Just worked five twelves in a row, and the freaks really do come out during the full moon. So do the gardening injuries, the drunk drivers, the broken arms (5 sugar tong splints in two days!! Geez!!), the heart patients, and the stroke victims. Had two brain tumors diagnosed in the ER that night. My favorite nurse looked at me, waggled his eyebrows, and said, "see, firefighter girl? Nurses can put in 18g IVs, too." I told him I woulda shot a 16.
It's somewhat sobering to see these patients in the ICU a couple of days later, though, knocked out from propofol, tubes in every orifice. Particularly when you saw them talking, or trying to talk, 48 hours earlier.
We had one woman who had been in an MVA earlier in the day. Medics got called to her home; they boarded her just to get her out, since she could barely walk. Doc cleared her C-spine, and he and I rolled her up on her side with the standard "give yourself a hug!" Apparently, my eyes widened rather comically when she flailed her arms around and one of her hands landed square on my tuckus and then held on for dear life, because Doc started laughing. However, her hand remained, and Doc took it upon himself to ask her if she had developed a fondness for me. She released her iron grip, patted my butt, and apologized. I have a feeling I'll be hearing about that one for a while.
Was having one of those days. You know. Where everything you pick up, you fumble, or drop; when the saline flush falls out of the lock right before you set the IV; when tape sticks to your gloved fingers, when the velcro on the knee immobilizer attaches to everything but what it's supposed to, when the underwire on your favorite bra snaps right at the curve, and you suddenly feel a sharp pain and an amazing lack of support. Then you get home, try to read before falling into a dead sleep, and your glasses snap right at the bridge. Seems like a sign. You know. Like maybe it's time for a little R and R.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
mixman gets a splinter
This morning, I sat outside on my back patio, enjoying the shade, my coffee, and a great book. It's been a while since I could sit out there- the cherry tree has decided to make cherries this year, and they are small and dark and hurt like hell when they come pelting down and smack you on the head, or foot, or leg. Plus they leave a really attractive reddish purple stain which the children decided looks a lot like blood, and have taken to smearing all over their faces and stomachs, and then chasing mom around the yard making spooky, goulish monster noises.
Anyway, judging by the number of cherries on the ground and smooshed all over the inside of my house, I felt it was safe to sit outside. There honestly could not be any left in that tree. I had just gotten to the best part in the book when I felt something warm and icky spooge on my shoulder and down my arm. Cherry colored bird poop. Yum. So. No more sitting on the back patio for me.
MixMan has developed the oddly disturbing (to his father) and rather funny (to me) habit of passing out at the slightest hint of blood or injury. School friend's loose, wiggly tooth? MixMan, down on the ground. Miss Diva's broken foot blister? Whump, MixMan flat on his back. So when he came to tell me he'd gotten a splinter and needed a bandaid, and I got out the tweezers and he ran from me, screaming, I didn't bother to chase him. I saw how pale his face was. I knew I needed only to wait for the inevitable vagal response before I could dig that sucker out.
Worked an extra shift at Meth Central Med Center this week. I started out covering for the unit secretary at her command post, and briefly entertained fantasies of running and hiding in the supply room, under all the IV supplies. I managed to hold it together until she got back from her class. I'm not sure if all the Unit Secs scowl that way all the time, or if it's just at me. Whatever. I left the nurses' station and made myself happy by sticking several people with 18g IV caths in the hand, just because I could. Oh, yeah, and because they needed 'em. Then I realized it's been over a week since I missed an IV, and I probably just cursed myself by saying that. Whoopsie. But I have floor nurses call and ask for me by name now when they have a tough stick. The last time was the med floor; they had some 300 lb cantankerous old lady cursing like a sailor who needed an IV, and they were all somewhat frightened of her, I think. So I get in there, introduce myself, and she says, and I quote, "I don't give a rat's ass where you come from or who you are; shut up or I'll shove a sock down your throat."
Well.
The nurses all made clucking noises. I looked at the lady, who cocked one eyebrow and dared me to respond. I grabbed her hand, swiped it with alcohol, and said, "you and my mother agree on something, then," slid a 20g in and taped it down. Her jaw dropped so far I coulda shoved a couple socks in, but the thought didn't even cross my mind. Honest. And that whole part about my mama isn't true, either. But it's good this lady didn't have my work socks on hand after a long shift-- I usually tuck those into a biohazard ziplock bag when I get off work, which in my humble opinion is the best place for them.
A couple of medics brought in a Charles Manson lookalike last week, and we put him in the psych room. He was a bit antsy, and hospital security wasn't cutting it, so we called the cops. One of the two officers who showed up is almost always good for a laugh, so I hovered outside the door and listened.
Officer Friendly: What's going on, sir? Why can't you do what these nice people ask you to do? They're just trying to help you.
Charles Manson: I can't, my--
OF: (sighing)you know, I was just sitting down to my coffee and doughnuts. I love doughnuts. I'm very hungry right now, and I was really looking forward to eating my sugar sprinkles.
CM: (squeaking)you want to eat me?
OF: (roaring)do you look like a doughnut? Do you have chocolate frosting and little rainbow sprinkles? No!! But if you did, I might eat you up.
Charles faints. Or maybe the Ativan kicked in.
Anyway, judging by the number of cherries on the ground and smooshed all over the inside of my house, I felt it was safe to sit outside. There honestly could not be any left in that tree. I had just gotten to the best part in the book when I felt something warm and icky spooge on my shoulder and down my arm. Cherry colored bird poop. Yum. So. No more sitting on the back patio for me.
MixMan has developed the oddly disturbing (to his father) and rather funny (to me) habit of passing out at the slightest hint of blood or injury. School friend's loose, wiggly tooth? MixMan, down on the ground. Miss Diva's broken foot blister? Whump, MixMan flat on his back. So when he came to tell me he'd gotten a splinter and needed a bandaid, and I got out the tweezers and he ran from me, screaming, I didn't bother to chase him. I saw how pale his face was. I knew I needed only to wait for the inevitable vagal response before I could dig that sucker out.
Worked an extra shift at Meth Central Med Center this week. I started out covering for the unit secretary at her command post, and briefly entertained fantasies of running and hiding in the supply room, under all the IV supplies. I managed to hold it together until she got back from her class. I'm not sure if all the Unit Secs scowl that way all the time, or if it's just at me. Whatever. I left the nurses' station and made myself happy by sticking several people with 18g IV caths in the hand, just because I could. Oh, yeah, and because they needed 'em. Then I realized it's been over a week since I missed an IV, and I probably just cursed myself by saying that. Whoopsie. But I have floor nurses call and ask for me by name now when they have a tough stick. The last time was the med floor; they had some 300 lb cantankerous old lady cursing like a sailor who needed an IV, and they were all somewhat frightened of her, I think. So I get in there, introduce myself, and she says, and I quote, "I don't give a rat's ass where you come from or who you are; shut up or I'll shove a sock down your throat."
Well.
The nurses all made clucking noises. I looked at the lady, who cocked one eyebrow and dared me to respond. I grabbed her hand, swiped it with alcohol, and said, "you and my mother agree on something, then," slid a 20g in and taped it down. Her jaw dropped so far I coulda shoved a couple socks in, but the thought didn't even cross my mind. Honest. And that whole part about my mama isn't true, either. But it's good this lady didn't have my work socks on hand after a long shift-- I usually tuck those into a biohazard ziplock bag when I get off work, which in my humble opinion is the best place for them.
A couple of medics brought in a Charles Manson lookalike last week, and we put him in the psych room. He was a bit antsy, and hospital security wasn't cutting it, so we called the cops. One of the two officers who showed up is almost always good for a laugh, so I hovered outside the door and listened.
Officer Friendly: What's going on, sir? Why can't you do what these nice people ask you to do? They're just trying to help you.
Charles Manson: I can't, my--
OF: (sighing)
CM: (squeaking)
OF: (roaring)
Charles faints. Or maybe the Ativan kicked in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
