Slammed

When I hadn't heard from the hospital by 3:30 this afternoon, I called them. I got a return call from the therapist's cover-therapist (she, of course, is on vacation this week). His name is Pat, and he has all the people skills of a boiled turnip. He hasn't even met Bob. But he sat in on the treatment team meeting this morning, and the recommendation of residential treatment was apparently tossed around.

Residential. As in "long term." I.e., approximately and up to six months.

Six months.

I can't wrap my head around it.

I left Pat specific instructions to please have the psychiatrist call me in the morning as soon as he arrives.

I think it may be time to start investigating that second opinion in St. Louis.