TWENTY-FIRST POST

August 3, 2026 · 3:53 PM

I, once again, have had a radicalizing experience with the current American healthcare system.

After posting the insane update below, I realized I was actually not doing very good at all. I underestimated what it means to be microwaved.

Sunday afternoon, I hit my eye.

Monday morning, I woke up and threw up for an hour. This seemed less than optimal. I was vaguely concerned, but throwing up is not all that unusual for me, so I tried to get through my day.

I went to meet a friend in town at a japanese listening room in Chinatown. They accidentally took the train to Brooklyn, so I went to a new coffee shop while I waited for them to get back. I bought some interesting magazines from the Iconic Magazine Store. I had a little hojicha latte. We caught up. We went shopping. I called in backup, and my beautiful sweet french friend came and we spent a few hours giggling in dressing rooms. Pretty light stuff. My head started hurting and I felt kinda spacey, so I went home.

I slept for 15 hours.

I woke up Tuesday, and knew I was Not Good. The entire left side of my head was making it pretty hard to ignore how Not Good I was. So I tried to look at a screen, and well, that made it worse. I cancelled my calls, and asked the LLMs for advice.

The LLMs told me to go to a Hospital. I felt like this was overkill. I really didn't want to make a big deal of it. After all, I got hit in the face by a microwave door.

I was literally microwaved, but this feels like a fairly unusual way to actually hurt yourself in a meaningful sense, right? Surely this is something an urgent care can handle.

Various LLMs I consulted told me that if I went to an urgent care, they would likely just send me to a hospital anyway, so I should probably just go to an ER. We met in the middle, and they agreed that the Freestanding Emergency Department in my neighborhood would be a good place to check out.

Okay, fine. I am not a stranger to the hospital. I knew this was going to kill my entire day. I packed up a big bag. Honestly, I was pretty pissed off and resentful that I even had to do this, but I had literally all of the hallmark symptoms of see a doctor immediately: I hit my head, threw up a bunch, couldn't really think straight, and I had a crazy headache. It was enough that I knew if I didn't go, I'd probably convince myself I had a brain bleed, and frankly I don't need that anxiety this week.

I took an Uber there. It dropped me off in the wrong location.

Stunned, dizzy, I walk the two blocks and accidentally walk through the ambulance drop off area. Yeah, doing great.

I explain to the front desk my problem. She gives me a bracelet and admits me basically immediately. By "admits", I mean she tells me to go sit on the other side of a vibecoded-ass wall in the waiting room. Sure.

I sit for a while. I notice I definitely cannot look at a screen for more than 3 minutes without needles forming in my skull. I have a weirder amount of tracers than normal. At least they're fun to play with, I guess.

I space out. They take my blood pressure, do some vitals, ask me the same questions again, and then put me back in the weird cordoned off section of the waiting room.

20-ish minutes later, they call me back again. This time is different.

They walk me into what is I guess a triage-place. There is much beeping from many different machines. It is very bright. The young child next to me is being so brave and having his blood drawn. A man is sleeping in a bed behind a curtain that doesn't actually hide him at all. There are six very orthodox jews next to me with a representative from a Hatzolah. He has a little badge that says so and he seems to be the only competent person in the entire place.

Someone appears with an iPad. Registration, I guess. I'm trying my hardest not to throw up again. The beeping is so, so loud, and so discordant.

He asks me to fill out a form, and tells me he'll be back to get it from me.

I accidentally tap one section. It wants a phone number. I try deleting everything. It won't let me submit the form. I try entering (000)-000-0000. It won't let me submit the form. I try (123) 456-7890. It won't let me submit the form. I try entering my own phone number. It won't let me submit the form. I try every combination of thing I can think of. It won't let me submit the form.

I look around and realize I am on the verge of Freaking The Fuck Out.

Actually, I kind of do Freak the Fuck Out. Hoodie over my head, I curl up into the world's smallest ball, gripping the sides of my chair like I might die.

A policeman looks at me with vauge disinterest and then goes back to watching the sleeping man. I try not to cry.

Finally, the same guy comes back. He asks if I have any problems. I say yeah, it's really fucking loud in here, it's really bright, can someone please give me something for my headache? oh and I can't complete the form.

He takes it from me, fiddles for a bit, and then submits it. He tells me there is nowhere else for me to go, but he'll try to find something.

A nurse comes by some time later. He hands me two tylenol. I am certain they will cost me $650. I take them anyway. I request again, please, there are five different machines beeping and I think I am going to die, is there anywhere else I can sit?

He tells me I was "fast-tracked" or something but that he can see, and takes me back into the waiting room where I was.

Fine.

That's pretty loud too, but it's emptier, and there are not six competing beeping machines everyone seems to just ignore, so I deal with it.

They call me back again, and put me in the same chair. The doctor comes by. She asks me about forty times what I mean by I hit myself in the face with a microwave. I understand she has to do this, but she does not seem to take me very seriously. She runs me through some test where I have to touch my nose, then follow her finger, and then touch her finger. I do it but not very well. She asks me to rub one foot down the side of my other shin. I do that, and it's harder than I expected. She tells me to do the other side, and I struggle similarly.

Well, she says. You have a concussion, but I don't think you have a brain bleed, so you're good to leave. Come back if it gets worse.

What? I ask. What do you mean? I did exactly what I was supposed to do, you want me to come back again tomorrow when my headache is worse? Why not just give me a CT scan now?

She looks at me funny and tells me I probably don't need it. I ask her what lead her to that conclusion, and then before she can respond, I ask if she wouldn't mind documenting her refusal to make sure my brain isn't bleeding in my chart. You know, just in case.

She tells me she'll put the tests in.

Weird how that works.

They lead me back to the same waiting room. Then they come and get me, and another guy at the same time, and we walk what appears to be the the entire length of the building. They put both of us outside of radiology.

Neither of us speak to each other, though I'm tempted to ask what he's in for.

They bring me in, scan my brain, and then I ask roughly how long the results will take. The lab tech, who is the only person who is nice to me all day, shrugs and says "usually an hour, but if you have mychart, you'll be able to see it sooner."

Then she walks me out to the same waiting room.

I get an email that my mychart email has changed. I try to login. I cannot login. I try resetting various codes, checking all of my inboxes, etc. I never receive any sort of code.

About 20 minutes later, I get a text that my results are in. I click the link, and I am yet again prompted to login. I try to login. I cannot login. I try resetting various codes, checking all of my inboxes, etc. I never receive any sort of code. I try resetting my password. It does not work. I consult the LLMs, and their solutions do not work either. I briefly consider acts of violence.

My head starts hurting too bad, so I figure if it's bad, they'll just come get me. If my brain was bleeding, surely they would act with some sort of quickness. Probably.

Another 40 minutes go by.

I get another text that implies I have been discharged, and acts as if I have agreed to whatever has happened. I sort of assume this means my brain is OK, but I am a little confused at being discharged without being spoken to at all.

I approach the front desk to ask what's going on, and they actually yell at me to sit back down. They say that the doctor will be with me shortly. They do not seem to understand why I am confused.

I sit back down, beaten. I am a lump. I am a shell. I am made of head pain and only head pain. I simply exist.

The front desk bitch starts actively complaining to her coworker, like I'm not sitting right there. She says she hates this system, because doctors put the results in, and patients get it, and expect to be seen immediately. The guy working with her says something along the lines of agreeing with her, and I realize they're actually just still talking about me.

I, concussed and pretty pissed off at this point, cannot take it anymore.

"I get that that sucks, but that's not what happened to me" I say. Before either of them can speak, I get even more pissed off, and tell them that MY text message was not that my results were in, I already got that one, but that it was discharging me, and I had not been seen by anyone to be discharged in the first place.

They both go quiet, and look at each other. Then, the guy goes "that is weird. The doctor should be here shortly." and I realize that I hate them, like truly hate them, but that it doesn't matter at all.

A few moments later, a nurse comes out with paperwork. He hands me paperwork that says on the top left that my diagnosis is a concussion. The paperwork also contains the number for a concussion center. The paperwork behind the front page appears to be about how to take care of a concussion, but I can't really read it.

The nurse then tells me I do not have a concussion today, and that I am good to go.

I tell him I do not understand. The doctor told me I did have a concussion, and if I do not have a concussion, why are you giving me paperwork about having a concussion? This is all very confusing for someone with a concussion.

He asks me if I'd like to talk to the doctor again. I waffle for a second, and tell him that she didn't take me seriously before, but that I would like to know if I have a concussion or not, so yes please.

He disappears. I stand there with my paperwork that says I have a concussion.

He comes back five minutes later and pulls me into a side room where he is doing some sort of paperwork, and apologizes. He tells me that I do not have a brain bleed, but that I do have a concussion.

I am a little confused at the entire thing, and say okay... so what do I do for a concussion? I have never had one before.

He tells me they don't "do that" here, and that I have to call the NYU concussion center. I tell him I don't understand, and he says that this establishment only handles emergency room stuff like making sure my brain isn't bleeding, and that the concussion people can help me.

I tell him this is very confusing for someone with a concussion, and he says the people on the paperwork can help me. I don't really feel like he understands what a concussion is, but that I've already been here for two and a half hours, and if I don't leave, I might actually die.

He escorts me back out to the lobby, and the rude front desk receptionists tell me I that I am free to leave.

I walk out. It is sort of raining. I have a very big bag with me. I walk home. I tell everyone I can think of that I have a concussion and to please give me some space, time, and understanding.

I tell my mom I have a concussion. I don't think she understands what a concussion is, because over the next four days, she sends me a lot of texts in a row about things like crafts. It hurts my head every time I have to open a text, but I have no idea if any of them are important, or the ones where she's checking on me, and I should probably respond to that. To be honest, I don't really know if I understand what a concussion is.

I straight up don't remember Wednesday. It is gone. The next few days are episodically good, and sometimes a little bad. I have a really nice Friday night but I probably pushed it too far. I am lucid for about four hours on Saturday, and for only a few minutes on Sunday.

I read the entirety of Werner Herzog's memoir. He is really crazy. I take a long bath. I eat some char siu. I read a book called Quantum Listening. I start to feel normal again. I get in bed at a reasonable hour.

I am then unable to sleep. It turns out that having a brain injury is a really complicated thing, and one of the things that can happen is that your brain can get sort of "stuck" in the wrong mode. I begin having a panic attack. I am then stuck having a panic attack. Every single thing I have ever said wrong bubbles and explodes through my quicksand of a mind. I have a panic attack in slow-motion. Every obligation, every thing on my plate, every item I still have to do, they all join me in the mud. It's a really weird quagmire of Bad, and I make some weird noises out loud.

My cat comes up and lets me hold her kind of funny. My hips hurt, so I can't lay like I normally do. She lets me hold her in strange and uncomfortable positions, and purrs. She seems like she is trying to transmit calm and peace to me. Eventually, the vibrations do sort of lull me into a soothed state, and I fall asleep.

I wake up today feeling great. I attack the morning viciously. Voraciously. I get through my One Important Meeting. I have a bit of a scramble before it, but the meeting goes better than expected, and I get somewhere usable by the end. I even generate some deliverables, and all seems better.

My battery is rapidly depleting, and I recognize that I must take it slower. I simply cannot help that words only pour out of me while I am looking at screens. I try writing this with my eyes closed. It's okay, but my hands are kind of off on my keyboard for part of it, and I have to redo it.

I imagine what it's like to be blind, and decide I don't like it very much at all.