Roger Levine, M.D. (Part V)

Every night I am restricted to nothing but water for 14 hours, from 6:45 p.m. until 8:45 a.m.  Friday afternoon, Dr. Edwards and I talk about it.  He says I’m on a regular diet and can have anything I want.  He goes to the nursing station and comes back to report that Levine has written an order that I can’t have anything.

Saturday night my aide brings in some CDs and my CD player.  Within minutes, they disappear from my room.  The staff has taken them without telling me or leaving an inventory.  Sunday morning Gary checks and says that I can’t have them because I’m on 15-minute checks.

Fifteen-minute checks are used for two purposes:  for the first 72 hours for all patients, and thereafter for patients who are considered dangerous to themselves or others.  I said I would kill myself if I went home.  I did not go home. I have not been suicidal for a single instant.

On Thursday Roger Levine tried to discharge me but, three days later, he still has me on 15-minute checks.  Is his plan that the checks should follow me home?  Levine’s behavior is malicious, controlling and totally, utterly, irrational.  Gary tells me to ask the weekend psychiatrist to take me off 15-minute checks so I can have some music.

When Dr. Baliel (?) comes by, I ask.  He says that Dr. Levine has told him specifically not to change any of my orders.  Whether present or absent, Levine will have complete control over me.  I am not a patient on a psychiatric unit; I am a prisoner of a madman.

Levine comes in on Monday; as he walks in the hallway he averts his eyes every time he comes to my room.  I have done my own discharge planning, absent any assistance from staff.  Levine walks in and asks if I’m going to hurt myself.  “No,” I say.  “I’m going to hurt you; I’m going to file a complaint with OPMC against your license.”

I will do everything in my power to sue the hell out of Levine and St. Joseph’s Hospital.  Here’s my discharge plan and how I’m going to get into a nursing home:  I’m going to buy one with their money.

(As I have written and posted to my blog today, I have had 528 readers.  People are watching, including at the U.S. Dept. of Justice.)


About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
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