Friday, July 25, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
it's my magnetic personality
some of you may have heard about my previous experiences with certain monitoring equipment on the ambulance and in the ER. Well. RevMedic, you'll get a kick out of this. . .I can hear you laughing all the way down the I-5 corridor.
my new position is in the fast track section of Meth Central Med Center's ER. Better hours for a single mom (I get off work while it's still light outside!), plus I'm not tempted to do things that might get me in trouble, like
brief digression:
pushing D50 on a combative diabetic patient with a CBG of 33 who is brought in by medics after causing a rather large wreck on the freeway that sends 4 other people to the trauma center and the diabetic patient to our little ER with no IV, which I manage to get, and then without thinking, grab that big fat syringe sitting bedside on the tray, and when I'm halfway through the IV push realize that while I am certified by the state I live in to paralyze patients in the field I am not allowed to push farging sugar water in the ER. Whoopsie.
end of digression
anyway. ahem. So now I work three beds with one monitor to do intake and discharge vitals on 20-30 patients a shift. I am not rough on my equipment; I treat it with respect. I don't throw it around or stomp on it or dunk it in saline. Noooooo. However, the nurse I work with informed me tonight, after replacing the SPO2 sensor for the third time this week, that I was no longer allowed to touch the damn thing.
by the way- the Zoll is back. Took them 2 months to fix it.
my new position is in the fast track section of Meth Central Med Center's ER. Better hours for a single mom (I get off work while it's still light outside!), plus I'm not tempted to do things that might get me in trouble, like
brief digression:
pushing D50 on a combative diabetic patient with a CBG of 33 who is brought in by medics after causing a rather large wreck on the freeway that sends 4 other people to the trauma center and the diabetic patient to our little ER with no IV, which I manage to get, and then without thinking, grab that big fat syringe sitting bedside on the tray, and when I'm halfway through the IV push realize that while I am certified by the state I live in to paralyze patients in the field I am not allowed to push farging sugar water in the ER. Whoopsie.
end of digression
anyway. ahem. So now I work three beds with one monitor to do intake and discharge vitals on 20-30 patients a shift. I am not rough on my equipment; I treat it with respect. I don't throw it around or stomp on it or dunk it in saline. Noooooo. However, the nurse I work with informed me tonight, after replacing the SPO2 sensor for the third time this week, that I was no longer allowed to touch the damn thing.
by the way- the Zoll is back. Took them 2 months to fix it.
karma in action
if, by chance, you happen to be Meth County's eminent and most sought after car thief, and you have, in the last few months, focused much of your attention on the vehicles in the Meth Central Med Center's parking lot, and many of the vehicles you have stolen or broken into belong to Meth Central Med Center's employees, and you decide to get stabbed by a butcher knife while mumble mumble mumble mumble (the details are still a little unclear here), and the stab wound goes into your abdomen, through your liver, through your diaphragm, and into your lung, and the person who stabs you feels some remorse (and perhaps the long arm of the law tightening around their neck) and decides to dump you in the ambulance bay of an ER, where you proceed to bleed all over the asphalt and screech loudly enough to wake the dead, or at least the security guard, you may not want to be carrying your lock-picking set or threaten the caregivers attending you that they better make sure you don't die. Better yet, you may want to gently inform your assailant that the ER on the other side of town may be preferable for future stab and dumps. The compassion index might be a tad higher.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
stop me if you've heard this one. . .
South County ambulance arrives with a female patient who "hurts all over." Patient has been evaluated (not to her satisfaction) at the two other hospitals in the area, and so has decided to make the trip- by ambulance- to Meth Central. Patient is tearful and has a lot to say about her previous hospital experiences. Nurse Zee starts the assessment while I hook the patient up, half listening to what she's saying.
"that other hospital, the doctor was so rude. He didn't listen to anything I had to say, and -oooowwwww I am in so much pain- and he was brusque and could have been a poster child for that book "How Doctors Think." And the nurse, oh my goodness. She just sat there and looked over the tops of her glasses at me and blew bubbles with her bubble gum. The nerve. What is this world coming to? Ooooohhhh, it hurts!"
I freeze with the tympanic thermometer half way to the patient's ear and shove my gum to the little niche between my cheek and upper teeth so that I won't be tempted to chomp or, heaven forbid, blow bubbles. Zee looks over the tops of her glasses and sticks out her tongue at me.
Ahem.
"that other hospital, the doctor was so rude. He didn't listen to anything I had to say, and -oooowwwww I am in so much pain- and he was brusque and could have been a poster child for that book "How Doctors Think." And the nurse, oh my goodness. She just sat there and looked over the tops of her glasses at me and blew bubbles with her bubble gum. The nerve. What is this world coming to? Ooooohhhh, it hurts!"
I freeze with the tympanic thermometer half way to the patient's ear and shove my gum to the little niche between my cheek and upper teeth so that I won't be tempted to chomp or, heaven forbid, blow bubbles. Zee looks over the tops of her glasses and sticks out her tongue at me.
Ahem.
Friday, May 2, 2008
it is just sooo difficult to be heard over the voices in a schizophrenic's head
This is weekend is the last for my new hobby, ie tempting fate by sliding down steep mountains on my face, er um snowboard.
I started running again. Not away from anything, just running because I love doing it and it's good for me blah blah. I managed a mile run and a mile walked without my lungs hurting last week- that's the first time since I had pneumonia last october; it took me a half hour, and I used to run 4 miles in 30 minutes, but hey, baby steps. I also started lifting my little 5 lb weights to try to strengthen my upper body since PT wasn't doing much for my bad shoulder. I was pretty proud of myself, finally getting some muscle tone back in my arms, and when I told Rock Star, who has been body building for a decade, he said, "oh, so that means you'll be a little more of a challenge when we wrestle?"
Dude. They're five pound weights.
I started running again. Not away from anything, just running because I love doing it and it's good for me blah blah. I managed a mile run and a mile walked without my lungs hurting last week- that's the first time since I had pneumonia last october; it took me a half hour, and I used to run 4 miles in 30 minutes, but hey, baby steps. I also started lifting my little 5 lb weights to try to strengthen my upper body since PT wasn't doing much for my bad shoulder. I was pretty proud of myself, finally getting some muscle tone back in my arms, and when I told Rock Star, who has been body building for a decade, he said, "oh, so that means you'll be a little more of a challenge when we wrestle?"
Dude. They're five pound weights.
Monday, April 28, 2008
catfight in the ER
There are very few patients who push my buttons. In fact, I'm the one that the nurses come to when they have a patient they don't want to deal with. So when one of my favorite nurses (she refers to me and herself as "the alpha bitches," which from her is a compliment) snagged my arm at the nurses' station and started telling me about the patient she'd just brought back, I kinda rolled my eyes.
"firefighter girl, she's 17, diabetic, states she's had high sugars for a week and a half and is now convinced she's DKA. She refuses to put on a gown, has a leopard print blanket and a red heart teddy bear, and claims she's a hard stick. p.s., the woman with her is her mother, but don't expect her to say a damn word."
Alpha Bitch leans close and grips my arms hard enough to leave bruises. "good luck."
Piece of cake.
I grab the IV tray, and if I coulda set it twirling on top of my index finger, I would have- my game was that good, baby. I love patients who are "tough sticks." Especially the ones who think they know my job better than I do.
I walked in to see the princess sitting criss-cross applesauce (we used to call it Indian style) on her gynie bed throne in a private room. Mom stood anxiously at the foot of the bed. Amazingly, as soon as I entered the room, the princess started Kussmauling. I leaned in a little closer and sniffed for that sweetish ketone scent a true DKAer would have, but all I could smell was the pungent odor of bullshit. I looked at her, sat down on my rolling stool, and started preparing the IV goods.
"Just so you know, I'm a tough stick. You're only going to get me from here up, and even then you'll have a hard time," she says, gesturing to her antecubitals. "It always takes them four or five times to get me. At least." She glared at me triumphantly, then resumed her Kussmauling.
I recommended that she calm her breathing down before her hands got all numb and tingly and stuff. Her eyes narrowed. I started asking my standard questions, things that I ask every diabetic patient: how high have your sugars been, for how long, what are they normally, have you been sick, do you take your insulin regularly, etc etc etc, blah blah blah. Princess stops her hyperventilating long enough to take a deep breath in order to deliver a speech she's hoping will scorch my eyebrows off.
"I. Am. A. Brittle. Diabetic. When I am sick or stressed my sugars go way up. We'd all do a lot better if you'd just shut up and quit judging me and start paying attention to what I'm saying. Understand?"
It makes me blink a little. I try to cover up my guffaw with a cough. I explain to her that these are questions I ask every diabetic, I've never met her before, I haven't read her chart, I'm here to start an IV and draw some blood. I am being very, very nice and oh-so-polite. And as patient as god, I might add; my mother would be so proud. She sighs and flips her hair. I ask for her arm, and wrap the tourniquet. I dutifully check her ACs- nothing doing- and then, lo and behold. . .
a beautiful vein goes POP in her right hand. And another one springs to attention in her wrist. And so I reach for the swab. . .and she yanks her hand away.
"Excuse me. We just went over this. You're not getting any vein down there; they roll. And while you screw around with that and miss, you're wasting precious time that you could be using to start an IV where I tell you so I can get the medication I need."
I'm afraid I may have started losing my patience. I give her the standard "I will take your suggestions into consideration, but I do this all the time and I will start an IV in the place I feel is best. Please allow me to do my job" speech. I reach for her hand, swab at that gorgeous, bouncy blue vein, and she yanks her hand away again.
"If you aren't going to listen to me, you aren't going to start my IV. Go get somebody else."
I unwrapped the tourniquet and said, "fine, honey. I'll go see if I can find somebody to help you. We're awfully busy, though, so it may be awhile." and I smiled at her, left the room, and went into the store room to kick some boxes. It was that, or pull her hair and scratch her face with my nonexistent fingernails.
I decided to ask the one male nurse on shift if he could fit in the IV. I had a feeling the princess would prefer a guy, anyway. And I told my young, buff medic student to hang around and soften her up a bit, too. Male nurse said his rooms were all full, but he'd get to the princess when he could. I thanked him, asked if there was anything I could help him with, offered to wipe his patients' butts because that would be far preferable to dealing with the brat. . .er, princess. . .again. He laughed. I warned him I would be getting the better end of things. Pun intended.
As I walked by the room, I noticed the brat's mom hovering outside her door. I mentioned that I had someone coming in, but it would be a while before he could get there. She said, "you know, she's such a hard stick, it would probably be best to get the IV team in here to do it."
I smiled at her. "Ma'am? I am the IV team."
Medic pay in the ER? not much to write home about
The incredibly self-satisfied feeling I got, watching her jaw drop and her mouth open and close like a fishy while she attempted to stammer an apology for her spoiled rotten daughter? priceless.
fyi: if my daughter ever, ever treats anyone like that, she will be flogged and bound and forced to watch reruns of . . . of. . . Barney until she gets control of her lip. I cannot imagine treating anyone as poorly as that 17 year old girl treated every single person entering her room with the sole intention of helping her. And I wasn't the only one kicking boxes in the stock room last night.
"firefighter girl, she's 17, diabetic, states she's had high sugars for a week and a half and is now convinced she's DKA. She refuses to put on a gown, has a leopard print blanket and a red heart teddy bear, and claims she's a hard stick. p.s., the woman with her is her mother, but don't expect her to say a damn word."
Alpha Bitch leans close and grips my arms hard enough to leave bruises. "good luck."
Piece of cake.
I grab the IV tray, and if I coulda set it twirling on top of my index finger, I would have- my game was that good, baby. I love patients who are "tough sticks." Especially the ones who think they know my job better than I do.
I walked in to see the princess sitting criss-cross applesauce (we used to call it Indian style) on her gynie bed throne in a private room. Mom stood anxiously at the foot of the bed. Amazingly, as soon as I entered the room, the princess started Kussmauling. I leaned in a little closer and sniffed for that sweetish ketone scent a true DKAer would have, but all I could smell was the pungent odor of bullshit. I looked at her, sat down on my rolling stool, and started preparing the IV goods.
"Just so you know, I'm a tough stick. You're only going to get me from here up, and even then you'll have a hard time," she says, gesturing to her antecubitals. "It always takes them four or five times to get me. At least." She glared at me triumphantly, then resumed her Kussmauling.
I recommended that she calm her breathing down before her hands got all numb and tingly and stuff. Her eyes narrowed. I started asking my standard questions, things that I ask every diabetic patient: how high have your sugars been, for how long, what are they normally, have you been sick, do you take your insulin regularly, etc etc etc, blah blah blah. Princess stops her hyperventilating long enough to take a deep breath in order to deliver a speech she's hoping will scorch my eyebrows off.
"I. Am. A. Brittle. Diabetic. When I am sick or stressed my sugars go way up. We'd all do a lot better if you'd just shut up and quit judging me and start paying attention to what I'm saying. Understand?"
It makes me blink a little. I try to cover up my guffaw with a cough. I explain to her that these are questions I ask every diabetic, I've never met her before, I haven't read her chart, I'm here to start an IV and draw some blood. I am being very, very nice and oh-so-polite. And as patient as god, I might add; my mother would be so proud. She sighs and flips her hair. I ask for her arm, and wrap the tourniquet. I dutifully check her ACs- nothing doing- and then, lo and behold. . .
a beautiful vein goes POP in her right hand. And another one springs to attention in her wrist. And so I reach for the swab. . .and she yanks her hand away.
"Excuse me. We just went over this. You're not getting any vein down there; they roll. And while you screw around with that and miss, you're wasting precious time that you could be using to start an IV where I tell you so I can get the medication I need."
I'm afraid I may have started losing my patience. I give her the standard "I will take your suggestions into consideration, but I do this all the time and I will start an IV in the place I feel is best. Please allow me to do my job" speech. I reach for her hand, swab at that gorgeous, bouncy blue vein, and she yanks her hand away again.
"If you aren't going to listen to me, you aren't going to start my IV. Go get somebody else."
I unwrapped the tourniquet and said, "fine, honey. I'll go see if I can find somebody to help you. We're awfully busy, though, so it may be awhile." and I smiled at her, left the room, and went into the store room to kick some boxes. It was that, or pull her hair and scratch her face with my nonexistent fingernails.
I decided to ask the one male nurse on shift if he could fit in the IV. I had a feeling the princess would prefer a guy, anyway. And I told my young, buff medic student to hang around and soften her up a bit, too. Male nurse said his rooms were all full, but he'd get to the princess when he could. I thanked him, asked if there was anything I could help him with, offered to wipe his patients' butts because that would be far preferable to dealing with the brat. . .er, princess. . .again. He laughed. I warned him I would be getting the better end of things. Pun intended.
As I walked by the room, I noticed the brat's mom hovering outside her door. I mentioned that I had someone coming in, but it would be a while before he could get there. She said, "you know, she's such a hard stick, it would probably be best to get the IV team in here to do it."
I smiled at her. "Ma'am? I am the IV team."
Medic pay in the ER? not much to write home about
The incredibly self-satisfied feeling I got, watching her jaw drop and her mouth open and close like a fishy while she attempted to stammer an apology for her spoiled rotten daughter? priceless.
fyi: if my daughter ever, ever treats anyone like that, she will be flogged and bound and forced to watch reruns of . . . of. . . Barney until she gets control of her lip. I cannot imagine treating anyone as poorly as that 17 year old girl treated every single person entering her room with the sole intention of helping her. And I wasn't the only one kicking boxes in the stock room last night.
Friday, April 25, 2008
how to pay karmically out the ass for your next 15 lives
be an arsonist, and decide to light the lovingly rebuilt, restored, revamped Lincoln Continental of a tattooed paramedic/firefighter nicknamed. . .well, nicknamed the name of a guy you probably wouldn't want to mess with, who happens to be good friends with most of the cops in Meth Central. Oh, and pay no attention to the Maltese Cross on the back window, the one that says "american association of firefighters." Yeah. Good luck. Have a nice life.
mini update
1) we picked the implant we liked, and MixMan's surgery date is June 25th.
2) BSUYAM told me the position is mine and approved the schedule we made. (can i get a whoa! and a hell yeah!)
3) The hair pet problem seems to be under control. Although the stench of rosemary and tea tree oils with a light note of neem rolls out of our house in waves when you open the front door.
2) BSUYAM told me the position is mine and approved the schedule we made. (can i get a whoa! and a hell yeah!)
3) The hair pet problem seems to be under control. Although the stench of rosemary and tea tree oils with a light note of neem rolls out of our house in waves when you open the front door.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
a few of my favorite things
working night shift does crappy things to your brain. It messes with your emotions and your mental health, especially if you aren't getting any sleep for three of the several days you work because you happen to be a mom, too, and kids don't understand night shift. But that is neither here nor there, it just is what it is. I used to be such a cheerful, happy person, fairly compassionate, and then I got pneumonia at the end of october, and was in bed for two weeks, and by the time I got back to work- still sick, mind you- I realized that most of the people in the emergency room as patients were less ill than I was. And that made me a little bit pissy.
Anyway, I decided this morning that I need an attitude adjustment, and the best way I know how to do that is to make a list of all the things I love, and all the things I'm thankful for. So here it is. . .my freaking joy list:
my bed, with its cushy top and down comforter; the color combination of pink and green, tulips and daffodils, ranunculus and windflowers; my son's toothy grin, lying in bed with movies, books, and a notebook, poetry penned on napkins and restaurant coasters, found poetry, colors so gorgeous and vivid I want to pop out my eyeballs and soak them in it, rainbows after a violent storm, the warmth of my lover next to me in winter, lying naked in front of a fireplace, pears and cheese with wine, the perfect pair of jeans, or failing that, the near-perfect pair of jeans, Jembosaults, my daughter's uncensored laughter, the way an iv feels going into a vein just right, coffee so strong and thick a spoon stands up in it, realizing that you can live without a certain someone but you'd really rather not, sitting under a tree on a blanket in the summertime, sundresses and sunhats in the garden, flip flops, toe rings, chokers, piercings, tattoos, LuLu Guinness glasses, grippy toes, bare feet, hot tubs, hiking, camping, snowboarding, views that take my breath away, my mama's hugs, spending time with my family, how loose and lovely my body gets after 15 hard minutes on the treadmill, dancing away all my give-a-shit, strong bass I can feel in my bones, listening to my deaf son sing, any music with real soul, books I can get lost in, home- not necessarily the place you live, but a place that feels so right you don't want to leave, wet kitty noses, the smell of old books in leather bindings, art almost as old and grand as god- the Sistine Chapel, the statue of David, you know what I mean-, mud between my toes, my children's safety, good friends who love me unconditionally, recovering from a Sylvia Plath moment, redheaded sisters, geminis, astrology, handwritten letters, love letters, getting flowers, gifts that show somebody's listening, affection, public displays of affection, mail slots, running my hands over the Rock Star's shaved head, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lips so soft I want to suck them off, holding babies (and then giving them back!), hot showers, lavender plants, rose oil, necklaces, clothes I can change with my mood, secrets, massages, interior design, getting down to the nitty gritty in a relationship and really knowing the soul of someone else, fuzzy socks, text messaging, all the Lou Whos, fingerpainting, love and being loved, trust, and last but not least, R E S P E C T.
Anyway, I decided this morning that I need an attitude adjustment, and the best way I know how to do that is to make a list of all the things I love, and all the things I'm thankful for. So here it is. . .my freaking joy list:
my bed, with its cushy top and down comforter; the color combination of pink and green, tulips and daffodils, ranunculus and windflowers; my son's toothy grin, lying in bed with movies, books, and a notebook, poetry penned on napkins and restaurant coasters, found poetry, colors so gorgeous and vivid I want to pop out my eyeballs and soak them in it, rainbows after a violent storm, the warmth of my lover next to me in winter, lying naked in front of a fireplace, pears and cheese with wine, the perfect pair of jeans, or failing that, the near-perfect pair of jeans, Jembosaults, my daughter's uncensored laughter, the way an iv feels going into a vein just right, coffee so strong and thick a spoon stands up in it, realizing that you can live without a certain someone but you'd really rather not, sitting under a tree on a blanket in the summertime, sundresses and sunhats in the garden, flip flops, toe rings, chokers, piercings, tattoos, LuLu Guinness glasses, grippy toes, bare feet, hot tubs, hiking, camping, snowboarding, views that take my breath away, my mama's hugs, spending time with my family, how loose and lovely my body gets after 15 hard minutes on the treadmill, dancing away all my give-a-shit, strong bass I can feel in my bones, listening to my deaf son sing, any music with real soul, books I can get lost in, home- not necessarily the place you live, but a place that feels so right you don't want to leave, wet kitty noses, the smell of old books in leather bindings, art almost as old and grand as god- the Sistine Chapel, the statue of David, you know what I mean-, mud between my toes, my children's safety, good friends who love me unconditionally, recovering from a Sylvia Plath moment, redheaded sisters, geminis, astrology, handwritten letters, love letters, getting flowers, gifts that show somebody's listening, affection, public displays of affection, mail slots, running my hands over the Rock Star's shaved head, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lips so soft I want to suck them off, holding babies (and then giving them back!), hot showers, lavender plants, rose oil, necklaces, clothes I can change with my mood, secrets, massages, interior design, getting down to the nitty gritty in a relationship and really knowing the soul of someone else, fuzzy socks, text messaging, all the Lou Whos, fingerpainting, love and being loved, trust, and last but not least, R E S P E C T.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
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