April 11, 2026

I always had this picture in my mind that a hospital room, while not a beachfront suite, was a sanctuary designed for quiet healing. I would sleep in the evenings, while my body utilized that much-needed rest to recover. The doctors and nurses would then make their rounds during the day. I’d watch TV or something in-between.

Ha ha ha ha. No. Hospitalization is like being trapped in the world’s most popular pinball machine. See, what I didn’t factor into my scenario was the critical condition aspect of it. Meaning, the medical staff doesn’t wait around until daylight and stop when the sun goes down. They come through the door around the clock, running tests, checking the machines, or stabbing your arm with needles.

There was an alarm on the bed. Unless I had company in the room with me, that alarm remained armed. If I needed to leave the bed, I was supposed to summon a nurse via the call button. Otherwise, if I sat up and so much as thought about putting my feet on the floor, an alarm sounded and a shrill robot voice kicked in. “Please don’t get up! A member of your care team is coming to assist you!” I’d heard they do this in mental wards to keep psychiatric patients in check. I had no idea it also applied to people with ailing kidneys.

Then there was the IV drip. That first night, the machine emptied potassium into my person. Every time a bag finished draining, it made the most awful, horrible shrieking sound—like a Klaxon alarm, but worse, and right next to my ear. That damned noise shattered any chance I had of a peaceful sleep.

So between the tests and the obnoxious noises, I didn’t sleep the whole three days I was stuck there. When the doctor declared me not dying enough to send me home, I passed out like I was in a coma. My own bed has never felt that comfortable, before or since. Nor have I ever been that deprived of energy, not even when I suffered from insomnia a few years ago.

And speaking of the hospital room television, cable is dead. I already knew it was in trouble, but this was another wakeup call. I remember when I was a kid, and every channel had something exciting to offer. Flip to Comedy Central and there&rsqo;d be a Mystery Science Theater 3000 rerun or old, bad ‘80s comedy. Nickelodeon, Pete and Pete or Rocko’s Modern Life. MTV, music videos or The Real World. And so on.

Today, the parent companies that own those channels use them as junk closets. They’re surviving on the streaming services, and the only people watching digital cable are the ones adding $140 extra a month to their Internet bill. Every channel is 24 hours of whatever flagship show defines it. USA is 24 hours of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Comedy Central runs an endless South Park marathon. And so on. Thus, the most useful thing the TV did was put out background noise (not as loud as the IV machine) while I suffered from sleep deprivation.

After hearing that tale, you may be asking, “Well, what else happened to you in all this time, Phil?” And to answer your question: not much, at all. The hospital adventure was my most exciting event from January to now. But with a straight face, I can tell you that I’d much rather suffer my boring 9-5 job life than end up hospitalized, ever again. I just wish I had something else to write about, other than, “I drove to work, drove home, and went back to sleep.”

Oh, and I survived my brush with death to see Resident Evil Requiem come out. I have not played it yet, but I’m sure that will change. Meanwhile, my marathon through all the old mainline titles continues. Slowly. I have reviews up of Resident Evil 2 (remake), Resident Evil 3 (remake) and Resident Evil – Code: Veronica X.