Today I helped another nurse do a wet-to-dry sterile dressing on a poor guy who had a right arm fasciotomy. The wound was so deep, you could see the bone!
Any way, previously, I thought I would never be able to stomach trauma, but now I think maybe I might be able to give it a whirl someday. Sure, the guy was on a Dilaudid PCA (read: the good stuff) and had basically lost sensation in that arm any way (did I mention you could see the bone?) but it wasn't nearly as stomach-turning as I thought it might be. The smell wasn't even that noxious (thank God, because bad smell = infection = uh oh.)
The thing that impressed me the most was how nice the guy was about us changing his dressing. He acted as if we were doing this tremendously brave, noble thing and deserved riches and glory. Such a nice guy. Because if I were him, I'd be all cranky and whiney, and start wincing theatrically even if I couldn't feel jack. Instead, this guy was offering to take us out to dinner for being such brave soldiers. What a nice patient!
Meanwhile, I need to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. I mean, shouldn't lifting up a dead looking flap of skin, and packing sterile gauze into someone's mangled , bloody flesh bits make me nauseated, instead of thinking, "Wow! Dude! This is sooooo cool! I can't wait to tell my friends about this when I get home!"
Somewhere, just over the rainbow, my guardian angel is smacking her forehead with her own halo sighing, "Sweet baby Jesus, where did we go wrong with this one?"
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