Situation Normal
Today is a SNAFU day.
I woke up sore from doing too much yesterday, but I’d been so happy about being about to keep Sally. She’s being sponsored, I can make her vet appointment. (The SNAFU was that I could have made it yesterday, but the ‘it’s ready’ conversation dropped from my memory. Yay cache drops!)
My NSAID didn’t come with my meds. Let’s hope my doctor actually looks at her notes and sends it in. Then there’s waiting for it to come in the mail. But all my other maintenance meds came, safely in their bubbles. So it could be worse.
I got a one-sheet from management saying they were doing fire inspections Wednesday and Thursday. Today they knocked on my door as I was getting my dog ready to go out back. I quickly put on a mask, opened the door, and said, “It’s Tuesday.”
“Yes.” Big smile from the maskless manager (who is at least pleasant).
“Your paperwork said Wednesday and Thursday, I’m not set up to understand you all with masks, you’re not wearing a mask, I’m immunocompromised, this won’t work.”
“Uh. It does? Can I see it?”
“Sure.” I close the door and grab it from the fridge.
“Oh no. Can I take a picture? This is a big problem.”
“Go ahead, you guys made it!”
Off they went. At least the real manager was there. The other guy would have tried to force the issue. Maybe they’ll keep a copy of their own one-sheet next time?
The top surgery wait list is slow. The plastic surgeon is only at the hospital twice a month for any and all procedures, and there’s a hierarchy. The issue is that she’s the only plastic surgeon who takes Medicaid, so that wait list, when so many other people need care, not just trans care, is a bit horrifying.
Think about it. It doesn’t matter what you need. There’s one doctor who works two days a month, and you are waiting for her. An entire state’s worth of Medicaid plastic surgery work, plus the hospital’s ‘standard insurance’ patients, who get priority, because they generate profit.
The coordinator is sweet, but my dysphoria is through the roof. It’s been a year, and I’m losing hope for the thing I’ve needed since I was 15. Shikata ga nai.
My ‘housing case manager’, who is supposed to set up Section 8 for me per the vendor’s contract, just sent me an email asking if I was on Section 8, and was my landlord double-billing?
I don’t know? Section 8 has refused to change my name in their system for years, and I can’t get on their site due to a name/SS# mismatch. I’ve told them this.
So she gave me Section 8’s email, and I’m trying again, on my own, to deal with this. I sent all the relevant paperwork again, asked for information, cc’d the vendor and my regular case manager, and sent it off to the Housing Authority. I got a quicker reply than I expected, but it was just bumping me up the ladder.
And they say disabled people don’t work. 🙄 I did get a lot done today.
I also got the dishwasher both run and emptied (and everything on shelves! Miracle!), and I’m resting while I eye my laid out-but-not-folded laundry. Should I be good and do that, or pick up my socks and work on them while I watch some mind-candy?
Probably both. Incoming people put me on edge about having corners askew. It’s not good when I don’t have home health care. Shikata ga nai.
(heh. and I feel asleep as soon as I finished editing this, and did neither!)
