» Cringe!

Anonymous cringe
In the colonoscopy suite, we had someone who started moaning the second the scope touched her bumhole. She was heavily sedated, but of course you can still talk and move. The doctor was a tiny (4' 11")little Indian guy who was visibly embarrassed by his patient moaning and thrusting her rear at him, saying "Yes, yes, YES Jeffrey, give it to me! Fuck my sweet ass! Oh baby, you've got the biggest cock" etc. The nurses were cringing on her behalf and I was making a personal note to self to NOT be sedated for my colonoscopy when it comes around.

This went on for the entire 40 minutes. She must have thought ole Jeffrey had taken Viagra.

It doesn't end there. The next year, the same patient came in again. None of us remembered her until the scope was slathered with warm lube and positioned. Then as soon as it slid in an inch, she started up with "You fucking pillow-biting cocksucker Jeffrey! I hate your motherfucking guts, get the hell away from me before I rip off your dick and feed it to you!" And so on.

We are in pain with holding back the tears of laughter and biting our knuckles. Dr. Patel is quite surprised and says in his vaudeville hall Indian accent, "Oh my goodness, she is having a falling out with this Jeff-er-ry person."
Then he said, "Well, at least she is having the annual checkups, eh?"


I almost did a poo in my scrubs, trying to be professional.
We called Dr. Patel "Jeffrey" for two years after that.




The best part is she'll never know.
(Tue 2nd Dec 2008, 21:43, More)

» Well, that taught 'em

Son's revenge
When Destruct-O Boy was three, he and I got into some barney or other about picking up his toys. I told him if he couldn't pick up his things, I would pick them up and they'd be mine, bwa ha ha ha etc. We went on in this vein until I got mad and hid all his Legos.

Weel, he taught me a lesson, yes sir! He came in the laundry room, triumphantly said, "Oh yeah, well, I broke YOUR fing!" and stomped out. I had no idea what he meant until I went in my room to put away my clean clothes and found it.

He had unscrewed the top to my vibrator and hidden the batteries. My fing was broken.


Please God, don't let him remember that....
(Tue 1st May 2007, 4:02, More)

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

As long as we're getting serious....
I don't usually tell people this (read: never) but it illustrates quite well the concept of the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me. I wrote before about a friend of my childhood who had become an actor.
I'm not writing his name cause I don't want it to show up on a search engine but when I was a little girl, he lived in our neighborhood. I had no idea he was in the theatre; he was just the cute neighbor boy.

Anyway, rotten stuff was going on at my house. I was an unhappy, scared child. Most of what I remember is fear, shame and embarrassment. I became more and more withdrawn and was never sure if people liked me.

When I felt the absolute worst about myself; the dirtiest and lowest, I would go find my friend and sit with him (sometimes I would try to hunt him down!).He always made me feel better. I could lean against him or climb on his lap and hide my face in his chest. Sometimes he would wrap me up in his shirt and rock me. He wouldn't say anything or look at me-I think he knew I couldn't face anyone. I know he had no idea what was going on; I'm sure he would have done something.

But being around him and interacting with him, I would store up little things to bolster myself with. He meant them a different way, I know, but if he said, "You're my good girl" or "Gosh, you're smart." I would hug those things to myself and treasure them. When I felt so awful I wasn't sure if I would wake up the next morning, I took them out and played his (and a couple of my teachers', my mother's and one or two others') words in my head and could believe I wasn't bad or worthless. That I didn't deserve what was happening.

Because of them I think I didn't go down a path so many abused girls do-falling into bad relationships, hating myself and making bad choices, dropping out of school, walking the street, doing drugs blah blah blah. I got out with my sense of self relatively intact and decided to be somebody because I was good: I was Sister's good girl, my friend's smart girl etc. He was 10 years older than me and I looked up to him so much.

I think that's a major reason I became a nurse: to look out for those who can't speak up for themselves. There are so many people in the system who have no one on their side except for us.

Because I went through all that, I feel like I can hear what patients aren't saying and am able to help them get to the heart of the matter with compassion and sincerity. Patients talk to me because they trust me-I don't share all this with them, but they know I take them and their concerns seriously; I listen to them. You know if someone has suffered or had their heart broken. You feel like they can understand where you're coming from and intuitively "get" your position-you aren't embarrassed & don't feel judged. It's easier to let someone in to help you.

Anyway, I owe him more than I can ever repay. It was the kindness, decency and respect he naturally showed a sad-sack little pest that defined his character and protected me. He was the only adult man I was around who really saw me as a person, someone worth listening to. My dad was never around and his friends didn't pay attention to small children. My uncles whom I loved were back in the States. The other man I saw the most was the one mistreating me.

I wasn't a commodity to him. My worth didn't lie in what I could do for him but in who I was. In his eyes, I was worth something,not just my body. And knowing that saved me.

I know he wouldn't even remember me; it's been 40 years since he saw me and I only came up to his elbow. I wish I could tell him this and let him know he not only saved me, but all the patients since then that I've helped and allowed me to parent two terrific children who will grow up to make a contribution to the planet.


Edit: Jeez! Apologies for length-I don't want to remember the ugly thing.
(Sun 5th Oct 2008, 5:56, More)

» Customers from Hell

My back still hurts
As you know, I sometimes do house calls for home care nursing visits. Last week I went to someone's house after calling him and telling him I was running late and would be there at 5pm. Working day is ostensibly over at 5pm, but I routinely work until 7, 9, 11pm because patients seem to wait for me to show up to dump their utterly self-solvable problems in my lap.

Anyway, I walk in and he is reclining in bed, pants off and mooning me like the Grand Pasha (the Grand Pasha reclining not mooning, that is)and startes berating me that I'm late and all he asks for is the common courtesy for a call, but oh no, I couldn't even do that, he laid down at 2 because I said I'd be here at 2:30 and who did I think I was abusing patients like this...
I cut him off and say "You agreed to 3:30, not 2:30 and I called you well in time to tell you I would be here at 5." I found later he tried that with my supervisor when he called to complain about me but she had overheard the original call and knew I had set the time at 3:30 and told him that.

I asked why in the world would he stay in bed after I didn't show up if it was that important to get up and accomplish something--bear in mind, yes, he's in a wheelchair, but is very independent and active. He transfers himself and is a young, very strong 33 year old. He declines to answer me and throughout the visit keeps looking at his watch and asking his girlfriend (and why can't she accomplish these vitally important errands, I ask you?) when the gravel pit closes since he DESPERATELY needs to pickup some gravel to landscape the house-he's doing it himself, you see. Then what time does the local grocery store close; he needs some milk. And so on and so on...

Somehow his piss poor time management is my fault. Ok, fine-I shrug it off and try to do my job which is to pack a bedsore on his buttock, change an IV dressing and draw some blood. He insists he needs his wheelchair RIGHT NEXT to the bed-I can't possibly move it to do his wound packing. The other side of the bed is shoved up against the wall, a new position I might add, I suspect created solely for me so I can't use that side of the bed. He tells me I have to LEAN OVER the w/c and do this.

While I am in this awkward position, he freely shits all over my field, grunting with the effort, telling me he just can't help it, it's taken me so long to get here he's had to hold it in all this time, etc. The wound is about 2 inches fromt he margin of his anus so I am treated to a lovely scat show.
I ask for applicators - long wooden handled Q tips - to pack the various tunnels and tracts of this bedsore. He tells me ,"We don't have any, just stick them in with your finger." Granted I'm wearing gloves but I can feel in exquisite detail every fucking gooshy, pus filled, nasty passage up his ass wound. I am gagging silently and if you didn't know this already, I'm a big fat tub of an American and almost nothing puts me off my food and makes me gag.

In the subsequent 40 minutes, I attach the vacuum (gross stuff warning: open area of leg muscle. www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYb5HzA0tEw NOT my patient...the black spot on his leg is really black foam rubber packed in there, covered with something like sticky cling film and a vacuum attached to apply negative pressure. For some reason, neg atmo pressure helps wounds heal in a fraction of the time. Coolest part is at 5:50) It works great. He tells me it's not right, it's leaking, he's dissatisfied and I am to START OVER. I grit my teeth, pull it off and start working for another 45 minutes, bending over the whole time. And he's redfaced with the effort to shit on me during the process.

When I change his IV dressing (PICC- an IV 19 inches long through his upper arm almost into his heart) he deliberately jerks and almost pulls it out. This would entail a trip to the hospital and emergency surgery to replace at the tune of thousands of dollars. Most likely at my expense. Thankfully for me, it's sewn to his arm. I don't think he realizes that.

Then for the coup de grace, he moves while I'm drawing his blood and the needle punctures the vein. He does this twice. I stop and apply pressure and try another spot. (For those of you who know, I couldn't take it out of his PICC line the easy way because he forbade me, saying it would clot off if I did. It wouldn't)

While filling the tubes on the third try, I notice he has pulled off the pressure dressing, is dangling his hand down and pumping his fist to make the torn vein push blood into the surrounding areas. I ask him to stop, but he acts as though he can't hear me, staring straight ahead.

By the time the tubes fill, he has worked up a nice little hematoma the size of a hen's egg. It's painful and black and is going to look like hell. In fact, when his body destroys the red blood cells in this huge ass thing, the debris will probably throw off his next lab blood draw.

He looks at it with satisfaction and a grim little smile, "Oh yeah, that's pretty bad. You really don't know what you're doing, do you? Boy, I'm going to have to show this to the doc when I go in tomorrow" and blah blah. He's practically orgasmic over the fact he now has visible evidence of trauma. I want to stab the needle into his eyes at this point and I'm biting back tears because my back hurts so badly.

He finally releases me from my hostage status 2 and a half hours later. I rested over the weekend, but on the next Monday after I drive to work, I can't get out of the car due to back spasms and had to take two days off.

He asked for me the next visit and I catagorically refused to ever go back there again. I told my supervisor I'd quit and file for assault before I'd go back. She sighed and told me he's gone through almost every nurse in our facility, so I'm not alone. I suppose I could have walked out, but I was afraid he'd sue me for patient abandonment.

Apologies for length, I'm too depressed to even make a joke. I hate this job.
(Sun 7th Sep 2008, 21:41, More)

» Have you ever seen a dead body?

Usually,
I feel sad for the ones left behind, humbled that I'm the one to pronounce them, glad they've escaped their suffering, awed that I'll be on a bed someday and a young nurse will come to pronounce me, etc. I don't get a lump in my throat, but my eyes prickle and my chest is weighed down with knowing all they went through.

One time was the worst: I was called to pronounce someone who had died of leukemia and as my hand touched the front door, my supervisor told me on the phone, "Oh, did I mention he's eight?"

I went into the house-he was lying on a bed in the living room, his mother was sitting next to the bed, just gazing at him empty-eyed. I explained who I was, what I would do and went ahead. There were three other kids there: the little guy was the only one of his brothers and sisters not mentally challenged or autistic. His father was at the hospital with stomach pains and had missed his death. (Dad was a bit slow, too)

One child wanted to know if her brother had gone to heaven. When I said yes, she asked, "Which one?" Another kid kept whipping off his clothes and trying to burrow into bed with the dead child and the third wanted to tell me all about how he was going to marry Arwin from Lord of the Rings.

So I was trying to field three kids, answer Mom's questions and attend to my patient all at once. I asked Mom for a basin and some hot water and if she had anything special she wanted him dressed in for the funeral home- they were too poor for a funeral. He was so small he didn't have to be embalmed if they cremated him the next day. If I washed and dressed him, they could have a short viewing before the cremation and he would look nice.

As I'm washing him, I notice drops of moisture are appearing on his shoulder and cheek. I can't figure it out until I wipe my face and realize the drops of moisture are from me. I'm weeping and don't know it-my tears are falling on his little body. He's so fragile; I'm trying to clean the blood away without disturbing him more and it's taking forever. Due to his leukemia, the boy internally hemmorhaged until his heart gave out and every orifice is trembling with clotted blood. His dad is home by then and points to his son's mouth. He has a mouth full of dark solid jelly and dad wants me to get rid of it. I have to tell him I can't or there's a good chance the unclotted blood behind it may rush out and go everywhere. The look on dad's face broke my heart with an audible snap.

Finally, the sheets are changed, he's bathed, I've cleaned his tiny toe and fingernails of clotted blood and combed his hair when his mom comes out with his clothes. They are shortie PJs-knit short sleeve/short legged pjs with Wolverine on them. Dad tells me, "Nightcrawler is his favorite, but we couldn't find any with Nightcrawler on them. Do you think these are ok?" I can't even talk. I swallow the big sob threatening to burst out and say, "Well, Wolverine is Nightcrawler's best friend, so I think that's pretty good." and we get him dressed.

The little guy was his mom's helper with the other kids. I don't know what she'll do now.

In keeping with last week's QOTW, in his grief the father walked through a screened French door. I thought "Wow, only a retard wouldn't see a closed screen door. Criminy!" Later, the mom poured a pint mug of boiling hot tea and asked me to take it to dad outside on the patio. Guess what? I walked through the same screen door. Ripped it out of its housing and dumped the tea all down my front. Got a first degree minge burn and a big helping of humility.

All the way home I thought, "Ok, ok, God, you can stop punishing me for my evil thoughts. That's enough karma." I was afraid the car would conk out in the worst part of town for my sins or something.
(Sat 1st Mar 2008, 19:49, More)