In what may well be My Exercise Quotient For The Winter, I went on a run with my friend Nancy at Gas Works Park, an unfortunately named, but pretty, park in northern Seattle. We ran to the Fremont Bridge. David and I know Fremont from our haphazard journey to Woodland Park Zoo a few weeks ago. The neighborhood boasts not only of being "the center of the universe" but even has a Latin motto: De Libertas Quirkas.
It has a Latin motto, so it's settled. I must live there.
My favorite part (other than spending time with Nancy, and getting gifts of Professional Running Clothes Such As I've Never Had Before) was the lunch buffet at Bengal Tiger Indian Restaurant in the U-district. We met up with her friend Donna, also a nurse, and her friend Erica (not a nurse, who looked politely interested as conversation turned, inevitably, to shop talk.)
Any hoo.
In other news, I threw my keys and wallet down the trash chute today.
We won't even get into how I managed to accomplish this feat of incredible ridiculousness, but due to some unnamed maintenance person at the apartment complex, I have them back, in non-compressed form.
Instead of discussing my retarded behavior, we will laugh at the even-lamer remark made by one of the front desk people, who misheard the word "keys" and said, "Wait, a tree? Is it your tree or someone else's tree that's stuck in the trash chute?"
Even more annoyingly, she said it in that flat tone of bureaucratic indifference that translates,"I-really-don't-give-a-fuck-and-hope-I'm-not-the-one-responsible-for-
doing-anything-about-your-dilemma-but-I'm-standing-here-so-I-suppose-I'll-
have-to-feign-interest-and-ask-you."
If I hadn't been more worried about my keys becoming one of those tidy cubes-o-crap you see in cartoons involving the joys of trash compactors, I would have told her to go back to looking unhelpful and dour silently, please.
I mean, seriously. Why bother to pretend you were listening if you're going to say something that asinine as your response?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
bye, bye, blackie
I woke up today and like a lazy ass, I didn't bother to get out of bed until about 11 a.m.
When I did, I went hopefully to the mouse cage. After a leisurely shower, which I now somewhat regret.
I was even thinking, as I washed my hair, that maybe I should call the vet, now that Blackie (my mouse) was seemingly getting better, and see if they could change the antibiotics from po (by mouth) to IM, or SQ, or whatever the heck it is they give to something that weighs slightly more than the supposed weight of a human soul (didn't you see "21 Grams"?)
Maybe I should have taken Blackie's refusal to take her meds these last few times for what it what: 'Dude, I know I'm dying, get over it, you big stupid human, and stop trying to feed me this pink gooey shit out of a dropper.' But she seemed to be eating more, and a little more active, and I was stupidly hopeful that she'd do one of those Miracle Mouse Recoveries.
Alas.
Blackie 'waited' long enough for me to amble over the cage, notice she was breathing in a close-to-death, horrible sort of way, and dragging her left side around in a panic. She was gasping, miserably, and looked at me.
I understood she was dying, and I knew it was probably too late to ask for proper help.
I picked her up, thinking crazy thoughts about mouse CPR and intubation, and how did secure the airways of rodents the size of chicken eggs, any way?
I called the vet.
Less than five minutes later, I knew she wasn't gonna make it to the vet. So, in vain desperation, I called to ask if I could bring her in now.
Just as the the receptionist said, 'Sure, bring her in, dear." I knew it was too late, and I told the receptionist so. The mouse died as I hung up the phone.
I don't know. It was pretty horrible, because she went the same route as my adopted rabbit Mookie did last year.
In fact, Mookie died on October 16.
Other Pets of Jamie, take head: October is turning out to be a historically crappy month in this household for Unfortunate Pet Expirations.
I didn't think I was gonna cry over a pet that cost less than a gallon of gas, even adjusted for inflation.
But, I did.
Then, I took Piper to the vet for his annual check up (I learned today they check a dog's prostate in the same way the check a human male's prostate. Eew).
I just about cried when I saw the bill for his vet exam, but those tears were (almost) shed for a different reasons, namely, my poor wallet.
When I did, I went hopefully to the mouse cage. After a leisurely shower, which I now somewhat regret.
I was even thinking, as I washed my hair, that maybe I should call the vet, now that Blackie (my mouse) was seemingly getting better, and see if they could change the antibiotics from po (by mouth) to IM, or SQ, or whatever the heck it is they give to something that weighs slightly more than the supposed weight of a human soul (didn't you see "21 Grams"?)
Maybe I should have taken Blackie's refusal to take her meds these last few times for what it what: 'Dude, I know I'm dying, get over it, you big stupid human, and stop trying to feed me this pink gooey shit out of a dropper.' But she seemed to be eating more, and a little more active, and I was stupidly hopeful that she'd do one of those Miracle Mouse Recoveries.
Alas.
Blackie 'waited' long enough for me to amble over the cage, notice she was breathing in a close-to-death, horrible sort of way, and dragging her left side around in a panic. She was gasping, miserably, and looked at me.
I understood she was dying, and I knew it was probably too late to ask for proper help.
I picked her up, thinking crazy thoughts about mouse CPR and intubation, and how did secure the airways of rodents the size of chicken eggs, any way?
I called the vet.
Less than five minutes later, I knew she wasn't gonna make it to the vet. So, in vain desperation, I called to ask if I could bring her in now.
Just as the the receptionist said, 'Sure, bring her in, dear." I knew it was too late, and I told the receptionist so. The mouse died as I hung up the phone.
I don't know. It was pretty horrible, because she went the same route as my adopted rabbit Mookie did last year.
In fact, Mookie died on October 16.
Other Pets of Jamie, take head: October is turning out to be a historically crappy month in this household for Unfortunate Pet Expirations.
I didn't think I was gonna cry over a pet that cost less than a gallon of gas, even adjusted for inflation.
But, I did.
Then, I took Piper to the vet for his annual check up (I learned today they check a dog's prostate in the same way the check a human male's prostate. Eew).
I just about cried when I saw the bill for his vet exam, but those tears were (almost) shed for a different reasons, namely, my poor wallet.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
a mouse, a mouse, a kingdom for my mouse.
At the risk of shitting on Shakespeare, I just have to say...
My poor mouse.
I know it sounds nuts, but I really do have a pet mouse. Two, actually.
I didn't really name them, and refer to them even now as "the black one" and "the fat ass."
However, since "the black one" while descriptive, doesn't sound like much of a name, I decided to call her "Mousie" or "Blackie." Well, I kind of had to fake like that's been her name, when I drove to the clinic. (Drove to the clinic, got lost, was forced to drive back home again, and then drive back to the friggin' clinic. It took me an hour to drive 4.4 miles. For a mouse.)
(And, incidentally, since "the fat ass" sounds just plain rude, I call "the fat ass" mouse "Martha Stewart." Maybe "fat ass" is less rude than calling her Martha Stewart, I don't know, but she's fat, blonde, bitchy, and makes a mean mouse nest, so it works.)
Any way, the black one is My Favorite Mouse Child. She's friendly, inquisitive, enjoys climbing, and isn't shy at all.
However, the black one is also Very Sick. And I feel I have been a Very Bad Mouse Parent, watching her get more and more snuffily, and thinking "oh, she'll get better."
Any way, I think it was Hagrid of the Harry Potter books who said it best when he tells Ron to forgive what he thinks is Hermione's misguided love for her cat, saying, "Well, people can be a bit stupid about their pets."
And how.
Case in point: I took a little pestilential creature worth a few pennies to a specialty vet clinic today, and paid eighty bucks for a vet to look at her and tell me what I already knew: mousie is very ill, and is probably going to die from pneumonia any day now.
He gave me a a milliliter of antibiotics to assuage the Pet Owner Guilt, and declined to put her down, although he didn't think she was going to make it.
I call tell he was thinking this way, because he started giving me the same speech about the mouse that we give to family members of human patients when we think their people are super sick and won't make it.
It goes like this, "Well, we can hope for the best, but really, you need to prepare yourself..."
Translation: "You're loved one is a goner."
David, in all his dry humor, encapsulated the comi-tragic scope of the thing when he said: "I think he was thinking he'd save you the extra fifty bucks to put her to sleep, considering what you spent already on a vet visit for a pet that cost you less than a Happy Meal to purchase."
Yes, thank you, Nurse David, for that wonderfully heartwarming sentiment. I'm sure the hospice patients all love your warmth and sensitivity in times of crisis.
Clown.
Any way.
So, I'm doing the Fake Hope Thing, like when a stroke victim's wife says hopefully, "Oh, he's doing so much better today! See, he's practically talking!" and I'm looking at the patient, and he looks at me, and I'm thinking, at best, he has expressive aphagia, which is nowhere near talking coherently at all.
Meanwhile, back at the farm, I'm pretending the Fake Antibiotics (I guess they're real, but whatever) are making her feel better, even though I can practically hear the poor mouse's agonal breathing from across the room.
It's very silly (my sadness over my little mouse) because I've only had her as a pet for about a year and a half, and she's just a little mouse, and it's hardly like her suffering matters in the great big plan of God's Craptastic Universe.
But, I feel very guilty I can't give her more palliation, as opposed to stupid fakey doses of antibiotics. I think the vet is convinced I will feel better about her death if I go through the motions of allopathic cure, but I just feel like that time they made me tie down that demented patient so she could die this really crappy, prolonged death.
I do draw the line at mouse CPR or radiographic studies of her lungs for definitive diagonsis, though.
And, who knows. Maybe the abx will do the trick, and she'll be able to breathe better, and I'll feel less guilty about not putting her to sleep.
Although, based on my experiences in the hospital, I sort of doubt it.
My poor mouse.
I know it sounds nuts, but I really do have a pet mouse. Two, actually.
I didn't really name them, and refer to them even now as "the black one" and "the fat ass."
However, since "the black one" while descriptive, doesn't sound like much of a name, I decided to call her "Mousie" or "Blackie." Well, I kind of had to fake like that's been her name, when I drove to the clinic. (Drove to the clinic, got lost, was forced to drive back home again, and then drive back to the friggin' clinic. It took me an hour to drive 4.4 miles. For a mouse.)
(And, incidentally, since "the fat ass" sounds just plain rude, I call "the fat ass" mouse "Martha Stewart." Maybe "fat ass" is less rude than calling her Martha Stewart, I don't know, but she's fat, blonde, bitchy, and makes a mean mouse nest, so it works.)
Any way, the black one is My Favorite Mouse Child. She's friendly, inquisitive, enjoys climbing, and isn't shy at all.
However, the black one is also Very Sick. And I feel I have been a Very Bad Mouse Parent, watching her get more and more snuffily, and thinking "oh, she'll get better."
Any way, I think it was Hagrid of the Harry Potter books who said it best when he tells Ron to forgive what he thinks is Hermione's misguided love for her cat, saying, "Well, people can be a bit stupid about their pets."
And how.
Case in point: I took a little pestilential creature worth a few pennies to a specialty vet clinic today, and paid eighty bucks for a vet to look at her and tell me what I already knew: mousie is very ill, and is probably going to die from pneumonia any day now.
He gave me a a milliliter of antibiotics to assuage the Pet Owner Guilt, and declined to put her down, although he didn't think she was going to make it.
I call tell he was thinking this way, because he started giving me the same speech about the mouse that we give to family members of human patients when we think their people are super sick and won't make it.
It goes like this, "Well, we can hope for the best, but really, you need to prepare yourself..."
Translation: "You're loved one is a goner."
David, in all his dry humor, encapsulated the comi-tragic scope of the thing when he said: "I think he was thinking he'd save you the extra fifty bucks to put her to sleep, considering what you spent already on a vet visit for a pet that cost you less than a Happy Meal to purchase."
Yes, thank you, Nurse David, for that wonderfully heartwarming sentiment. I'm sure the hospice patients all love your warmth and sensitivity in times of crisis.
Clown.
Any way.
So, I'm doing the Fake Hope Thing, like when a stroke victim's wife says hopefully, "Oh, he's doing so much better today! See, he's practically talking!" and I'm looking at the patient, and he looks at me, and I'm thinking, at best, he has expressive aphagia, which is nowhere near talking coherently at all.
Meanwhile, back at the farm, I'm pretending the Fake Antibiotics (I guess they're real, but whatever) are making her feel better, even though I can practically hear the poor mouse's agonal breathing from across the room.
It's very silly (my sadness over my little mouse) because I've only had her as a pet for about a year and a half, and she's just a little mouse, and it's hardly like her suffering matters in the great big plan of God's Craptastic Universe.
But, I feel very guilty I can't give her more palliation, as opposed to stupid fakey doses of antibiotics. I think the vet is convinced I will feel better about her death if I go through the motions of allopathic cure, but I just feel like that time they made me tie down that demented patient so she could die this really crappy, prolonged death.
I do draw the line at mouse CPR or radiographic studies of her lungs for definitive diagonsis, though.
And, who knows. Maybe the abx will do the trick, and she'll be able to breathe better, and I'll feel less guilty about not putting her to sleep.
Although, based on my experiences in the hospital, I sort of doubt it.
Monday, October 22, 2007
represent.
Work has been a mite better than say... oh, last time I blogged.
My assignments were pretty decent, in that my patients a) stayed in bed b) complied with treatment c) weren't on the call light every five minutes d) had appropriate family members, or none at all.
As horrible as it sounds for the patient, I sometimes wish they didn't allow family/friends to visit for hours at a time, because my God it's such a fucking inconvenience to have to talk to them.
I loathe talking to the family, who always want to know something mysterioso I can't possibly answer, but they think I should magically know. My least favorite question du jour is When The Doctor Is Going To See Their Dad/Mom/Brother/Sister/Pet Hermit Crab?
Dude, if I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question, I could quit nursing and do something marginally more useful with my time, like knit blankets for homeless pet hermit crabs.
Then, for some reason, they want to know How Dad/Mom/Brother/Sister/Pet Hermit Crab is doing.
Like, what the fuck do I look like, Font of Hospital Wisdom 2007? The Great and Powerful Oz? An internet search engine?
How the fuck am I supposed to know, exactly?!
Half the time, the doctor's don't even know precisely what the fuck is going on, and I'm magically supposed to know myself?
Fuck the Nurse Friendly crap. I wish it was possible to say, "I don't know how they're doing, but give me fifty bucks and I'll make up some half-baked story, like I'm doing now, so you maybe won't bother me for fifteen minutes, so I can go see my other patients and make sure they aren't dead."
In fact, I think I have a reputation around the unit as being a bit of a hard-core bitch when it comes to whiny family/patients. I make the unit nurses laugh with my blunt expressions of apathy and toneless, ironic wit, but I think I also scare them just a little bit.
I know.
Me. A bitch.
Who would have thunk it?
I'm actually kind of honored, though, that other bitches think I'm a bitch. It's kind of like getting jumped into a street gang.
That totally makes me like, Bitch Goddess of the Unit, or something.
I know that's not exactly something to be proud of, but it is kind of funny, because before I became a nurse, I thought of myself as a nice, mature person who didn't play petty power games with others, or have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes and look totally annoyed when families ask how old, craggy grandpa hermit crab is doing.
But, it turns out, I really am an impatient, half-crazy Bitchatolla with very little emotional self control when it comes to high stress situations that aren't life threatening.
Stunning revelation, that.
For example, this weekend, I happened to be totally bitching to my coworkers about some wacked out Uber-Weird, Uber-Bitchy interventional radiology nurse. This nurse was totally giving me the shit-end-of-the-guiac-stick, so, in retaliation, I decided to page him a few extra times, just to piss him off.
I knew it was totally immature, and that he wasn't gonna answer the pages, but I know how fucking annoyed I get when my pager goes off multiple times in a row over the same crap, and he'd been such a fucking asshole, and left me with about an hour's worth of extra work to do, that I decided, "Ha ha, bitch! You just fucked with the wrong bitch, bitch!"
It was a very Cartman moment. I get kind of teary-eyed thinking about it.
By now, the unit nurses have all gotten used to my style of The Sky Is Falling tantrums when I get stressed out over nothing. I think they sort of treat it like, "Oh, here goes The Jamie Show. Tune in next time, same Bat Station, same Bat Channel."
I seem to only have this reaction to minor, bullshit situations. When Real Shit Hits The Fan, I'm pretty reliable and get down to bid'nez, and that's why I think my colleagues overlook my unfortunate tendency to hyperbolize when I run into some small snafu.
But, when I was a new grad, on the floor where I was a new grad, guaranteed, this little crap incident would suddenly snowball into some multi-faceted situation that would totally suck ass for the rest of the shift. In Ghetto Nursing, you had to have your back up 24-7, or you totally got beaten down and taken out. So, I kick Freak Out Mode into high gear, totally over-compensating, because that's what we all did back in my Ghetto Nursing Days.
It's like East Coast meets West Coast, and West Coast is all, 'What the fuck is wrong with that East Coast bitch, all stressing over nothing? It's all good, man. Tell the bitch to chill out!"
(Telling my East Coast Ghetto Nursing stories to these West Coast Kayak-Granola Nurses, I notice there's a huge disconnect between my New Grad world full of thugs and hos, and their world of Duuuuude, Possession of Pot Is Just a Misdemeanor Here, Quit Freaking Out, It's All Good. )
Any way, one of my colleagues, who I consider to be a sharp nurse, but even more of an abrasive bitch than I am, laughed at me as I was muttering aloud like a psycho, planning my petty paging-fest revenge, and said, humorously, "Oh my God, Jamie! You're a such a fucking bitch!"
I know it sounds fucked-up, but this was her version of a compliment, and I took it as such.
"Yeah, well, bitch shoulda never given me his pager number, that dumb fuck idiot." I declared in a self satisfied way, as I imagined that Bitchy Interventional Nurse going all status epilecticus as his pager went off for the fourth time in a row, courtesy moi.
I'm glad I spent all that time in divinity school writing essays about compassion and forgiveness, because it certainly hasn't come in handy when dealing with boneheads on the job.
My assignments were pretty decent, in that my patients a) stayed in bed b) complied with treatment c) weren't on the call light every five minutes d) had appropriate family members, or none at all.
As horrible as it sounds for the patient, I sometimes wish they didn't allow family/friends to visit for hours at a time, because my God it's such a fucking inconvenience to have to talk to them.
I loathe talking to the family, who always want to know something mysterioso I can't possibly answer, but they think I should magically know. My least favorite question du jour is When The Doctor Is Going To See Their Dad/Mom/Brother/Sister/Pet Hermit Crab?
Dude, if I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question, I could quit nursing and do something marginally more useful with my time, like knit blankets for homeless pet hermit crabs.
Then, for some reason, they want to know How Dad/Mom/Brother/Sister/Pet Hermit Crab is doing.
Like, what the fuck do I look like, Font of Hospital Wisdom 2007? The Great and Powerful Oz? An internet search engine?
How the fuck am I supposed to know, exactly?!
Half the time, the doctor's don't even know precisely what the fuck is going on, and I'm magically supposed to know myself?
Fuck the Nurse Friendly crap. I wish it was possible to say, "I don't know how they're doing, but give me fifty bucks and I'll make up some half-baked story, like I'm doing now, so you maybe won't bother me for fifteen minutes, so I can go see my other patients and make sure they aren't dead."
In fact, I think I have a reputation around the unit as being a bit of a hard-core bitch when it comes to whiny family/patients. I make the unit nurses laugh with my blunt expressions of apathy and toneless, ironic wit, but I think I also scare them just a little bit.
I know.
Me. A bitch.
Who would have thunk it?
I'm actually kind of honored, though, that other bitches think I'm a bitch. It's kind of like getting jumped into a street gang.
That totally makes me like, Bitch Goddess of the Unit, or something.
I know that's not exactly something to be proud of, but it is kind of funny, because before I became a nurse, I thought of myself as a nice, mature person who didn't play petty power games with others, or have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes and look totally annoyed when families ask how old, craggy grandpa hermit crab is doing.
But, it turns out, I really am an impatient, half-crazy Bitchatolla with very little emotional self control when it comes to high stress situations that aren't life threatening.
Stunning revelation, that.
For example, this weekend, I happened to be totally bitching to my coworkers about some wacked out Uber-Weird, Uber-Bitchy interventional radiology nurse. This nurse was totally giving me the shit-end-of-the-guiac-stick, so, in retaliation, I decided to page him a few extra times, just to piss him off.
I knew it was totally immature, and that he wasn't gonna answer the pages, but I know how fucking annoyed I get when my pager goes off multiple times in a row over the same crap, and he'd been such a fucking asshole, and left me with about an hour's worth of extra work to do, that I decided, "Ha ha, bitch! You just fucked with the wrong bitch, bitch!"
It was a very Cartman moment. I get kind of teary-eyed thinking about it.
By now, the unit nurses have all gotten used to my style of The Sky Is Falling tantrums when I get stressed out over nothing. I think they sort of treat it like, "Oh, here goes The Jamie Show. Tune in next time, same Bat Station, same Bat Channel."
I seem to only have this reaction to minor, bullshit situations. When Real Shit Hits The Fan, I'm pretty reliable and get down to bid'nez, and that's why I think my colleagues overlook my unfortunate tendency to hyperbolize when I run into some small snafu.
But, when I was a new grad, on the floor where I was a new grad, guaranteed, this little crap incident would suddenly snowball into some multi-faceted situation that would totally suck ass for the rest of the shift. In Ghetto Nursing, you had to have your back up 24-7, or you totally got beaten down and taken out. So, I kick Freak Out Mode into high gear, totally over-compensating, because that's what we all did back in my Ghetto Nursing Days.
It's like East Coast meets West Coast, and West Coast is all, 'What the fuck is wrong with that East Coast bitch, all stressing over nothing? It's all good, man. Tell the bitch to chill out!"
(Telling my East Coast Ghetto Nursing stories to these West Coast Kayak-Granola Nurses, I notice there's a huge disconnect between my New Grad world full of thugs and hos, and their world of Duuuuude, Possession of Pot Is Just a Misdemeanor Here, Quit Freaking Out, It's All Good. )
Any way, one of my colleagues, who I consider to be a sharp nurse, but even more of an abrasive bitch than I am, laughed at me as I was muttering aloud like a psycho, planning my petty paging-fest revenge, and said, humorously, "Oh my God, Jamie! You're a such a fucking bitch!"
I know it sounds fucked-up, but this was her version of a compliment, and I took it as such.
"Yeah, well, bitch shoulda never given me his pager number, that dumb fuck idiot." I declared in a self satisfied way, as I imagined that Bitchy Interventional Nurse going all status epilecticus as his pager went off for the fourth time in a row, courtesy moi.
I'm glad I spent all that time in divinity school writing essays about compassion and forgiveness, because it certainly hasn't come in handy when dealing with boneheads on the job.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
scarfing down the goodness.
I look hideous and unglamorous, with my pasty white complexion and smart-ass smirk (not to mention woolly looking winter hairdo) but check out the newly completed Seattle Scarf #2, which I intend to surgically graft to my neck, so I can't lose it, like its poor predecessor, Seattle Scarf #1.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
the magic words.
PATIENT:
[sitting up in bed, watching t.v., in no particular distress at all]
I'm... having... chest... pain...
JAMIE:
[arching eyebrows]
Oh, really? Where is it, how does it feel, and what would you rate it on a scale of one to ten?
PATIENT:
[eyes glued to t.v screen, utterly calm, fakes some shortness of breath]
Nine out of ten.
JAMIE:
[nursing sixth sense telling her to engage the PIFN protocol, or Patient Is Faking For Narcotics protocol]
Oh, really? Well then, I guess I'll have to give you more nitroglycerin [n.b. not a narcotic].
PATIENT:
I don't want that shit! It gives me a headache, and it don't do nothing for my pain.
JAMIE:
[tersely]
Well, sir, you can refuse the medicine, but if you're really having heart-related pain, I strongly advise you take the medicine, because it will help your heart pain.
PATIENT:
[lapses into grumpy silence, apparently able to ponder this plight at length while forgetting to fake his life threatening cardiac-related pain]
JAMIE:
[unable to conceal annoyment]
Do you want it, or not?
PATIENT:
[begrudgingly, after a minute's consideration]
Yeah, I guess so.
Later in the shift...
JAMIE:
[walking into room]
So, how's the chest pain? I'm going to give you some more morphine, now, okay?
PATIENT:
[ now watching third episode in a row of syndicated CSI: Miami. Starts moaning dramatically, and faking shortness of breath as if on cue]
It ain't better.
JAMIE:
[barely faking concern]
Oh, that's too bad.
[sitting up in bed, watching t.v., in no particular distress at all]
I'm... having... chest... pain...
JAMIE:
[arching eyebrows]
Oh, really? Where is it, how does it feel, and what would you rate it on a scale of one to ten?
PATIENT:
[eyes glued to t.v screen, utterly calm, fakes some shortness of breath]
Nine out of ten.
JAMIE:
[nursing sixth sense telling her to engage the PIFN protocol, or Patient Is Faking For Narcotics protocol]
Oh, really? Well then, I guess I'll have to give you more nitroglycerin [n.b. not a narcotic].
PATIENT:
I don't want that shit! It gives me a headache, and it don't do nothing for my pain.
JAMIE:
[tersely]
Well, sir, you can refuse the medicine, but if you're really having heart-related pain, I strongly advise you take the medicine, because it will help your heart pain.
PATIENT:
[lapses into grumpy silence, apparently able to ponder this plight at length while forgetting to fake his life threatening cardiac-related pain]
JAMIE:
[unable to conceal annoyment]
Do you want it, or not?
PATIENT:
[begrudgingly, after a minute's consideration]
Yeah, I guess so.
Later in the shift...
JAMIE:
[walking into room]
So, how's the chest pain? I'm going to give you some more morphine, now, okay?
PATIENT:
[ now watching third episode in a row of syndicated CSI: Miami. Starts moaning dramatically, and faking shortness of breath as if on cue]
It ain't better.
JAMIE:
[barely faking concern]
Oh, that's too bad.
rattle and hum.
PATIENT:
[whining]
...And can you fix the head of the bed? It's rattling... see, when I move like this [wiggles around in bed]... See! The headboard sort of rattles! And it's been driving me crazy!
JAMIE:
[envisioning disengaging said headboard and connecting it swiftly with the back of patient's head]
Sir? All the headboards rattle--they're old, and this is a hospital. I'm not sure what you'd like me to do about it.
PATIENT:
[still whining]
But this is important!
[whining]
...And can you fix the head of the bed? It's rattling... see, when I move like this [wiggles around in bed]... See! The headboard sort of rattles! And it's been driving me crazy!
JAMIE:
[envisioning disengaging said headboard and connecting it swiftly with the back of patient's head]
Sir? All the headboards rattle--they're old, and this is a hospital. I'm not sure what you'd like me to do about it.
PATIENT:
[still whining]
But this is important!
diagnosis; rule out intelligence
JAMIE:
[on phone with an attending]
So blah blah blah complaining of chest pain blah blah blah blah patient is and has been stable blah blah blah ruled out for MI... blah blah blah real issue today is actually hypertension blah blah blah.
DOCTOR:
Is he on anything at home for the hypertension?
JAMIE:
Cocaine and marijuana.
DOCTOR:
[chuckles]
Oh, I see.
[on phone with an attending]
So blah blah blah complaining of chest pain blah blah blah blah patient is and has been stable blah blah blah ruled out for MI... blah blah blah real issue today is actually hypertension blah blah blah.
DOCTOR:
Is he on anything at home for the hypertension?
JAMIE:
Cocaine and marijuana.
DOCTOR:
[chuckles]
Oh, I see.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
uncle.
I'm about to put my ring tone "Take This Job and Shove It" back on my cell phone to channel my utter disgust with nursing at present.
Work this week needs to die bitch, die.
For one: I do not endorse open heart surgery on heroin abusers. Especially heroin abusers without medical insurance.
There were about one hundred other very tedious, unpleasant, ridiculous things about work this week which are too tedious, unpleasant, and ridiculous to account for here. Things, incidently, that make heroin-abusers look like candidates for the Miss America Pagent.
I am bone weary tired, and working some insane schedule from hell on top of it.
I feel like Tom Hanks's character looks when he goes to work in that scene from Joe Vs. The Volcano.
And, all annoying patients and their family members can proceed directly to hell as far as I'm concerned. Do not pass the nursing station, do not collect free legal narcotics.
And, you know it's been a rough week when you liked the alcoholic patient in withdrawal better than the heroin addict, but you still have yet to meet the other heroin addict on the floor. Plus, you're taking care of your second massively huge bipolar guy in two weeks, and a developmental delayed guy who spent the better part of the shift constantly on the call bell, screaming down the hallway for "his nurse." Which, unfortunately, was me.
I feel like work has become some cross-over, hybrid show: Cardiac Fecal Pouch, meet Psych Issues Douche Bag... Psych Issue Douche Bag, meet Cardiac Fecal Pouch.
There, glad we got those introductions out of the way.
Work this week needs to die bitch, die.
For one: I do not endorse open heart surgery on heroin abusers. Especially heroin abusers without medical insurance.
There were about one hundred other very tedious, unpleasant, ridiculous things about work this week which are too tedious, unpleasant, and ridiculous to account for here. Things, incidently, that make heroin-abusers look like candidates for the Miss America Pagent.
I am bone weary tired, and working some insane schedule from hell on top of it.
I feel like Tom Hanks's character looks when he goes to work in that scene from Joe Vs. The Volcano.
And, all annoying patients and their family members can proceed directly to hell as far as I'm concerned. Do not pass the nursing station, do not collect free legal narcotics.
And, you know it's been a rough week when you liked the alcoholic patient in withdrawal better than the heroin addict, but you still have yet to meet the other heroin addict on the floor. Plus, you're taking care of your second massively huge bipolar guy in two weeks, and a developmental delayed guy who spent the better part of the shift constantly on the call bell, screaming down the hallway for "his nurse." Which, unfortunately, was me.
I feel like work has become some cross-over, hybrid show: Cardiac Fecal Pouch, meet Psych Issues Douche Bag... Psych Issue Douche Bag, meet Cardiac Fecal Pouch.
There, glad we got those introductions out of the way.
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