Nothing much to report today; work continues on Chrysanthemum Graves, though at a snail’s pace. I think I’ll have a chunk I feel like sharing tomorrow, or maybe Friday, so if you’re into that sort of thing, feel free to check back then.
Today is a medical day, though. Three different doctors in two different cities who are going to poke and prod me and likely leave me exactly as I entered with the exception of less room on the credit card after paying the three different $80 co-pays. Getting really sick of going to these. But if I don’t go, my employer and the folks at disability assume “oh, he’s fine now, no need to worry.” Never mind the back pay they should have dealt out months ago, but they’ll definitely put a hold on anything forthcoming. So I keep going to the doctors, who keep telling me the same thing, and they keep dragging their heels.
I am so utterly sick of dealing with medical personnel and all the associated extensions it requires. This should be very simple. Send one human with a brain to my house and watch me try to do chores for an hour or two. Do a two-hour phone call. Discover “wow, he’s fucked up!” Sign off on form that says “Wow, he’s fucked up!” Send a second person to echo that sentiment. Be done.
But no. Six doctors, a year, and having to call every single day because they can’t be bothered or trusted to return my calls or call me back. The latest on that one is my employer called me yesterday to ask if I had my original rejection letter. This is the first I’ve heard from them since two weeks ago when I finally got through to a third-tier supervisor and manually sent all the info to him. I told them “Um. No. I’ve had to move, and I have roughly a crate’s worth of medical records, so I’m not sure where that would be at the moment.” They inform me they’re going to have to pull it from their records, then.
They’re damn fast about finding paperwork when it’s something that supports them telling me to go pound sand, but apparently, it’ll take them a week to find a document they sent to me, that should be in my damn file. Ugh.
Anyway. Off to the doctor’s. Send chicken. Or drug money. If you feel like doing either, you can stop by my Patreon or GoFundMe. Everything helps.
Until next time, folks.
Insomniac Nightmares 
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