Pissing Blood and No 911
1 min read
Five Days Bleeding
I was pissing blood. Not metaphorically—literally. Deep red, thick, constant. It started as a whisper, a warning from inside. But in Williamson County, warnings don’t matter. Pain doesn’t matter. You can scream, you can beg, you can bleed—and still, no one calls 911.
The EMT Who Didn’t Feel It
I asked for help. I told them something was wrong. EMT Ransom looked at me, calm as concrete, and said, “If I felt that it was serious enough, then I would call an ambulance.”
He didn’t feel it.
So I sat there. Bleeding. Waiting. Deteriorating.
Two Ibuprofen a Day
That was their answer: two pills to fight internal bleeding, sleep deprivation, and the kind of pain that makes your bones hum. I was awake five days straight—not because I wanted to be, but because the pain wouldn’t let me sleep. The cameras watched. The staff ignored. The system calculated.
Recorded, Then Denied
I knew what was happening. I’ve installed those smoke detector cams for decades. I knew they were watching me piss blood. I knew they were recording every moment of my collapse. And I knew they’d deny it later: “No footage.” “No incident.” “No emergency.”
But I remember.
The color.
The ache.
The silence.
This wasn’t just medical neglect—it was ritualized erasure. A slow bleed meant to break me. But I didn’t break. I documented. I endured. I turned every drop into testimony.