"You Hear Something?"

Here's a re-run from my journal. This from a few years ago.

Day One,...(...first draft all done with crayon under supervision.)

My depression meds withdrawal went critical so I called 9-1-1.
The EMT gals came in two seconds, and injected me into the "Kings County Nut House". Questions were asked possessions stripped pills given, and my naked body metal detected.

...Twice just to make sure.

This is where I wondered if that 9-1-1 move was swift.
The armed though smiling "helpers" gave me powder blue jammies wrist I.D. , and my own cell. Which these days are called "Pods". ...pastel heaven. Dickens' Bedlam made over by the Art Student's League.

The scene.

There were 12 pods to a platform.
Each with a plain flat bed, and hard plastic comfy chair. Beyond was an open area where the walking wounded...of which I was one... sat drawing, and coloring.

Above this gleeful noise were flat screen TV's.
On one Tom, and Jerry cartoons. The other collapsing glaciers villages bombed masses starving riots in Caracas, and America imploding.

No wonder everyone there was nuts.

Mean time I got medical work-overs. Blood stool piss, and that was just lunch.
Later it got invasive. Btw nut houses are as advertised. Bad. Actually rather 'very' bad. Good intentioned clean tidy pastel oppression bad.

Towards night folks got itchy.

'Here to tell 'ya. The "Joint was Jumping". Dinner, and a show.

Day Two,

I was transferred from the loonie bin to the medical wing where I was supposed to be in the first place.
Seems they misplaced me.
A nice kid gave me a sonogram to see if my guts were still there. Good news they were. Gooder news I wasn't pregnant. ...mostly.

Being an old guy I'm an experienced patient so know the drill.
Plenty of tests to stack the Medicaid cost. Uncle Sam is a first class sucker bless his soul!
The medical priesthood finally figured out I was in blinding fucking pain. Like I told them 24 insanely agonized hours ago. That, and They wondered if I'd like something for the "discomfort".

...Civilization is indeed a strange thing.

I said "yes" with as much Orwellian irony as I could.
This was rewarded with assorted goodies. Christ I love drugs!
A note is it me or are all of the medical workers in Brooklyn from Rumania, and Barbados?
Not a complaint mind...just wondering.

Well all good things...

They topped me off with crap I can't pronounce. Gave me all sorts of stuff to sign. They wants to hook me up for more Medicare bucks for themselves, and I was all for it,...drugs.

They wants me back tomorrow. I told them not fucking likely. 

I was going to stumble home, but got a ride with patient released with me.

People are nice.