Epistolary Arts of Fading Elders

"I cried," Atul Gawande, before traveling to the Ganges with dad's ashes

Debra Horne
Riverside Social Worker, nominally
158 N 23rd St, Office
Phila., PA 19103

Debra:

Let's presuppose, for the moment, that I take the pedestrian point of view, and I concede that my outlook is distorted from years of familial dysfunction, medical model institutional abuse, and parental genetics ingrown years before Presby and I engaged in what, unwittingly, has become a lifelong battle of Stratego.

Everyone, except you and the assessment team Trudy deployed in 2007, has understood that I cannot continue to utilize my former disability center. Charles Horton, on the Mayor's Commission, an African American just as you, grasped my problem without even needing to hear my narrative, which I spared him, and asked if I contacted UCPA; Tim Keller, who is Brian Sims communications director, exclaimed "You can't go back there!"

Two men grasped my dilemma, but you? Let's see:

1. Because Trudy "had to do something," when I had my power chair break down which lasted nearly a year, you, a woman with a consumer model compulsion disorder, two of your brothers from god knows where, treat me like an animal, surrounding my doorway after my uncle restored my chair at cost, arguing in public about my mental health because I wept in front of you and other erstwhile Occupational managers in the past, or lost my temper, understandably, having my life so severely disrupted for weeks on end, so many significant portions of my life spent teaching myself complex solitaire games while defecating on portable commodes, and you want what, a rosy and compliant imbecile overjoyed  to have my career imploded by the time I was all of 37, in a senior living facility like this one.

Linda C Dezenski did more than dominate me in graphic terms in an unwise exchange of confidences Debra. She pitted me in a political battle within the center which violated the state's statutory guidelines and its federal mandate, and my pain over this made me "the Other," destroying alliances, the coordinators assigned to me subsequently disparaging of my concerns: I was abused by more than one paraprofessional, Debra, since I became ineligible for Medicaid--at least until I conveniently distributed my assets in supporting Tim Artis's habit-- which doesn't mean he didn't deserve his pay.

2. But the fact that I let Presby off the hook for its liability in my assault in Diamond Park, the social ostracism I have received here at Riverside, the fact that my rematrication, my attempts to reassert myself have been beaten back by your ideas of relegating my humanity, even while you were coaching Lucille Vaugn for her promotion, the destruction, nearly continuous, of my personal property, none of this matters. In your book, I should be grateful for being a life long living wage for unskilled labor.

I'm done, and on the basis of everything I have been through, I am going to the state attorney general, and whatever happens, whether I set myself up for even more abuse in a shelter, or break down in a home, I am never going to forget the cruelty you, your superiors, the other residents, and privileged individuals like Monica Carr, have imposed on me. Never. Hide behind as many meetings with Ken Cantrell as you please.


Joanne M. Marinelli