Wherein we expose the intracies of bringing a hospital discharge planner to heel

There's a whole universe of people in the "health care" industry who are in charge of discharging hospital patients as quickly as possible. My experiences tell me patient recovery is not among their criteria for making discharge decisions.

 A few years ago, I had an amusing exchange with a discharge planner when my elderly, post-stroke mother had been hospitalized for something else. Herewith: I called the hospital as I was leaving the office and said "I am on my way to VISIT my mother. Is there anything I need to know before I hit the road?" The nurse said no, nothing in particular, she's fine and we all love her.

When I got there, there was all sorts of sturm und drang going on, and I was told they were discharging her right then and there.

I purred sweetly, "Well, then, you'll need to let me borrow a hospital gown, because you told me to take her clothes home when she was admitted, you told me there was nothing I needed to know when I called a half-hour ago, and I have nothing with me for her to wear." The discharge planner (hereafter known in my family as the clipboard commando) barked "That's against hospital policy."

I wearily reverted to Amazon Warrior Woman in sheep's clothing mode, narrowed my eyes and hissed "Perhaps you could exercise a little flexibility in the policy." The clipboard commando was adamant: "Well, we really can't. I'm sorry."

Now it was time for full Amazon Warrior Woman, so I shed my sheep's clothing and said "I have a car full of drum mallets, work papers, high-school notebooks and probably a couple of fast-food wrappers. Which of those would you like her to wear?" The clipboard commando could only come up with "I'm sorry, ma'am. We can't allow the hospital gowns to leave the premises because we're not sure how they'll be used."

 Amazon Warrior Woman inside me said, sotto voce "What did you THINK I was going to do with it--use it as inspiration for the McKenna Resort Collection of Fine Fashions for poor little old ladies who drool, you imbecile!"

 Somewhere between smiling and baring my teeth for the kill, I hissed "Fine. You get her into the wheelchair and take her down, while I get my car. I'm just going to need another minute to call Nick K*** at the OC Register (photographer) so he can be here as I wheel my stark-naked 81-year-old mother out of this place because you won't part with a $2.00 hospital gown. See you in a few!"

 I exited, clicking my heels with unnecessary emphasis in the hospital corridor. By the time I got to the patient-pickup/dropoff area, there sat my mother in her little wheelchair, all bundled up in not one but TWO hospital gowns and they even threw in a lightweight blanket.

 And that, dear reader, is why, to this day, I have a collection of scalps and eyeteeth hanging over my desk.