why they were asking questions or gave any indication as to why or what I had done. I was standing the, hugging the wall and avoiding them. The police officer asked me to sit down. More questions. Then the paramedics came and after a few minutes, she asked me to stand. Then she and the Ranger took me into custody.

Having my forearms grabbed, double-handed, set off my memory. A repeated memory of my Mom grabbing my left forearm and beating me for decades. I stood up to her once when I was 18. I fought her off and grabbed her forearms and pinned her to the wall and screamed in her face “You don’t ever hit me again or I will do the same thing to you!”  She stopped for a few years. Slapping continued, but no forearm grabbing and hitting my head and neck until I was in the fetal position until I was 48 and she was old as fuck and if I raised a hand to her I’d seriously hurt her. That’s why she stabbed me instead. Good thing it was a pair of embroidery scissors. I feared a knife. Nightly. But I tried to pull away, thereby resisting.

They kept a hold of me until I was on the gurney and strapped down. I was crying. That’s what happens to me when I am frustrated. My anger causes emotional distress that manifests as crying. A new level of personal hell.

I was taken to the County Psyche ER. Great. I was drug tested when they finally released me. I really needed to pee! The leakage pad wouldn’t have made it and  would have been pantless. It has happened. The stroke screwed up my central nervous system. I asked for water and was given some. I don’y suffer from thirst, but my mouth gets dry. That’s how I know I need water.

A psychologist talked to me. I still didn’t know what I had done and told him that. He said I had hit Ms. B (I have filed a complaint against that bitch with the Nurses Board – she’s gonna pay), and the site Psychologist said I was delusional and grandiose. He had figured out it was a farce for me to be 5150’d, and I should know what had been said. I was there for 4 hours and they got me a cab to get back to my car that was 20 miles away. Was there anyone they could call? No, I have no one.

They provided me a sandwich for dinner. It was late and I hadn’t eaten since that morning. My appointment with Ms. B was at 4pm and by the time I got back to my car, it was 10pm. I still had to drive to Alameda where I was staying.

Before the appointment, I had gone to the home I had stayed in for over a year and summarily  dismissed from and packed some stuff in preparation for that weekend to move the rest to storage. It was a “challenging” afternoon before I went to the appointment. That had started at 1pm. I moved what I could alone with steps. Got it to the storage unit. I was mentally drained then. Oh, was I wrong.

I drove back to Alameda, parked at the garage, and started unpacking. I managed to get most of it out of the car, but the next morning, my friend D found the garage door open, my keys of the roof of the car, the car door open and me passed out in the bedroom. I must have laid done at one point. I don’t remember. That scared me half to death. None of my stuff, or my car, were stolen. But it shook me. Unnerved me. I had never done that before. Maybe this was the cause for her evicting me after the garage door was left open and I never touched the garage door opener after 4pm and it was closed which she knew.

I opened some mail that I had packed when M&GG were coming home. A letter from the CCC Fire District could wait. It was probably fund rising stuff. Nope. It was a bill for that ambulance trip to County on 1/24/18. They were charging me because CCHP (my healthplan) refused to pay it.

Ms. B made a claim that resulted in me being 5150’d to County – a lie – and I have to pay for $3800 for her not getting a letter in her file for professionalism, medical malfeasance and ongoing malpractice?

That “report” to the police came back and bit me in the ass on March 4th. I posted on Facebook a post that there algorithm took as a suicide threat and reported it to Alameda PD, and because of a “violent 5150” I was taken into custody, handcuffed and searched, and prep walked to a waiting ambulance and transported to a Psych ER in San Leandro. I was there for 10 hours and given a taxi cab to take me “home”. The two female officer neglected to get my prescription glasses, just a pair of readers and even read the post supporting my GoFundMe Campaign. I was upset, emotional, after an 11:45pm visit from the police. I couldn’t say “I don’t want to commit suicide” unemotionally enough for them, so I deserved to be handcuffed? I told them I had a stroke. Supposedly so. Arrest the disabled. Why not.

I wonder when I’ll get that bill.

I fear getting “picked up” and serving jail time. I have so many fears now. My life is in ruins and impacted so disastrously by others who were supposed to “help” me. It isn’t help. It is shortening my time on this earth.

If I have struck a nerve with any of you, ’cause I ain’t sharing on Facebook anymore. Fucking insidious bastards, share this. I still am hoping to raise money through GoFundMe so I can live and make those nitwits pay. No one deserved to experience what I have. No one should. Ever.

One good thing that came out of that last little trip because I am a “psyche case”, I researched my drugs.  My system was almost 48 hours clear of Metoprolol, an angina medication for a heart condition. I don’t have a heart condition and the side effects make my stroke related issues worse, like confusion. Hmmmm, could that have made me worse? It wouldn’t have changed who I have been historically or make me violent, but it caused severe brain fog. And Berg didn’t renew my Amolodipine prescription. I need  that for my blood pressure. Dr. N, my new PCP, gave me a new prescription for that. My ER Doctor when I had the stroke put me back on that. I had taken it for years, until Mom threw out all of them because I was “addicted”. Dealing with dementia is a bitch when it’s not you and you’re a live-in caretaker.

I research. The Internet doesn’t lie, only shitty sites do. You know who you have to trust because of their history and mission.

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live