"That Poor Guy"

There may my some progress ahead re: mum. The other day she sent me on an errand to ask at the clinic (the house one, for the healthy old folk, not the "Harmony" where dad is languishing) to get her two perscriptions for some drugs. Needless to say it didn't go smoothly from the off. I insisted on seeing the original packaging or perscriptions, she dodged it but eventually yielded. Of course, she totally mispronounced the names of the drugs (in fairness they would have known what I wanted but if they were professional they would refuse to perscribe medication freely anyway. I noticed that one of the packages bore a printed perscription on it, made up for my dad. I knew it was an anti-depression drug he was given in recent years, to stop him from getting over-emotional at the very mention of the Jewish Holocaust - and both mum and dad are Holocaust survivors, so the trauma is with them every day, every moment of their lives, and by association with us all. From the comfortable distance of London I have voiced an objection to the treatment. I argued that the drug was not for the benefit of dad, but to eliminate the awkward embarrassment of the family, having to witness an elderly man, once an officer in the IDF, a proud Nation Builder, reduced to sobbing in public. Nevertheless, he started using the drug and it did help, so he had a "brilliant" idea, and he stocked up on it, and made my mum take it too, to help her with her own psychosis. Well, would you believe it? It had no effect whatsoever. Yet she has been taking that drug for years now, obtaining it without ever having been seen by a physician or a psychologist on the subject of her mental state. I was about to start arguing against this escapade (knowing she could not do too much about it, as she still can't bring herself to pick up the phone and call any of the services within the building, all internal and therefore free calls, all services that have been paid for, all by courteous, efficient staff - "dad deals with everything") but decided against it, wrote down the names of the two drugs and went down to the clinic. I was insrtucted to see the receptionist. you tell her what you (or your mother in my case) want, then return to collect the perscription. The drugs can then be collected from the local Health Centre in person, or if required there is a nice fellow who goes there from the house and bring back people's drugs, then delivers them to their own apartment door. "Over my dead body. They charge 10 INS for every delivery!" (about 1.30 quid or $2.50).
The receptionint at the clinic was pleasant. She (and almost all staff in the house) is fully aware of my "special" mother, but they are perfectly nice, indulgent even, whether out of sense of duty or through experience. The next day, however (yesterday, Tuesday) she asked me if I could bring the written request again, and that the house doctor is reluctant to perscribe such medication without seeing the patient first. Would my mum be able to see him Thursday at 12:30 pm? I set-up the appointment and went about giving mum the news.
It took some talking, discussing, debating, arguing, voice-raising, screaming (nah... just kidding! It went well, relatively, and we'll just wait and see tomorrow).
Lots of other things happened too. If only I could remember what they were...