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Sun Apr 24 01:05:22 UTC 2022 In the Belly of the Beast, so to speak. This was originally written for a legal case. It is offered here for its general reference. On 15 December 2020 I was hospitalized due to a suspected heart attack. And it indeed was. That happens to close to a million persons every year, and the sort I had is normally treated with bypass surgery, a number of days in the hospital, and several weeks of recovery afterward. In my case it allowed me to experience, from the inside, the sordid nature of the medical industry in this country. Notice that I refer to it as 'the medical industry'. The term 'health care' has nothing whatsoever to do with the practice of medicine in this society. Health care is what people do, or should do in order to avoid falling into the hands of the medical industry. Or at least postpone its happening. Would that I had done so, but I was sixty-five years old and in any case eligible for health problems. In any case, my adventure began when the ambulance delivered me to the local hospital. That would be the Arkansas Methodist Medical Center in Paragould, Arkansas. This is a relatively large (173 beds according to current information) and is not a primitive rural hospital. Whatever the case, this particular hospital's only contribution to my situation was to puncture one of my kidneys with a needle. A needle containing a dye known to cause kidney failure merely by being in the body, much less being injected into the kidney. So now I was going to soon experience kidney failure as well, but the heart was a more pressing problem. It was decided, by whoever decides such things at that facility, to transport me to a nearby hospital in Jonesboro, about 20 miles away. As the crow flies, I suppose. The two cities are connected by a quite efficient four-lane highway, and it is a relatively short trip. But ambulances are a bit more cumbersome that crows. On the four-lane highway to Jonesboro, just inside the city limits, there is a very new, very large and well-equipped hospital. That would be the NEA/Baptist Hospital of Jonesboro. A hospital completely capable of rendering the necessary care. The ambulance did not stop there. A short distance past the NEA/Baptist hospital the highway becomes narrower and more congested, and narrower streets, traffic signals, and considerable traffic must be negotiated by the ambulance driver. The additional time required to reach the other hospital (St. Bernards Medical Center) was a good twenty minutes. On a good day. Why risk having me die to get to the other hospital? Or is that a dumb question? I arrived alive, more or less, at St. Bernards. Saint Barnyards, as we affectionately call it here in Jonesboro. No kidding, it is a term of endearment. I think. One has to maintain one's sense of humor in these situations. So they fixed my heart problem. Two of my siblings who were present told me it was well done. Took a vein from my leg and used it somewhere. Rather routine from what I understand. Now normally I would have been in the hospital for a few more days and then gone home with the usual instructions for successfully convalescing, or whatever it is you do. Except for the kidney thing. You may remember at that the first hospital (Arkansas Methodist Medical Center in Paragould, in case you forgot. And Google needs some help remembering, won't hurt to have it in there again. Well, apparently my kidney(s?) recovered. That doesn't explain why three months later at the third hospital (we're not there yet for 'The Google' it is 'Arkansas Continued Care Hospital' (also in Jonesboro) performed a dialysis session after I finally woke up. Which is to say, they withdrew the drugs they had been using to keep my unconscious all that time. More on that later. But first I have to get out of St. Barnyards. Seems something else went wrong. My two family members, who had gone home the night before thinking I was out of the woods, got a phone call from the hospital the next morning on their way to church. "We've lost him." That's what they said. The lost me all right. Or is that 'alright'? I dunno. All I know is that I spent twelve minutes with no heart or lung activity. The hospital personnel claim they don't know what happened. Perhaps I'll find out one day. Whatever the case, a few minutes (as few as three) without one or the other is generally considered to be very bad. As in permanent brain damage. Never coming back. Which is in fact what one or more persons there told my next of kin. Why I was still in that state exactly a month after entering the hospital, and apparently no effort had been made to assess my condition, I do not yet know. What I do know is that I was, on 15 January 2021 (my sixty-fifth birthday, how's that for a present?) I was transported to a veritable hell-hole known as Arkansas Continued Care Hospital of Jonesboro. Got that, Google? Okey-dokey. We'll just call it ACCH from here on. When I say that Dr. Mengele would be comfortable there, I am exaggerating only slightly. The souls of the people who operate this criminal enterprise are, I suspect, not so different from his. Assuming he had -- or they have -- souls. The preceding demonstrates only the mundane incompetence of the industry, which has a variety of causes. Certainly greed is the primary factor, but even greed is manifested in different ways at the various levels. The others can be left for another discussion. For the moment, let us examine Dr. Mengele -- sorry, Dr. Copeland. Dr. Copeland would be the doctor at ACCH who violated, in the most egregious manner, my person while in his custody. I should at this point note that I have never met the good Dr. Copeland in person. I only saw photographs of him later, after leaving the hospital. How can that be? He was the physician responsible for my treatment. And I never saw him? You may well ask. I was in a hospital ("in hospital" as our British friends say) once, a few years ago, when a bad case of flu got worse and I was admitted to the hospital with just a few hours to spare. I spent six days there (probably two or three more than necessary, but hey -- we're just milkin' the insurance companies here, so what?) and each day, a little after 0700 the doctor came around. Chatted for a few minutes, looked at the chart, went on his way. $175 per visit. It was on the bill, one line item for each day. Ten to fifteen minutes, $175. Not bad. But I digress. At least the doctor did actually come to my room on each of those days, and actually examined my chart, asked me how I felt, the usual stuff. Did the good Dr. Jeffrey Dahmer... sorry, Dr. Copeland ever come to see me? Not while I was conscious and cognizant. I asked, each day, please be sure the doctor sees me. As if I was required to ask. They said he would be 'making his rounds' starting around 0700. I lay in the bed (tied with wires, all four extremities) and watched the door. He never came. The point is, that's they way they do things. Not at Auschwitz. Sorry, ACCH. As I say, I never saw the good doctor. Now, for the first couple of months I couldn't see anything. Unless you count the dreams. Hallucinations. Whatever they were. Later, with I did wake up (after they reduced the drugs sufficiently) I had the dreams, and when I awakened I was still having the dream. I could see the real world, the hospital room, and the vision of whatever was in my dream was still there, sometimes for hours. The reason I was unconscious for nearly two months is that I was administered a variety of drugs, constantly. Never allowed to wake up. At least not intentionally. At some point during the first month, I apparently became sufficiently conscious to attempt to move. Not knowing that I had various wires and tubes attached to me (in fact not even knowing that I was in a hospital) I dislodged a feeding tube. They needed that to keep the drugs replenished. And the food. They had to send be back to the real hospital to have it reinstalled. The big psycho orderly I met later wasn't too happy about it for some reason. Probably interrupted him while he was playing games on his phone or something. That was about the quality of most of the staff. In any case, on that occasion I became fully awake and aware of where I was. I remember the ride in the ambulance, into the bay in the hospital where I was unloaded. I lost conscious again at that point and knew nothing for another month. Got a question for you. Do you believe this? What I mean is, do you believe the essential facts? That something like this happened? Hang on, it's just gettin' good. You see, my family members who were there constantly (only one person per visit, Covid, donchaknow) attempted for weeks to persuade the doctor to reduce drugs sufficiently to evaluate my condition. It took weeks, but he eventually did. (The drugs, by the way, were not even drugs used for sedating a patient. They were used for treating schizophrenia, psychosis, pipolar disorder, and a few 'lesser' conditions. I had never been examined by a doctor qualified to administer those drugs (or any doctor, as I was neither conscious nor communicative) and I suspect that the good camp doctor who had finished his residency four years earlier was not qualified. They were used to keep me, effectively, in a coma. I will explain shortly why they did this. We're getting close to the end.) Eventually the doctor agreed, and I was awake for the first time (other than the ambulance trip) since 15 December 2021. This was early March. Probably the first week. I woke up, more or less. It was at this point that the mix of my dreams (drug-induced hallucinations really) and waking existence began. I would be asleep, dreaming, and then awaken to have the surroundings and events of the dream continue, mixed with the reality. It would be a week or more before that stopped. When my family members came to visit, for the next week or more, I would see one of them appear in the door and wonder who it was. I didn't recognize either of them for quite some time. Let me quickly describe the situation. I'm in a dirty hospital bed in a dirty hospital. There is a feeding tube in my abdomen, it is difficult to move without risking pulling it out. I didn't feel it the first time. I would now, and it is not a pleasant thought. There is some sort of telemetry device, a rather large and heavy box with wires attached to it and parts of my body. I don't know what it is for. The staff don't pay much attention to it, except to reconnect the power cable with it fell out. Which is often. Maybe they don't know what it's for either. But this is the fun part. I'm tied to the bed. With wires. Now we're not talkin' medical hospital whatever restraints. They make those things, you know. Padded cuffs for limbs, velcro fasteners, things to keep you from falling out of bed. (Apparently that was my offense. The fact that I didn't know I was trying to get out of bed didn't seem to matter.) They just took some wire and strips of cloth - looked like strips torn from bedsheets or something similar, around my wrists and ankles, and thin wire connecting those to the bed frame. I mean, two strands of approximately one millimeter wire. A little thicker than a toothpick. Aside from the fact that it was quite illegal to do it, they treated me like an animal. Actually, I wouldn't do that to any animal that I can think of. I might do it to some of them if I got the opportunity. Think about it, being tied hand and foot, not able to move any extremity more than a few inches. It's not just uncomfortable (they permanently injured my arm) it is frightening. I pleaded with them not to time me again, each time I was briefly released for meals or medication. They continued to tie me to the bed. They said the doctor ordered it. (Got that, Doctor Copeland I asked them to let me see the doctor, they refused. And consider, there was an alarm that made a very loud and obnoxious noise that could be heard anywhere on the floor, if I got out of the bed. There was no need for restraint. It was only a few days before being discharged that I was allowed to remain free. And that was because they had to try to get me able to walk again. Now back to the narrative, beginning when I woke up. I began asking immediately when I could leave, and got no answer. No explanation for why I was there. I asked to see the doctor. Every day. I would ask one of the nurses when the doctor made his rounds. I asked them to tell them to be sure he came to see me. (He was supposed to in any case) Each day I lay in bed for the first hours of the day, waiting for the doctor. Who never arrived. Dr. Jeffrey Jeffery Copeland His name again, just for Google. So I never saw him. Later I would see a picture of him. He's a fat slob. Eventually it had become all a bit too much for my family. They insisted I be moved to a rehabilitation facility. I was clearly cognizant and lucid, and what they apparently thought was a brain-dead cash cow was in fact completely aware of the situation and wanted out. I suppose at that point the idea of damage control might have occurred to them, but (and my investigations since confirm this) these are not very smart people. They are the dregs of the profession, indeed of society at large. They seemed intent on keeping me there (you'll see the reason in just a bit) until my family members advised them that my insurance was about to be terminated, as my employer was terminating my employment. At this point let me say that the HR manager at the company I worked for, is a very good and decent person so I will not sully her good name through proximity to the human debris herein, used the fact that I had a large amount of unused PTO (vacation time) available. She used it to report me present for work as long as possible, but that was about to run out. When my captors realized that the cash cow was about to run dry, they allowed representatives of one or two rehab facilities to visit and evaluate me. But they advised them that one way or another I was leaving. (The reason they wanted to keep me as long as they could is that Ausch.. sorry, ACCH is what is known as a Long Term Acute Care Hospital (LTACH). There are special parts of the law for them that make them more profitable. But one of the requirements is an average patient stay of 25 days. They got enough out of me for close to three people. Essentially, they used me, drugged unconscious and physically and mentally deteriorating for 68 days, to extract money from my insurance company, and to maintain their privileged status.) At that point they began attempts to get me into serviceable physical condition. Having been immobilized for over two months, I was unable to stand when they got me out of the bed. The alleged physical therapist and his assistant stood with me between them, literally touching, to keep me vertical. On the third day they were able to move slightly and allow me to actually move my feet. It was two weeks before I could use a walker to stand without assistance, and probably another week to walk any distance. I was able to walk to the elevator a week or so later, and from there across the lobby to the car waiting outside. I stayed with a family member for several months, gradually recovering some of my health. It is unlikely recovery will ever be complete. The damage caused by the drugs is most likely permanent. Anti-psychotics, several of which were used on me, are known to cause what is effectively a chemical lobotomy. That is their purpose, although medical industry people will deny it. My body remains weak, even with constant exercise. My left arm has limited mobility and strength. I have difficulty standing without a cane or something to hold or lean on. I can not write at all. Despite constant practice I can not print more than a few barely legible characters at one time. My speech is barely comprehensible at times, and at other times I can not speak at all for a minute or two at at time, during a conversation. The fact that the financial cost -- my working life cut short by five to ten years, the reduction in my retirement pay due to retiring three years early, and expenses of rebuilding my life -- are almost trivial compared to the damage to my person. And it amounts to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Doctor Copeland should be proud. I would like to meet him one day, in a courtroom. I don't know if that will happen, the lawyers who litigate for profit will not take the case on contingency, probably because they don't see an easy payday. A mangled body, or better yet a corpse, is more of a sure thing. But if I can manage it financially, I will have my day in court. I may lose again, but the facts will be presented in public, before an audience. If those who report the news choose to do their duty, perhaps enough people will know that something can be done to stop this criminal enterprise. Because that is what is is. This hospital harvests its victims from the region around Jonesboro, Arkansas. It's hunting grounds are in four states, and there is no shortage of game. The victims are used to produce as much revenue as possible before they escape or die. And looking at deaths in that place, the numbers and the ages of the dead, I suspect they are causing some of the deaths. Links Arkansas Continued Care Hospital Jonesboro, Arkansas St. Bernards Regional Medical Center Jonesboro, Arkansas Arkansas Methodist Medical Center Paragould, Arkansas Victims of ACCH |
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