So after the eventually-happy Thursday, we get... bupkis. Dad got no physical therapy Friday OR Saturday, after we'd been explicitly promised by the rehab director that he would be getting it. I'm reaching or past the end of my patience. I'm trying to keep my anger in check until Monday morning when I can ask for some kind of explanation. But I'm more and more inclined to let loose the hounds of holy hell (or at least regulation) on these people. And call the other facility and beg and plead for a bed.
On the bright side, at least he's eating.
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