Well, since then I've been in and out of clinics doing the routine the state medical services expect of their citizens. This brought me to a place called Bad Krozingen, a town totally geared to medical rehabilitation but not much else. I had left my mother in some geriatric home for temporary care, especially after finding things in such a state when I got home from the hospital. Some people just don't know the meaning of criminal negligence and the last thing you need recovering from a heart attack is a shitload of drama from the domestically inept. Nonetheless, it didn't stop that stupid woman from the TCW calling me up on my mobile for my mother's medical card after I explicitly told her I wouldn't be around to handle it, that she'd have to go there and fetch it herself. She did this three times, threatening to bill me the full amount for whatever. I told her, her threats were futile because I was not about to break off my rehab just because she can't coordinate her paper chase with the parties responsible.
While the clinic itself was excellent and the kitchen staff took real care not to feed me anything I would take an allergic reaction to, too many of the patients were a right pain in the ass. Most of these people were behaving like teens at a holiday park, getting ridiculously drunk only to wind up leaving in a far worse state than they arrived in. Clearly a whole lot of self inflicted that brought them there in the first place. I also don't imagine all that alcohol goes well with such strong meds. It's times like these, where you come to realize that maybe you're not so fucked up as the rest after all. That, in itself is therapy for sure.
The way I see it, the real problem began when I shattered my ankle in June of 2003. I knew all those damned Heparin shots and the thrombosis socks were doing me no justice. This is the problem with the lack of individual specific treatments. With my tendency to lymphatic swellings, it should have been obvious to these plods that there would be long term side effects. I had barely got off of those crutches when my father took a severe stroke. I was supposed to have the wires and pins removed from my ankle but that got delayed practically a year. Thus for all the lack of aerobic movement the fatty acids simply backed up until I gradually began to suffocate in my own fluids. Now I'm all the wiser, though it seems I've had more luck than brains lately.
