When they tell you that hospitals are going to be overloaded by a spike in some flu bug — they’re definitely gaming you. Doesn’t matter if it’s some kind of epidemic that is really killing people.
Because hospitals, at best, are where you go to get diagnosed. Then you beat feet and go home, because who would want to suffer and die with all that beeping and 24 hours of intrusions, when you’re so sick you just wanna die.
How do I know? Oh, how I know. All my life, starting when I was 14, I’ve been the go-to person for childbirths, dying of cancer — dying of anything. A couple of the childbirths were in the hospital, as was planned. But with a midwife helping, one who’d brought 300 babies into the world, home was the best place. As for dying — ditto. Home hospice is the best if you have someone like me.
I don’t know how many births and deaths I attended.
Not a dozen of each. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s more a matter of how my mind works, I guess. These aren’t sporting events, so I wouldn’t keep score.
I’ve also had to attend to myself. I’ve had (congenital) mental episodes — psychoses I guess. And I suffered through covid-19 alone — really came close to death. The joy of covid was amplified because that left me mentally and physically damaged, though I managed to not get admitted to a psych ward or anything that miserable.
Like I said, you really don’t want to be sick in a hospital. And you truly never want to be in a psych ward. The only advantage of shrink hospitals is the great advice you get from other patients. The doctors are either evil or stupid — often both. Think about that. They’re shrinks because their parents and supervisors didn’t want them anywhere near a scalpel.
I won’t even tell you about Camarillo State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. That’s a world famous (and chilling) story. Somebody I care about went there before it closed. God! That’s the photo above, luckily after it had been closed for people like me and mine.
Gaming you? What does that mean?
Oh, you’re right. I guess all the news about President Trump and his fat, rich, powerful buddies has me paranoid. But that’s just TV. Things like that don’t happen in real, normal life. Just forget I said anything.
Maybe I need to go back to Camarillo.
