not really my idea of a great date. . .

I came off a 16 hour shift at 0415 this morning, driving to pick up my son with my head hanging out the window in the rain so I wouldn't fall asleep. Busy, busy for the first few hours, then steady the rest of the shift. A dozen IVs, and I only missed one, and that was because the patient's PCP was bedside, and I get performance anxiety. But I got it on the second try, although I cheated and went AC with an 18g. But, yeah. A sixteen hour shift.

What was I thinking?

Oh, yeah. I was thinking about paying rent, and insurance, and car; fuel, power, phone, and that one slightly important thing for little ol' hypoglycemic me. Food.

Of note to male hospital patients (I think I'm going to type this up and hand it out when I put op sites on IVs): While starting an IV and drawing blood are, by their very nature, intimate, just because I'm sticking you with a very big needle doesn't mean I'm coming on to you.

Repeat after me: IVS ARE NOT FOREPLAY.

On the other hand, I think one of the reasons I love my job is it allows me so much human contact. I used to be such a touchy feely person, but somewhere along the way, even hugs from friends started making me uncomfortable. In any case, the contact of another human, even through purple nitrile gloves, is nothing to sneeze at. We all need it. And patients appreciate the human aspect of a caregiver who is willing to touch them, hold their hand, offer support more compassionate than empty words. I've watched medics, nurses, and doctors with patients, and the ones who have the greatest rapport with people are the ones who are willing to touch.

Near the end of the 16 hour shift, when an ambulance brought in a patient for nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea after eating at Taco Bell, the charge nurse made a small, snide comment about the slightly expanding waistlines of some of the older medics. One of said medics, in the middle of ordering a tasty breakfast sandwich from the night kitchen, who actually bikes 40 miles a week, and who obviously has lost no hearing whatsoever from almost two decades of sirens, abruptly hung up the phone. He glanced at me. I glanced at the charge nurse. She and I snickered. The medic shook his head, then shook his finger at me, and said, "You be a good girl, now."

There must be some sort of blue light special lately for comments on my behavior. Which is, I might add, always good.