An Unsolicited Testimonial

caputo commented on Complaint against Roger Levine, M.D.

I just wanted to say that I have come to the realization that St Joe’s is the worst psychiatric hospital in the world. When my husband spent Dec 2012 and Jan 2013 on Unit 3-6 it was a constant battle to get proper care for him. During his time there they abused him, ignored him and did very little to aid him. So when on May 8, 2013, my husband returned to CPEP I was seriously concerned that he would once again be neglected on 3-6. Instead after three days in CPEP my husband was moved to University Hospital, and I have to admit I panicked not knowing what to expect.

What has happened since he arrived at Upstate University Hospital, Unit 4B, is wonderful. He has a team of seven caring health care professionals who actually listen and give him proper care. Amazing he was lucky if Dr. O’Connor spent two minutes every couple of days with him at St Joe’s. At 4B he sees his doctors daily they take as much time as you need and really listen to you in order to give you the best care possible. The groups are all run by doctors including the head of Psychiatry not some LPN or CNA like 3-6. He looks better, feels better and is treated with dignity and respect on 4B instead of like an animal on 3-6. He told me last night he has learned so much , been consulted on his care more, and obtained more insight in the few days that he has been on 4B than the entire month at 3-6.

My point is if you ever find yourself in need of a safe place for psychiatric help do yourself a favor avoid 3-6 like the plague and go over to University’s 4B where they actually care about their patients.


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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