In this episode, I recount a harrowing experience with a health scare last week and an incident that angered me so much that I indulged the darkest parts of my personality to plot a revenge that I never intended to deliver, but simply crafted to give me peace of mind. What that plot told me about myself was quite revealing. Trigger Warning: This episode contains misogynistic and offensive language.

Hello, this is Chris Young. Welcome to Episode 110 of Contemplating Life.

My writing mentor, award-winning author David Gerrold, often says that “90% of what writers do is to plot revenge.” He has often spoken of times when someone wronged him, and he would honor that by making them the villain or the victim in his next story. So, rather than directly taking revenge, you can get it out of your system by writing your revenge safely. As long as you avoid libel, it is legal. You don’t get bruised knuckles that you might endure if you punch someone. The satisfaction can be real, and the cost seems negligible.

I’ve engaged in such behavior on a couple of occasions. I wrote a murder mystery in which the villain was going to engineer a pandemic vaccine that would work only on smart people and offer no protection to Lesser Intelligent Populations, or LIPs, as he called them. In his opinion, the people who were so stupid that they would not take ordinary vaccines were not dying enough. He wanted to get rid of LIPs who would get the vaccine but were a drain on society due to their political ignorance, scientific ignorance, and other undesirable intellectual shortfalls.

The villain was based on the darker parts of my own personality. He wanted genocide. What does that say about me? It all started one day at the height of the COVID pandemic when I dared to say to myself, “I wish all of these anti-vax, non-mask-wearing idiots would just get COVID and die because it’s what they deserve.”

The story’s revenge arc is that the man was caught before he could carry out his scheme, and my hero, the detective, delivered ultimate justice. Essentially, I indulged my inner darkness and then purged it from me.

No harm. No foul.

Is that always true?

At the root of the need for revenge lies intense anger or hatred. And when we hate and attack someone, even justifiably, there is a cost to oneself.

The events of 2:10 AM Tuesday, March 10, 2026, are a case in point. At that time and date, I had the immense good fortune of being a patient in St. Francis Hospital in Indianapolis.

Good fortune? Indeed.

I came down with pneumonia on the morning of Friday the 6th. I sought immediate treatment. The doctors told me I also had sepsis, which is a systemic infection. Had I not arrived at the ER when I did, I would’ve died when my blood pressure crashed later that evening. The bottom line is that it was good I was there rather than in the morgue.

By Tuesday, I was well on the road to recovery.

Sleep in a hospital always comes at a premium, and the evening of the 10th/morning of the 11th was no exception.

Because of my disability, even when I am well, I use a ventilator at night to help me sleep. Think of it as an especially fancy CPAP machine. I cannot talk while on a ventilator. That feeling of vulnerability and powerlessness ranges from a serious inconvenience to occasional sheer terror.

I managed to fall asleep relatively quickly. However, soon my respiratory therapist awakened me to replace the gauze around my trach and clean the area. He was having trouble doing so because I have a big head and a short neck. Had he completed this task before putting me on the ventilator or waited until morning, he would not have awakened me. Furthermore, I could have spoken to him about strategies for performing the difficult task. I was a bit angry and frustrated, but I put it behind me.

That story is just a preamble. The real villain was an attractive and highly competent nurse whom we’ll call Michelle. We had developed quite a friendship during the two shifts she cared for me. Earlier that day, while bathing me, she noticed a blackhead on my left side near my armpit. She said she would get a pimple patch to see if it would help extract it. That was her dedication to my well-being. Be it nearly fatal sepsis or a blackhead, no problem was too big or too small for this dedicated modern-day Nightingale.

After the problem with the respiratory therapist, I dozed off.

Enter Nurse Michelle. I was awakened as she changed my IV to a different antibiotic.

It was a necessary annoyance. I dozed off again.

She returned later to draw blood from my IV line, which awakened me.

It was a necessary annoyance. I dozed off again.

Then, at 2:10 AM Tuesday, March 10, 2026, this kindhearted, competent, friendly Nurse Nightingale suddenly transformed as quickly as a lycanthrope under a full moon, becoming Nurse Nightmare when she awakened me a third time.

Why? Why this intrusion on my sleep? Why a third time?

To put the pimple patch on my armpit.

Being unable to speak while on the ventilator, I was denied the opportunity to ask her, “Why the hell did you awaken me at 2 fucking 10 am to put a God damned fucking pimple patch on my armpit?”

I couldn’t do that. She took advantage of my disability by not letting me cuss her out.

So, I did what writers do. I wrote the speech I would give her in the morning, telling her exactly how viciously she had wronged me.

The strategy was to pay her profuse compliments and then, in no uncertain terms, explain how her actions at 2:10 AM on Tuesday, March 10, 2026, not only violated her own deeply held principles but were also contrary to ancient moral law.

It went through multiple drafts in my head. Each phrase was carefully crafted to impose maximum guilt and psychological damage to her. I didn’t have access to a laptop at the moment, but I assure you, what follows is pretty close to my final draft, which I crafted entirely in my head.

I want to give a bit of a trigger warning here. This next section contains lots of horribly misogynistic and offensive content. I probably would never see these things out loud, but inside my head, they sure helped me vent my anger. So, hang on. Here we go.

This is what I intended to say:

Good morning, my friend, if I may dare to call you my friend. I think we’ve developed a good working relationship over the two shifts that you have been my nurse. We’ve joked with each other. We’ve told stories. We made the unpleasantness of a hospital stay more pleasant than it would have been otherwise.

I am an award-winning professional writer. I love telling stories… especially about myself. However, these stories are not just an expression of my ego. The primary reason I have attempted to entertain you with my inspiring life story, using all my wit and wisdom, is gratitude for all you’ve done for me.

You are a person who has dedicated your life to caring for others. In Matthew 25, (Sorry, I forgot the verse), [It’s 34-36 by the way] it says the kingdom will be inherited by those who fed me when I was hungry, clothed me when I was naked, and cared for me when I was ill. You’ve done all of these things for me.

You may have heard a more famous Scripture passage known as “The Golden Rule.” Its most common wording is, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Beyond the Bible, various forms of the proscription can be found in the writings of every major religion in the world, dating back to times more ancient than the Judeo-Christian scriptures.

This evening, while I was just drifting to sleep, you awakened me to change my IV connection to a different fluid. Although it was frustrating, you were doing your job. You were making me better so I could go home.

Considering the Golden Rule, I would think you would appreciate someone doing that for you.

Just as I was returning to the land of nod, you returned to draw blood for lab tests. Although it was frustrating, you were doing your job. Those lab tests would inform the doctor of important details about my condition, so they might craft a treatment plan to heal me.

Again, I presume you are treating me the way you might like to be treated under similar circumstances.

However, I cannot understand what kind of heartless, cruel, sadomasochistic, bitch would awaken a sleeping patient at 2:10 AM to place a fucking simple patch? If my pimply skin so sufficiently disturbed your sense of order in the universe that you felt duty-bound to remedy it, then you need to be evaluated and treated for your OCD.

Perhaps that adjective “sadomasochistic” is not just an insult but an actual fact. Perhaps you enjoy inflicting discomfort on elderly, sick patients with lifelong disabilities. Or, you enjoy being uncomfortable, and via the Golden Rule, you treat others in the twisted perversions of comfortable sleep that you yourself enjoy, you dispassionate cunt.

Your crime against me was especially torturous. As you well know, I’m unable to move a muscle, yet I have complete feeling throughout my body. When I’m on the ventilator, as I was at 2:10 AM this morning, I cannot speak. Of all of the challenges I have faced in my 70 years, seven months, 26 days of enduring my genetic neuromuscular disease, the sense of fear and hopelessness I feel while on the ventilator, unable to speak, can at times strike terror in my heart. The justifiable fear is that my potential torturer will grab me in the wrong place or twist me in a manner unsupported by my severely contracted joints. In this condition, I cannot say to my captor, “Get your stinkin’ paws off me, you damn dirty ape!”

[By the way, she was white. Unlike our president, I wouldn’t joke about apes and African-Americans.]

Fortunately, your nonconsensual physical assault on me did not injure me when you finally stumbled through the dark, found the offending lesion, and applied your lifesaving pimple patch. You did, however, disturb my comfortable position. You placed my left arm at an awkward angle, causing a discomfort level that was only slightly below the threshold of what would constitute pain.

On occasion, when my limbs are improperly positioned, it can cut off circulation. Because I am unable to operate the nurse call system, if I begin to feel tingling, I cannot call for help. This would put me at risk for blood clots, which could have extreme consequences.

Speaking of nonconsensual physical activity, one would think that an attractive whore such as yourself, living in the era of #MeToo, would be more sensitive to the personal space of someone subject to the power you hold over them.

My sincere hope and prayer is that neither you nor anyone you ever love ever has to endure what I endure as gracefully as I can every second of my life. I survive my condition mostly without complaint or bitterness. Yet, I would not wish my condition on my worst enemy.

Should you someday, heaven forbid, find yourself at age 70 years, seven months, 26 days old unable to move, unable to speak, on a ventilator, and you are disturbed at 2:10 AM by some inhumane, evil nurse, should I witness the event from heaven, I hope that the glory of being surrounded by the beatific vision of the Father, the warm embrace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, the angels and faithfully departed would sufficiently distract me from your misfortune that I would not feel moved to crackle in laughter like a silent movie villain and shout, “Karma’s a bitch isn’t it? The Golden Rule goes both ways. You might be treated as you treated others.”

Wow. Okay. So, that was my speech.

That was sufficiently vile that it could feel the paint off the walls.

One would think that my virtual revenge, satisfied through the exercise of my skill as a wordsmith, would bring me sufficient peace to return to sleep. Alas, no. A new anger arose. I looked at the clock. It was now 3:19 AM, more than an hour after the incident. I had caused myself more sleep loss than the original event. It was reminiscent of that strange paradox in football, the remedy for “delay of game” causes further delay.

One of my remedies for insomnia is to recite the mundane meditative prayer form known as The Rosary. It consists of a pattern of prayers that includes the Apostles’ Creed, 53 Hail Marys, six Glory Be, and six recitations of the Lord’s Prayer. I used to think it was a mind-numbing, worthless exercise, yet I discovered that, in some ways, it is supposed to be. It can have the same positive mind-numbing effect as chanting a mantra. Although not 100% reliable or effective, it has proven useful to me on previous bouts of insomnia. It brings a peaceful feeling, not as powerful as being in heaven as I described earlier, but it does center one’s mind on the spiritual rather than the material.

In my opinion, the most powerful phrases in the 2647 words of the rosary are “Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death,“ which is repeated in the 53 Hail Marys, and “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us“ in the six recitations of the Lord’s Prayer. That phrase is easily a restatement of the Golden Rule. We should forgive one another so that we will be forgiven.

I looked around room 433 at St. Francis Hospital and appreciated the rich chocolate-brown of the paint on the walls, illuminated only by the glow of the vital signs monitor and the ventilator’s touch-panel controls. I saw no reason to risk peeling that paint with a vicious rant against a kindhearted, compassionate healer whose only known fault was a trivial bit of poor judgment, which caused only minor inconvenience.

I don’t think I ever actually intended to deliver the speech as written. Filled with embarrassment at my sleep-depriving obsession, I wrote a new speech. It only took perhaps five minutes and a single draft. It eliminated all of the vicious and misogynistic insults and personal attacks. It did include commentary on the Golden Rule. It included a much less pity-seeking explanation of how terrifying it can be to be unable to speak while on a ventilator and being cared for by a stranger who may not know the limits of your comfort.

In the end, I delivered a still kinder and briefer expression of my concern than my cleaned-up draft. Here, to the best of my recollection, is the conversation we had once I was taken off the ventilator just before the 7 AM shift change.

“Good morning, Chris, how did you sleep?” she asked.

“Not too well, but that is typical for a hospital. I will be okay. By the way, my friend, I have a bone to pick with you… a tiny complaint.” I believe I did a decent job of saying that sentence with a lighthearted tone.

A micro expression of surprise and embarrassment flashed across her face as she said, “Oh no. What did I do?” Her tone was similarly lighthearted.

“Well, I didn’t mind too much when you woke me up as you changed my IV. That’s your job. It helps me get better. Similarly, I didn’t mind too much when you woke me up yet again to draw my blood samples. Again, that’s part of the healing process. But, did you really need to wake me up from a sound sleep at 2:10 AM to put a pimple patch on my armpit?”

I don’t recall the exact details of what she said as she sincerely apologized. I recall the phrases, “good point,” “It could have waited until you were awake,” and a very genuine “I’m sorry.” I was more focused on the hilarious look of deep embarrassment on her face when she realized what a dumb thing she had done.

I said, “I was so angry at you at the time that I lay here and wrote the most vicious rant I could compose using my skills as an award-winning professional writer. If, heaven forbid, in your old age, you ever find yourself being awakened by a nurse for a dumb reason, I’ve got a really good speech you could deliver. I could type it up and give you a copy just in case.”

She laughed and said, “Naw, I’ll pass. I trust it was bad.”

“It was.”

She returned the next day for our third and final day together, and we maintained a working relationship that could be accurately described as a friendship. As discussed in previous episodes of this podcast, sometimes the sign of a valuable friendship is the ability to offer a prophet’s guidance, such as Nathan delivered to King David when he screwed up. Sometimes, our conscience takes over and calls us back to a better version of ourselves without the outside intervention of a trusted spiritual guide.

So, what have we learned?

Chris likes to brag that award-winning author David Gerrold mentors him. He similarly likes to brag about having won an award himself. David has a Hugo and a Nebula on the shelf – the two highest honors in science fiction. My award was a local journalism award.

But more to the point, this episode is titled “The Cost of Revenge.” Is rant writing a safe and effective way to vent our frustrations and subdue our inner demons? Is there a cost to literary revenge? Mental health counselors often instruct patients to journal their feelings. This can be especially useful for survivors of crime or abuse. Getting it out on paper and then burning it can be a healing process. But are there hidden costs?

In my case, there were. The unnecessary lack of sleep I got that night, as I obsessively plotted revenge, left me exhausted, and I didn’t recover for two days. That exhaustion was detrimental to my recovery.

Writing theoretical revenge might be therapeutic if one does not become obsessed with it. A deep obsession for revenge has its costs.

According to Catholic theology, the desire to do evil is also sinful. As comedian George Carlin once explained, “If you wake up one morning and decide I’m going down to 42nd St. to commit a mortal sin, save your car fare. You did it.” That may seem to be an extreme position. However, it focuses on intent rather than action. I think that’s a good thing. Except in the case of negligence, is there any moral liability for unintentional harm?

Here are some final observations.

It wasn’t about the pimple patch.

It wasn’t about fantasy revenge.

It wasn’t about self-destructive obsession.

It was about something I rarely contemplate when I’m contemplating life.

It was about trying to endure for 70 years, seven months, and 26 days of living with a severe, ever-worsening disability.

It was about surviving another attempt on my life that nearly succeeded and forced me to wrestle even more acutely with my mortality.

A social worker visited me earlier that day. We talked about advance directives. It’s standard procedure for them to have someone discuss it with you. I’ve always been full code. She asked, “Are you okay with them breaking your ribs during CPR?” I instinctively said yes. A few years ago, I would’ve said cracked ribs were a small price to pay for some more time on earth. But the more I thought about it, I’m not sure I could survive cracked ribs. I have enough difficulty breathing now. Break my ribs, and I would die all over again from respiratory distress. So why die in pain?

The next day, I called her back and said, “List me as DNR, do not resuscitate.”

Let me be clear. I don’t want to die. I’m still scared to death of dying. I still have work to do in this world, and I’d like to do it as long as possible. I think God agrees with me. If he didn’t think I still had work to do, he would have taken me out of here a long time ago. But when my time is up, I want to die in peace.

Look, if I don’t want someone putting a pimple patch on me while I’m on the ventilator when I cannot say stop, I certainly don’t want them to break my ribs. I’m saying stop now while I can.

I still want to live. But I want to live in peace.

That wraps things up for this special edition. I’m sorry I didn’t get to complete my Oscar movie reviews before the awards were given out on March 15. As you can see, I was a bit preoccupied with staying alive. I have two more Oscar episodes to go, and then I’m not sure what comes after that. So stay tuned.

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All of my back episodes are available, and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback, please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast. I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.