“Thank god” said the cat, “peace and quiet again.”

Me: I know, right? I love the puppy but right now, this respite care is such a blessing.

Cat: beg pardon? It sounded like you said respite care. I think you meant to say “no more dogs ever”.

Me, snorting: you wish. Not sure how long she’ll be with the puppy sitter but until we can get Granny situated.

Cat: who are these wonderful yet slightly gullible subs, anyway?

Me: I wouldn’t insult these angels if I were you. They’re giving us the room to get through this, with Granny in hospital. The sitter is waiting for her own first puppy to raise so she’s able to take Miss R.

The cat snickering: Twenty bucks says the sitter rethinks her decision after dealing with ding dong.

Me, getting annoyed: first, do not call the dogs names. They’re family when they’re with us. Second, you can’t bet without the funds to back it up and even YOU don’t have means to procure any.

Cat, yawning: even if I did lose, unlikely as it is, I’d simply give credit for inaction.

Me: what?

Cat: I think stopping scratching the sofa when you object is worth five dollars. Ergo, in two hours or less, I’m debt free.

Me: that… what!… you’re a jerk.

Cat: no, just intelligent.

Me: jerk.

Everything is about to start jumping as we’re leaving today. It’s been a rocky ride… on Monday morning, Mummy signed a disclosure from Medicare saying she could refuse to be released even if they discharged her. SNORT. I mean, who does that?

Turns out, we do.

On Sunday, the “hospitalist” (doctor who discharges people prematurely) told Mummy she was ready for release but they’d keep her until the next day. I will not tell you the name to which I referred to this woman, but you can guess it. At that point, Mummy couldn’t stand up.

They intended to discharge her to a “skilled nursing facility”. 

Like HELL.

I’ve seen enough of those places to nauseate me for a lifetime. They are abysmal. We should NEVER make care of the elderly, infirm or mentally disabled a profit-driven business. EVER.

On the other hand, there’s 15 steps up to get to her bedroom, and the downstairs remodel STILL isn’t finished. We can’t have her living on a level that has no bathroom, so we needed her to climb stairs, however slowly, before she came home.

On Monday, the physio and occupational therapists both said she couldn’t be released yet. Relaxing a bit, figuring we had some time, my sister and I headed home at 5pm, ready to come back first thing in the morning.

After 6pm, Dr. X showed up while Mummy was eating dinner. ”You going to stop eating so we can send you home?” – her idea of a greeting.

Mummy: No… WHAT??

The doctor then tried to tell Mummy she was on her way home. I then got a phone call from Mummy, with the sadist chiming in, saying she was insulted by us telling her she was wrong to shove her in a car or sending her to a smelly, cruel cell wasn’t in the cards.

God forbid we insult you, lady.

My sister and I tore back to the hospital, and met with the discharge nurse at 7pm (seriously)… Dr X nowhere to be seen. We said we wanted to contest discharge (our final card) and the nurse said we could, but in her eight years in this job, she’s never seen an appeal won.

Ever.

I gather the medicare appeal company, independent of the hospital, only has a button that says “NO”.

(I would use a different phrase, but my mom is going to read this and she objects to the f-bomb.)

Then, my sister the insurance broker spots on the Medicare disclosure: we (Medicare) will only pay until noon the day AFTER the appeal is denied.

Okay. We’re appealing.

The nurse scowled and said okay. My wizard sister realized we had to call to file immediately (I would’a waited until morning, but unbeknownst to me, that would’ve invalidated our appeal) and she did, leaving a message. So… we had another day and a half’s grace to get Mummy walking stairs.

Fortunately it took an extra day beyond that to get the denial notification, but it was touch and go. She did four stairs yesterday, and she’s heading home today. More adventures to come…