Movie Review: Spider-Man: No Way Home

 Except that there is a way home, which completely destroys the one thing about this hound that would offer a silver lining.

Spoilers and non-PC opinions beneath the fold.  Read at your own risk, etc.

My Fourth Day in Hell With The Lid Off

On my fourth day in Hell with the lid off I was visited by three young ladies, all of whom were wearing a hijab (hi-jahb).  They all smiled and spoke to me in English that was so heavily accented I couldn't understand a word they said.  Drug-induced intrigue led me to ask where they were from, and again I couldn't understand them. 

An older lady, a nurse of some stripe, arrived to take my vitals and ask pointless question.  She had a younger assistant in tow.  When I asked what the three were wearing by way of headgear, the older lady told me it was a head job.  At least that's what she'd heard it called by women who escaped to the U.S. and taken the thrice-damned thing off and thrown it into a dumpster. 'Head job', she told me, because that's what it was. 

The younger woman disagreed, saying it was a hijab.  She explained that the three were very nice and were student nurses fulfilling their training requirements.  I told her that they should work on their English, as I couldn't understand a word they said.  She then accused me of throwing them out of my room, mentioning that I had every right to do that as I could decline treatment from anyone I chose, not that there was ever a plethora of people to chose from. 

Case in point, I didn't throw them out; I couldn't understand them.  I'd run into an SJW protecting her special little snowflakes, and you can just guess at the service I'd get from this human hate machine and her comrades. 

Big Mike had warned me to be careful of what I said and did in public, as the Left has agents everywhere, and their motto is Never Forgive, Never Forget. 

On a better note, tonight I'm headed out to hear the Blue Cats play. I'll be in good company, and may eat a slice of pizza or two.

My Status

Those few of you who may have been wondering just where I've been and why, prepare to be enlightened.  The rest of you can try thinking without moving your lips.

On Friday, March 18, 2022 at or around 7:30 PM, I started having severe pain in my lower abdomen.  The pain escalated as the minutes rolled by, so I asked my neighbor Nancy to drop whatever she was doing and take me to the ER.  She agreed, providing I didn't do anything freaky in her car - bleed, barf, die... the usual.

By the time we made the ER, the pain was a solid 8 (scale of 1-10).  I got to the check in desk, and my stomach issued my dinner a return to sender.  I got triaged and told they couldn't give me any medication until a room opened up, and they didn't know when that would happen.

So I sat in my wheelchair in the ER waiting room, in the most intense agony I've ever felt, for five hours.  Nancy kept me company.

Once the wait was over they got me in a room and shot me full of pain medication, which took the pain down to level 5.  After a few tests, the diagnosis was Acute biliary pancreatitis without infection or necrosis.  Go look it up; it's what I did.  The cure was to remove my gallbladder, so surgery was scheduled.  Not right away though, as my pancreas was acting up and everything was put on hold until the wretched thing settled down.

So it's off to a hospital room to wait.

I was ensconced in Mount Carmel East Hospital, Columbus, Ohio, and had my surgery on March 24; discharged on March 25.

Let me tell you something:  Mount Carmel East Hospital, in Columbus, Ohio, is Hell with the lid off.  No food, no water; only ice to eat.  I wasn't allowed a shower, and not allowed to clean my teeth.  I had a choice between a bed made of iron rods and a four inch thick foam mattress, or a chair that was marginally better.  The noise level precluded sleep.  Various machines kept going off with a loud screech, and the summon help button was only somewhat softer.  The staff ignored the machines.  Eventually I learned that if I yelled for help loud and long enough, someone would show up and let me know that I was an annoyance they'd rather not deal with.

I learned to sleep for two hour intervals, but then the nightmares started.  By day five, these dreams had transcended from the usual bad dreams we all get into the real screamers that you can't remember.

I finally got my surgery, woke up, and was treated to the news that they were keeping me one day for observation.  Whatever.

In the middle of all this I had a heart problem involving arrhythmia, so now I've got some nice new pills to take.

But I'm alive, and that's all I've got the energy to say right now.