Pissing Blood and No 911

Five Days Bleeding

I was pissing blood. Not metaphorically—literally. Deep red, thick, and constant. It started like 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.

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.

They gave me 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 for 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.

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.
I remember the color.
I remember the ache.
I remember 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.