So Good Shepherd rehab phoned me and a nice lady was telling me all about how they are going to work with The Curmudgeon if things go through. Sounded good and she promised to call me back and let me know…I never did hear back from her.

Fifteen minutes later some other place called (the woman slurred the name so badly I couldn’t understand it and she wouldn’t repeat it) I stopped her two minutes into her spiel.

“Um, Good Shepherd just called me. Have you actually talked to my husband’s case worker or anyone?”

“Well not actually.”

“Not actually? Really?

Tell you what, you call his case worker at St. Luke’s and between you, the case worker, his doctors, Good Shepherd, and all the rest of you money-grubbing vultures maybe y’all can actually talk to my husband and make some sort of arrangement. Then one of you call me when y’all have all your little yellow duckies in a row. How about y’all do that?”

Yeah, that southern influence sort of comes out of me when someone pisses me off by assuming I know what the fuck is going on with this shit.

OMG what a cluster fuck this is. I didn’t dare drive out there for fear they’d transfer him somewhere while I was en-route. It would be just like them to do that.