This past week, I was at the fifty-seventh minute of the eleventh hour of my shift when a GN I hadn't met before approached me and introduced herself. Turns out she wasn't looking for me, but we had a nice chat anyhow.
I asked her if she was getting a thrill from signing "RN" rather than "GN" after her name, and something amazing happened. I don't think she realized it, but she stood up a little straighter, her face glowed, and she said, "Yes. I'm really proud."
Turns out Dad and Mom had both been working three jobs to put her through school. She did very, very well and passed the NCLEX first shot, and now got to sign "RN" after a name composed mostly of consonants. You bet she was proud. Her whole family is proud of her, and rightly so.
And *that* is why I love new RNs. It's not just that they keep me on my toes during preceptoring with questions I've never thought of. It's not that they're seemingly inexhaustable and willing to work hard, because everything is so fresh and interesting. It's not just that they come up with questions about procedures and policies that make me go, "Buh?" and realize that there's a better way to do things. It's that they are so damn *proud*.
They've worked very, very hard for two or three or four years, often while mastering English as a second language or relearning algebra that they'd gladly forgotten twenty years before. They've busted ass through difficult courses with instructors who were, at best, flaky and at worst, actively discouraging about nursing as a career. Some of them turned their backs on lucrative jobs doing something else in order to answer a calling they'd ignored for too long.
They have every right to be proud. And seeing a new nurse's face light up when you ask about the "RN" thing is marvelous. It reminds me why I do this.
Nursing students do everything that a GN does, but more so.
I remember coming on to the floor on the first day of clinicals my first semester. I was so frightened I thought I'd throw up, and seriously considered running away. As the semesters wore on, I got less nervous, but I got much, much more tired. I see that process now with students.
The nursing students we get are excellent. The one exception that I complained about bitterly last year was just that--an exception. The SNs ask questions about anatomy and physiology that require that you keep your chops up. They cheerfully volunteer for tasks that seasoned nurses hate, because it gives them experience. Inserting a rectal tube is a brand-new, shiny job when you're just starting out, after all.
And they're cheerful. On very little sleep. I had classes Monday through Wednesday, starting at seven in the morning and going until three in the afternoon, after which I would spend at least a couple of hours in the lab or the library. Thursday and Friday, clinicals started at 6 am and often didn't end until after 4 pm.
The students I work with have schedules at least as harrowing, and some of them drive two hours or more to our hospital, but you never hear complaints. Maybe a wan smile or two, or somebody might crash and burn for a day or so toward the end of the semester, and have to be revived with coffee and chocolate, but they show up smiling, work their butts off, learn new stuff every day, and graduate.
What with the shortage of nursing instructors and the lack of places in programs, you have to be exceedingly bright to even get into a nursing school. Where I am, two-year programs produce most of the bedside nurses, and the entrance exams are very, very tough. The programs are competative--perhaps thirty people will finish from a starting group of over a hundred and fifty. The women and men who graduate with an associate's degree should be proud of themselves.
And I'm proud to work with them, both as students and as new graduates. I hope I'm as good to them and for them as they have been for me.
Thanks, guys. I'll see you next semester.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Conga Line
Today I slept.
It's been a long week. We've had a number of folks with undiagnosable whatevers--things that we either have to wait for the disease to progress to be able to diagnose, or for the patient to die so we can diagnose whatever hit them on autopsy--and that always is hard.
So I got up this evening, after sleeping most of the day, and cooked. I had a bottle of wine, three different kinds of cheeses, and a selection of fun vegetables, so I cooked.
And just after ten o'clock, I was suddenly the head of the conga line.
Every nurse has a conga line. It's made up of the patients who die--the ones whose names you remember, whose various afflictions you remember--the ones you might've known even before you were a nurse.
Unexpectedly, I felt Darlene's hands on my shoulders. I kept washing dishes until I knew that Velva was behind her, kicking in rhythm to whatever four-beat polka they play where she is. Curt joined in, his wool sweater as scratchy as it ever was before herpes took his sight and hearing, and made his sister take over the coffee shop. Last in line came Astin, dead of metastatic breast cancer that we caught too late. She and Darlene kicked in perfect rhythm, while Velva and Curt had a good time making up new steps to the music.
I conga'ed around the apartment, macaroni and cheese and zucchini cakes forgotten.
Some of my patients pray to Saint Therese. I pray to the people that I loved--and who hasn't fallen in love with a patient, wished they had been friends with them before--for help, and guidance, and compassion.
And sometimes we dance with them, in a silent conga, grinning, as the music only we can hear and the hands only we can feel guide us.
It's been a long week. We've had a number of folks with undiagnosable whatevers--things that we either have to wait for the disease to progress to be able to diagnose, or for the patient to die so we can diagnose whatever hit them on autopsy--and that always is hard.
So I got up this evening, after sleeping most of the day, and cooked. I had a bottle of wine, three different kinds of cheeses, and a selection of fun vegetables, so I cooked.
And just after ten o'clock, I was suddenly the head of the conga line.
Every nurse has a conga line. It's made up of the patients who die--the ones whose names you remember, whose various afflictions you remember--the ones you might've known even before you were a nurse.
Unexpectedly, I felt Darlene's hands on my shoulders. I kept washing dishes until I knew that Velva was behind her, kicking in rhythm to whatever four-beat polka they play where she is. Curt joined in, his wool sweater as scratchy as it ever was before herpes took his sight and hearing, and made his sister take over the coffee shop. Last in line came Astin, dead of metastatic breast cancer that we caught too late. She and Darlene kicked in perfect rhythm, while Velva and Curt had a good time making up new steps to the music.
I conga'ed around the apartment, macaroni and cheese and zucchini cakes forgotten.
Some of my patients pray to Saint Therese. I pray to the people that I loved--and who hasn't fallen in love with a patient, wished they had been friends with them before--for help, and guidance, and compassion.
And sometimes we dance with them, in a silent conga, grinning, as the music only we can hear and the hands only we can feel guide us.
Friday, August 11, 2006
An Open Apology to My Filipino Colleagues
Guys, I'm sorry.
I know you do better for my patients overnight than I can during the day. Gerb, I appreciate your attempts to teach me to talk dirty in Tagalog. Michelle, thanks for the custard cakes and the joke about the sausage and bread and fish. Ester, you rock my world when you start IVs for me. Jay, you've pulled more folks back from the brink down in post-op than I can count. None of you complains about the schedule, or about the bigots you have to work with, or about the assholes that pepper your day. Along with the Indian and African immigrants and the occasional Slav or Russian, you make my hospital a fun, interesting place to work. I love you all.
But I cannot, cannot eat pork adobo.
I have tried. I like fried eggplant and little squiddy-squids for breakfast. I rock the lumpia whenever you decide to bring some extra. I'll eat anything that you put in front of me, really.
Except pork adobo.
Kill a chicken, pluck a parakeet, slay a sturgeon. Put it into adobo sauce or dry it and fry it and serve it up cold; I don't care. Just don't put pork in front of me, please, with or without that delicious white rice that I can't seem to cook myself.
I feel *so bad* for not liking what is supposed to be the summit of Filipino cuisine, at least according to my coworkers, who can debate for hours the relative merits of various recipes for it, all the while switching into and out of English at baffling speed.
I had a big bowl of the stuff yesterday for lunch. Don't get me wrong; I love the way it tastes. But after? Oh, my stars and garters, it was like trying to work out with a hangover today.
So no more delicious, soft, tender, perfectly-cooked, meltingly wonderful bits of pork in a tasty sauce for me.
I think I'll go on a four-day juice fast now.
I know you do better for my patients overnight than I can during the day. Gerb, I appreciate your attempts to teach me to talk dirty in Tagalog. Michelle, thanks for the custard cakes and the joke about the sausage and bread and fish. Ester, you rock my world when you start IVs for me. Jay, you've pulled more folks back from the brink down in post-op than I can count. None of you complains about the schedule, or about the bigots you have to work with, or about the assholes that pepper your day. Along with the Indian and African immigrants and the occasional Slav or Russian, you make my hospital a fun, interesting place to work. I love you all.
But I cannot, cannot eat pork adobo.
I have tried. I like fried eggplant and little squiddy-squids for breakfast. I rock the lumpia whenever you decide to bring some extra. I'll eat anything that you put in front of me, really.
Except pork adobo.
Kill a chicken, pluck a parakeet, slay a sturgeon. Put it into adobo sauce or dry it and fry it and serve it up cold; I don't care. Just don't put pork in front of me, please, with or without that delicious white rice that I can't seem to cook myself.
I feel *so bad* for not liking what is supposed to be the summit of Filipino cuisine, at least according to my coworkers, who can debate for hours the relative merits of various recipes for it, all the while switching into and out of English at baffling speed.
I had a big bowl of the stuff yesterday for lunch. Don't get me wrong; I love the way it tastes. But after? Oh, my stars and garters, it was like trying to work out with a hangover today.
So no more delicious, soft, tender, perfectly-cooked, meltingly wonderful bits of pork in a tasty sauce for me.
I think I'll go on a four-day juice fast now.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Progress.
The chocolate cake for Thursday is made. For those interested, it's the recipe off the back of the Hershey's cocoa box, which even Chef Boy says is the best he's ever tasted. It stays moist for *days*.
The salad for the next two days is made. Artichoke hearts, cabbage, romaine lettuce, baby corn chopped up, red pepper, cucumber, tomato.
My laundry is mostly done.
The patient with the weird collection of symptoms turns out to have both a demyelinating process of some sort and a bizarre, very rare form of bone tumor. "I've...uh...never heard of that" I said to Doctor Number One. "Neither had we." he replied. Doctor Number Two points out that this is not the time for that patient to be playing the lottery. Patient says that's fine with him, just as long as the state doesn't come after him for the amount of the jackpot next week. Mayo says they're not entirely certain that the tumor is what they say it is, but what they say it is is the closest match. We may have something entirely new here.
After five sessions with Der Trainer, I've encountered a new embarrassing reaction at work. Previously, people used to ask when my baby is due. Now, they say "Oh! You had your baby!" Friend Pens, in her wisdom, told me I should reply, "Yep. And as I get stronger and more fit, I will be able to kick your couthless ass more thoroughly."
More reason to think that Just Because You're A Doctor Doesn't Mean You Know Everything: a patient, a doctor, decided to manage her own Parkinson's medication. No problem there, as most Parki patients prefer to continue the routine that's kept them functional for years. But! If you try to "wean" yourself prior to your brain stimulator being turned on, you will indeed fall over and freeze, and we'll have to pick your rigid body up off the floor. Note to all concerned: This is not as easy as it looks. Six people and a bedsheet later, we got her back to bed.
"House" is on tonight. It'll be the first chance I've had in months to watch an episode. I hope it's a good, snarky one. My record is still good: I've only missed two diagnoses in all the time I've been watching--the first was the pregnant teenager with autoimmune weirdness, and the second was the guy with the stuff that's transmitted through pigeon poop. I even got the nun with the IUD.
On a completely serious note: If you work crazy hours, can't motivate yourself to exercise, and hate your life, please consider dropping the dough to hire a trainer. Yes, it's expensive. Yes, it's embarrassing to realize how out-of-shape you really are. But damn; this is the second-best money I've ever spent on anything (the first being the clams to get away from The Ex Husband). No really noticable changes in my body yet, but my stamina is improving, and I feel wonderful.
And I'm not even tempted by the cake.
The salad for the next two days is made. Artichoke hearts, cabbage, romaine lettuce, baby corn chopped up, red pepper, cucumber, tomato.
My laundry is mostly done.
The patient with the weird collection of symptoms turns out to have both a demyelinating process of some sort and a bizarre, very rare form of bone tumor. "I've...uh...never heard of that" I said to Doctor Number One. "Neither had we." he replied. Doctor Number Two points out that this is not the time for that patient to be playing the lottery. Patient says that's fine with him, just as long as the state doesn't come after him for the amount of the jackpot next week. Mayo says they're not entirely certain that the tumor is what they say it is, but what they say it is is the closest match. We may have something entirely new here.
After five sessions with Der Trainer, I've encountered a new embarrassing reaction at work. Previously, people used to ask when my baby is due. Now, they say "Oh! You had your baby!" Friend Pens, in her wisdom, told me I should reply, "Yep. And as I get stronger and more fit, I will be able to kick your couthless ass more thoroughly."
More reason to think that Just Because You're A Doctor Doesn't Mean You Know Everything: a patient, a doctor, decided to manage her own Parkinson's medication. No problem there, as most Parki patients prefer to continue the routine that's kept them functional for years. But! If you try to "wean" yourself prior to your brain stimulator being turned on, you will indeed fall over and freeze, and we'll have to pick your rigid body up off the floor. Note to all concerned: This is not as easy as it looks. Six people and a bedsheet later, we got her back to bed.
"House" is on tonight. It'll be the first chance I've had in months to watch an episode. I hope it's a good, snarky one. My record is still good: I've only missed two diagnoses in all the time I've been watching--the first was the pregnant teenager with autoimmune weirdness, and the second was the guy with the stuff that's transmitted through pigeon poop. I even got the nun with the IUD.
On a completely serious note: If you work crazy hours, can't motivate yourself to exercise, and hate your life, please consider dropping the dough to hire a trainer. Yes, it's expensive. Yes, it's embarrassing to realize how out-of-shape you really are. But damn; this is the second-best money I've ever spent on anything (the first being the clams to get away from The Ex Husband). No really noticable changes in my body yet, but my stamina is improving, and I feel wonderful.
And I'm not even tempted by the cake.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Why do you come here when you know I've got trouble enough?
I finally got to say it.
"Are you shitheads gonna do the same thing to me this time that you did last time?" he demanded.
"He told me that nobody would help him with his bath last time. And that the doctor wouldn't come see him. He told me he was in here ten days without a bath." she concurred.
"Ma'am, Sir," I replied, "let me be straight with you. You weren't given bed baths last time because when the aides came in, you would curse and throw things at them.
"Then you'd get up and shower.
"The doctor stopped coming in after you threatened to kill him and his family. You've been fired by every nurse on the floor except me.
"The aides have been instructed, for their own safety, not to enter your room.
"I am the only person here who is willing to take care of you. And if your behavior is anything like it was the last time you were here--any cursing, any throwing things, any threats--I have instructions to discharge you immediately. If you assault anyone, I'm going to call the police."
There was a brief silence.
"Where am I supposed to go if you discharge me?" he asked.
"You may go to any other hospital of your choice. We will assist in your transfer." I said.
"No place else will accept him," his wife said, "They've all got do-not-readmit on his chart."
Another brief silence.
Then I gave him twenty of immediate-release oxycodone, four of dilaudid, and a milligram of Xanax and went away. That was all he really wanted anyhow.
"Are you shitheads gonna do the same thing to me this time that you did last time?" he demanded.
"He told me that nobody would help him with his bath last time. And that the doctor wouldn't come see him. He told me he was in here ten days without a bath." she concurred.
"Ma'am, Sir," I replied, "let me be straight with you. You weren't given bed baths last time because when the aides came in, you would curse and throw things at them.
"Then you'd get up and shower.
"The doctor stopped coming in after you threatened to kill him and his family. You've been fired by every nurse on the floor except me.
"The aides have been instructed, for their own safety, not to enter your room.
"I am the only person here who is willing to take care of you. And if your behavior is anything like it was the last time you were here--any cursing, any throwing things, any threats--I have instructions to discharge you immediately. If you assault anyone, I'm going to call the police."
There was a brief silence.
"Where am I supposed to go if you discharge me?" he asked.
"You may go to any other hospital of your choice. We will assist in your transfer." I said.
"No place else will accept him," his wife said, "They've all got do-not-readmit on his chart."
Another brief silence.
Then I gave him twenty of immediate-release oxycodone, four of dilaudid, and a milligram of Xanax and went away. That was all he really wanted anyhow.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Damn. Mention poutine, and the world beats a path to your blog.
I'm not much in the mood for IMAGE WARZZ today, sorry, SS and Bob, because I had that dadratted physically and verbally abusive patient come back in AGAIN. If he hates us so much, why does he keep coming back?
Anyway. I see your naturalistic images and raise you...
this.
He looks like he would love some poutine.
Anyway. I see your naturalistic images and raise you...
this.
He looks like he would love some poutine.
Monday, July 31, 2006
That's it. I'm effing moving.
I can't stand this any longer. People have a right to their own opinions, of course, but if these crazy, narrow wackjobs keep posting stuff like this where decent people can see it, I'm leaving the country.
This is just offensive. And blasphemous. I suggest you go to the blog and give the "writer" a piece of your mind.
Shrimp, I'm lookin' at *you*.
This is just offensive. And blasphemous. I suggest you go to the blog and give the "writer" a piece of your mind.
Shrimp, I'm lookin' at *you*.
Back to Life
The paradox of palliative care is that sometimes, when you quit poking somebody, they improve.
She had come to us after a fall in the mall parking lot that resulted in a subdural hematoma. She also had a subarachnoid hemorrhage--probably what caused the fall--and had had a glioblastoma resected three years earlier. It was the nasty sort of glio, multiforme, that has a life expectancy (untreated) of three weeks. After conventional chemo and radiation, she'd gone to a clinic in Texas that, while it's mentioned on QuackWatch, has had some success in treating patients with brain and other cancers.
She was also septic. MRSA sepsis, which means it's tricky to treat. We'd had her on vancomycin and rifampin and she wasn't getting better. When I took over her care on Monday, she was globally aphasic (couldn't speak or understand speech or communicate at all). By Tuesday, she was tachycardic and moaning. On Thursday, her sodium had dropped to an eyebrow-raising 124 (135 is the bottom end of normal) and she was minimally responsive to pain. She was producing almost no urine and was swollen and blotchy all over.
The doctors ordered a nasogastric tube. I'd spoken to her family at length about what she and they wanted, and I was pretty sure an NG tube wasn't part of the plan, so I stalled until her family arrived that morning. They decided, with the doctor, to stop all interventions, put her on palliative care, and let things happen as they'd happen.
I didn't expect she would live through the weekend.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked in Monday morning and she sat up in bed, waved, and smiled at me.
*boggle*
The wave was a little messy, as she had a spoonful of mashed potatoes in the waving hand, but I was glad to see it anyhow.
We'd repleted her electrolytes and rehydrated her and dumped dozens of grams of various antibiotics into her. We'd put in a central line, taken it out, put in a different central line, pumped her full of drugs to keep her comfortable, sat her up in a cardiac chair, and generally been as unpleasant as caregivers can be to a patient who just wants to rest.
So, finally, she got a chance to rest.
I explained to her family that, since her sepsis was only about halfway treated, she could go rapidly downhill at any point, and would probably die from that sooner rather than later. Still, as the week progressed, she continued to improve. By the time she left later that week, her edema was gone, her urine output had normalized, and she was talking and (mostly) making sense.
Regardless of what happened in the end--and I'm not sure, even with no tumor regrowth, that she would've survived long--she got a week or two of mostly-compos-mentis-ness to spend with her family. That's enough.
Rule Number Seven Gazillion of Nursing: Sometimes just sitting down and shutting the hell up is enough.
She had come to us after a fall in the mall parking lot that resulted in a subdural hematoma. She also had a subarachnoid hemorrhage--probably what caused the fall--and had had a glioblastoma resected three years earlier. It was the nasty sort of glio, multiforme, that has a life expectancy (untreated) of three weeks. After conventional chemo and radiation, she'd gone to a clinic in Texas that, while it's mentioned on QuackWatch, has had some success in treating patients with brain and other cancers.
She was also septic. MRSA sepsis, which means it's tricky to treat. We'd had her on vancomycin and rifampin and she wasn't getting better. When I took over her care on Monday, she was globally aphasic (couldn't speak or understand speech or communicate at all). By Tuesday, she was tachycardic and moaning. On Thursday, her sodium had dropped to an eyebrow-raising 124 (135 is the bottom end of normal) and she was minimally responsive to pain. She was producing almost no urine and was swollen and blotchy all over.
The doctors ordered a nasogastric tube. I'd spoken to her family at length about what she and they wanted, and I was pretty sure an NG tube wasn't part of the plan, so I stalled until her family arrived that morning. They decided, with the doctor, to stop all interventions, put her on palliative care, and let things happen as they'd happen.
I didn't expect she would live through the weekend.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked in Monday morning and she sat up in bed, waved, and smiled at me.
*boggle*
The wave was a little messy, as she had a spoonful of mashed potatoes in the waving hand, but I was glad to see it anyhow.
We'd repleted her electrolytes and rehydrated her and dumped dozens of grams of various antibiotics into her. We'd put in a central line, taken it out, put in a different central line, pumped her full of drugs to keep her comfortable, sat her up in a cardiac chair, and generally been as unpleasant as caregivers can be to a patient who just wants to rest.
So, finally, she got a chance to rest.
I explained to her family that, since her sepsis was only about halfway treated, she could go rapidly downhill at any point, and would probably die from that sooner rather than later. Still, as the week progressed, she continued to improve. By the time she left later that week, her edema was gone, her urine output had normalized, and she was talking and (mostly) making sense.
Regardless of what happened in the end--and I'm not sure, even with no tumor regrowth, that she would've survived long--she got a week or two of mostly-compos-mentis-ness to spend with her family. That's enough.
Rule Number Seven Gazillion of Nursing: Sometimes just sitting down and shutting the hell up is enough.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Dear Joey,
I have decided what we need to do.
I'm tired of the South. I'm tired of the pollution and the hundred-degree days, and of the lack of calamari and itty-bitty grilled cephalopods.
So I'm going to learn French. I figure I can do it at the same time I'm losing this 40 pounds with the new trainer.
Then I'll move to Montreal.
While I'm losing 40 pounds and learning French, you'll have to take the art world by storm. I figure that your Spring 2007 show, "Where are you going? Where have you been?", featuring GPS-enabled dresses and blouses that will map out one's progress through any city, will be a big hit. You will make Montreal the center of the art-tech-fashion world and will become a household name. Meanwhile, I will figure out how to become independently wealthy. Maybe the exchange rate will improve.
Shortly after that, you'll buy an Audi TT. White. Six-cylinder, with Quattro all-wheel drive and a stick shift. You can drive a stick, right? Oh, what the hell...if I can lose 40 pounds and learn French, you can learn to drive a damn stick. If we work it right, you can put one tiny box of mine into the back of the white TT and help me move.
I will drive a refurbished Karmann Ghia or a mail truck. An old right-hand drive mail truck, painted with large bright polka dots. You may keep your condominium while I move in to something loft-like in Chinatown (hard to find) or Little Italy (slightly easier). I'll hang a swing from the ceiling like Marguerite has.
You may wear gorgeous old cashmere coats with huge collars. I'll wander around in ball skirts and men's sweatshirts and plastic pop-bead necklaces and collect Balinese dancing masks. We'll never have a bad meal and will eat tofu only by choice.
We will spend our summers on Ile d'Orleans, eating raspberries and drinking champagne and figuring out your next artistic coup. Aside from six weeks of summer, which will be warm and sunny and dry, it will always be either spring or fall in Montreal. Except right around Christmas, when it will snow in a picturesque fashion, but not long enough to get all dirty and awful.
By general decree, the river will not only become safe to swim in, but will become pleasant and just cool enough. We'll buy big straw hats and a parasol or two.
That's what we're going to do. Please get cracking on taking the art world by storm. I'm going out to buy some lottery tickets.
Love,
Jo
I'm tired of the South. I'm tired of the pollution and the hundred-degree days, and of the lack of calamari and itty-bitty grilled cephalopods.
So I'm going to learn French. I figure I can do it at the same time I'm losing this 40 pounds with the new trainer.
Then I'll move to Montreal.
While I'm losing 40 pounds and learning French, you'll have to take the art world by storm. I figure that your Spring 2007 show, "Where are you going? Where have you been?", featuring GPS-enabled dresses and blouses that will map out one's progress through any city, will be a big hit. You will make Montreal the center of the art-tech-fashion world and will become a household name. Meanwhile, I will figure out how to become independently wealthy. Maybe the exchange rate will improve.
Shortly after that, you'll buy an Audi TT. White. Six-cylinder, with Quattro all-wheel drive and a stick shift. You can drive a stick, right? Oh, what the hell...if I can lose 40 pounds and learn French, you can learn to drive a damn stick. If we work it right, you can put one tiny box of mine into the back of the white TT and help me move.
I will drive a refurbished Karmann Ghia or a mail truck. An old right-hand drive mail truck, painted with large bright polka dots. You may keep your condominium while I move in to something loft-like in Chinatown (hard to find) or Little Italy (slightly easier). I'll hang a swing from the ceiling like Marguerite has.
You may wear gorgeous old cashmere coats with huge collars. I'll wander around in ball skirts and men's sweatshirts and plastic pop-bead necklaces and collect Balinese dancing masks. We'll never have a bad meal and will eat tofu only by choice.
We will spend our summers on Ile d'Orleans, eating raspberries and drinking champagne and figuring out your next artistic coup. Aside from six weeks of summer, which will be warm and sunny and dry, it will always be either spring or fall in Montreal. Except right around Christmas, when it will snow in a picturesque fashion, but not long enough to get all dirty and awful.
By general decree, the river will not only become safe to swim in, but will become pleasant and just cool enough. We'll buy big straw hats and a parasol or two.
That's what we're going to do. Please get cracking on taking the art world by storm. I'm going out to buy some lottery tickets.
Love,
Jo
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Fluff Life
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I have a patient who suddenly improved dramatically after she went on palliative care, and one who has an interesting bacterial infection, and I just saw a patient at the grocery store who was given a 30% chance of living four years ago, but I'm not in the mood to talk about work.
I'm in the mood for fluff, simply because.
So. On to the fluff:
Allure magazine might be the best fluff rag ever. Especially this month's, where they concentrate on hair. Who could do better than hair? I mean, there's a column by a redhead, and one by a blonde, and they go through the evolution of Debbie Harry's and Twiggy's haircuts. Go. Buy it. Get some Mallomars or some Cheetos too, while you're at it.
Being in Montreal during a heat wave left me with an addiction to two things: San Pelligrino mineral water and S. Pelligrino lemonade-in-a-can. The former is good for hydration before a night of bitty baby grilled octopi and endive; the latter is good for the morning after, when you're walking along the canal with a baguette and some triple-cream brie, looking for a place to stop and eat. Unfortunately, you can't get the lemonade within 30 miles of here, which means I'm going to have to make a pilgrimage to the Foncy Food Place on Sunday.
Who thought of the Ben & Jerry's flavor Black & Tan? I mean, really. Cream stout and chocolate? Yick. Vermonty Python, though, is excellent--and since the fudge cows are moisture-resistant, you and your significant other can flick them at one another. You can even make the little cow say, in a squeaky little cow voice, "I don't know!" before you flip it across the table with an "AAAAAAUUUUUGH!!"
I bought a Maybelline two-pencil set of eyebrow color today in the "Auburn" shade. Wish me luck. Review to follow.
Speaking of which, why doesn't anybody make straight brown stinkin' mascara any more? Used to be you could get the stuff, but now the only manufacturers are weird off-shoot brands that smear down to your chin after five seconds.
Burt's Bees Lip Shimmer, continuing the makeup discussion, is the best. Lipcolor. Evah. Get the "Coffee" shade--the others are too pink.
I have hired, wait for it, a personal trainer.
Yes.
Because I am tired of having my back fat rub against my hip fat, and because I don't want to look like a licorice jellybean while wandering down the aisle at Beloved Sister's wedding. More importantly, I'm beginning to fear for my health and my job security because of lack of muscle mass and achy feet. So I've hired a cheerful drill instructor to show up at the house three times a week and kick my butt. My first appointment is on Saturday.
Beer Review: Independence Pale Ale, out of Austin, Texas, is great stuff if you can get it. It's produced by Independence Brewing, which is a small enough company that they use plain bottle caps and (I think) put them on with an antiquated capper. (You can tell these things after dating a guy who brews his own.) Also, if you want to know what Chef Boy's Winter Warmer tastes like, pick up a sixer of Ten Years Alt from Victory Brewing, and increase the abv% to 10.1. It's like a Tootsie Roll with a kick. (Shrimpy, that last was for you. "Small dogs dipped in Maudite", indeed.)
Amusing Montreal Story: as Jennifer and Joey and I were walking through Little Italy at 10:30 pm (things really begin to get started then), we passed a restaurant with a rooftop terrace. There was a man playing accordion amidst the diners--and playing "Volare", believe it or not. Just across the street was another restaurant, this one with awnings over the window and a second-floor apartment with a deck in the back. The deck, therefore, was even with the awnings. A small dog, a Jack Russell terrier mix by the looks of him, had come out to run along the awnings and inspect the restaurant's patrons and bark at them until he was called back by his owner.
It's scenes like that that make me thankful for whomever it is that's writing the soundtrack for my life. There may be nothing better than being full of home-made pasta and ricotta cheese and basil tomato sauce and walking with grocery bags full of nifty things past groups of gazing men in the warm summer evening. Unless it's doing so in the company of two of the coolest, smartest, wisest people you've ever met.
And finally, a note for any north-of-the-border readers I might have: What It's Like When It's Really Hot....
(Trying to explain 42* C to a Canadian is difficult. This is the best I can do.)
1. Everything dies. Even if you water it. Even if it's in the shade.
2. Nobody goes out between 1100 and 1700, or else they'll die, too.
3. Your produce wilts in the car on the way from the grocery. At 6 am.
4. Learning French seems preferable to getting into a car whose steering wheel is so hot your palms will blister if you grab it.
Medical Stuff next time, I promise.
I'm in the mood for fluff, simply because.
So. On to the fluff:
Allure magazine might be the best fluff rag ever. Especially this month's, where they concentrate on hair. Who could do better than hair? I mean, there's a column by a redhead, and one by a blonde, and they go through the evolution of Debbie Harry's and Twiggy's haircuts. Go. Buy it. Get some Mallomars or some Cheetos too, while you're at it.
Being in Montreal during a heat wave left me with an addiction to two things: San Pelligrino mineral water and S. Pelligrino lemonade-in-a-can. The former is good for hydration before a night of bitty baby grilled octopi and endive; the latter is good for the morning after, when you're walking along the canal with a baguette and some triple-cream brie, looking for a place to stop and eat. Unfortunately, you can't get the lemonade within 30 miles of here, which means I'm going to have to make a pilgrimage to the Foncy Food Place on Sunday.
Who thought of the Ben & Jerry's flavor Black & Tan? I mean, really. Cream stout and chocolate? Yick. Vermonty Python, though, is excellent--and since the fudge cows are moisture-resistant, you and your significant other can flick them at one another. You can even make the little cow say, in a squeaky little cow voice, "I don't know!" before you flip it across the table with an "AAAAAAUUUUUGH!!"
I bought a Maybelline two-pencil set of eyebrow color today in the "Auburn" shade. Wish me luck. Review to follow.
Speaking of which, why doesn't anybody make straight brown stinkin' mascara any more? Used to be you could get the stuff, but now the only manufacturers are weird off-shoot brands that smear down to your chin after five seconds.
Burt's Bees Lip Shimmer, continuing the makeup discussion, is the best. Lipcolor. Evah. Get the "Coffee" shade--the others are too pink.
I have hired, wait for it, a personal trainer.
Yes.
Because I am tired of having my back fat rub against my hip fat, and because I don't want to look like a licorice jellybean while wandering down the aisle at Beloved Sister's wedding. More importantly, I'm beginning to fear for my health and my job security because of lack of muscle mass and achy feet. So I've hired a cheerful drill instructor to show up at the house three times a week and kick my butt. My first appointment is on Saturday.
Beer Review: Independence Pale Ale, out of Austin, Texas, is great stuff if you can get it. It's produced by Independence Brewing, which is a small enough company that they use plain bottle caps and (I think) put them on with an antiquated capper. (You can tell these things after dating a guy who brews his own.) Also, if you want to know what Chef Boy's Winter Warmer tastes like, pick up a sixer of Ten Years Alt from Victory Brewing, and increase the abv% to 10.1. It's like a Tootsie Roll with a kick. (Shrimpy, that last was for you. "Small dogs dipped in Maudite", indeed.)
Amusing Montreal Story: as Jennifer and Joey and I were walking through Little Italy at 10:30 pm (things really begin to get started then), we passed a restaurant with a rooftop terrace. There was a man playing accordion amidst the diners--and playing "Volare", believe it or not. Just across the street was another restaurant, this one with awnings over the window and a second-floor apartment with a deck in the back. The deck, therefore, was even with the awnings. A small dog, a Jack Russell terrier mix by the looks of him, had come out to run along the awnings and inspect the restaurant's patrons and bark at them until he was called back by his owner.
It's scenes like that that make me thankful for whomever it is that's writing the soundtrack for my life. There may be nothing better than being full of home-made pasta and ricotta cheese and basil tomato sauce and walking with grocery bags full of nifty things past groups of gazing men in the warm summer evening. Unless it's doing so in the company of two of the coolest, smartest, wisest people you've ever met.
And finally, a note for any north-of-the-border readers I might have: What It's Like When It's Really Hot....
(Trying to explain 42* C to a Canadian is difficult. This is the best I can do.)
1. Everything dies. Even if you water it. Even if it's in the shade.
2. Nobody goes out between 1100 and 1700, or else they'll die, too.
3. Your produce wilts in the car on the way from the grocery. At 6 am.
4. Learning French seems preferable to getting into a car whose steering wheel is so hot your palms will blister if you grab it.
Medical Stuff next time, I promise.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Back in the English-speaking world again...
Montreal was, as always, lovely. Hot, though. It gets to a whopping 90 degrees about a week out of every year, and I was there for five days of it. With 70% humidity. And wind. Quebec's motto is "Je me souviens", which translated from the French, means "Hey, who's the fat sweaty chick with the frizzy hair?"
Joey has a sweet condo just across the canal from the Atwater Market, with brick walls and a soaring ceiling and a loft. It also has the Quebecois version of "central air conditioning"--a Japanese-made widget about one foot by three that somehow cools the air without actually exhausting anything to the outside. It was placed in the stairwell facing the western exposure of the condo, facing the glass doors to the deck. The top two stairs of the stairwell were therefore very cool indeed. I spent most of my time between showers there.
We went to a wedding on Ile d'Orleans, which is a bit east of Quebec City and smack in the center of the St. Lawrence river. It's beautiful. That's all there is to it. Not only was it cool, but there were little stands advertising pick-your-own strawberries and raspberries (heaven), and a really good pub with homemade beer--some of the best I've ever tasted. We partied all night long with the bride and groom, then drove to Quebec City afterward, which was (if this is possible) even hotter and stickier than Montreal.
QC's old portion, where the wall and Parliament and all the old buildings and cannon are, is interesting and lovely and European and hot and sticky and sunny and crammed with tourists from all over the world. It also takes the prize as Most Inconveniently Hilly Place Ever, even worse than San Francisco. There's one SF-style hill, and everything spills down and winds around it, effectively a) blocking any breeze and b) ensuring shinsplints and fractures in the unwary. What vertiginous spiral staircases are to Montreal, That Damn Hill is to Quebec City.
Everyone in Quebec City greets you with a cheery, "Bonjour, Mademoiselles!" which, translated from the French, means "We weren't able to Darwinize you with the staircases, but we'll get you with the hill, by God!" They then charge you two dollars for a soda and laugh hysterically as you immediately turn said soda into sweat.
(I was pretty exhausted and cranky in QC, having stayed up all night for the first time in my life. Don't let my grump dissuade you from visiting.)
It's impossible to get a bad meal in Montreal. Well, I suppose you could if you tried hard enough, but it would take some doing. La Banquise is, of course, the classic poutine shop. Cafe Internationale in Little Italy has some sort of salad that combines grilled calamari and baby octopus with capers and endive and is heavenly. And, of course, Marche Atwater is good for cheese and bread and fruit and veggies and chocolates and fizzy water and San Pelligrino lemonade and meat and oh, my God. And, as always, there's Le Pied De Cochon, for all your piggy needs.
Everyone is fit and beautiful and very, very tan there. They all speak some lovely but unintelligible version of French. The men shake your hand with an "Enchante" which, translated from the French, means "You may be a fat, sweaty American, but I'll be nice to you anyhow and speak English, because I am so much better-looking and cultured than you are." Joey has just won a Maclean's Magazine award for being a person who makes the world a better place to live in, so she was even more impressive than usual. All her friends greeted me with a double-cheek kiss, which, once I got used to it again, made me feel very cosmopolitan and not at all silly.
All in all, a lovely time. Next time, however, I am visiting in the spring.
Joey has a sweet condo just across the canal from the Atwater Market, with brick walls and a soaring ceiling and a loft. It also has the Quebecois version of "central air conditioning"--a Japanese-made widget about one foot by three that somehow cools the air without actually exhausting anything to the outside. It was placed in the stairwell facing the western exposure of the condo, facing the glass doors to the deck. The top two stairs of the stairwell were therefore very cool indeed. I spent most of my time between showers there.
We went to a wedding on Ile d'Orleans, which is a bit east of Quebec City and smack in the center of the St. Lawrence river. It's beautiful. That's all there is to it. Not only was it cool, but there were little stands advertising pick-your-own strawberries and raspberries (heaven), and a really good pub with homemade beer--some of the best I've ever tasted. We partied all night long with the bride and groom, then drove to Quebec City afterward, which was (if this is possible) even hotter and stickier than Montreal.
QC's old portion, where the wall and Parliament and all the old buildings and cannon are, is interesting and lovely and European and hot and sticky and sunny and crammed with tourists from all over the world. It also takes the prize as Most Inconveniently Hilly Place Ever, even worse than San Francisco. There's one SF-style hill, and everything spills down and winds around it, effectively a) blocking any breeze and b) ensuring shinsplints and fractures in the unwary. What vertiginous spiral staircases are to Montreal, That Damn Hill is to Quebec City.
Everyone in Quebec City greets you with a cheery, "Bonjour, Mademoiselles!" which, translated from the French, means "We weren't able to Darwinize you with the staircases, but we'll get you with the hill, by God!" They then charge you two dollars for a soda and laugh hysterically as you immediately turn said soda into sweat.
(I was pretty exhausted and cranky in QC, having stayed up all night for the first time in my life. Don't let my grump dissuade you from visiting.)
It's impossible to get a bad meal in Montreal. Well, I suppose you could if you tried hard enough, but it would take some doing. La Banquise is, of course, the classic poutine shop. Cafe Internationale in Little Italy has some sort of salad that combines grilled calamari and baby octopus with capers and endive and is heavenly. And, of course, Marche Atwater is good for cheese and bread and fruit and veggies and chocolates and fizzy water and San Pelligrino lemonade and meat and oh, my God. And, as always, there's Le Pied De Cochon, for all your piggy needs.
Everyone is fit and beautiful and very, very tan there. They all speak some lovely but unintelligible version of French. The men shake your hand with an "Enchante" which, translated from the French, means "You may be a fat, sweaty American, but I'll be nice to you anyhow and speak English, because I am so much better-looking and cultured than you are." Joey has just won a Maclean's Magazine award for being a person who makes the world a better place to live in, so she was even more impressive than usual. All her friends greeted me with a double-cheek kiss, which, once I got used to it again, made me feel very cosmopolitan and not at all silly.
All in all, a lovely time. Next time, however, I am visiting in the spring.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Saturday night, old meme
Five things nobody knows about me:
1. I'm a total snarky bitch at work, but I cry at "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." And "Cold Case." Hell, I just watched "The Princess Diaries" and cried at that.
2. I have no clue what to do with my hair.
3. I lived in a commune--and got college credit for it.
4. I know quite a lot about engines.
5. I often fantasize about having a high-precision rifle with a laser sight in order to get rid of people who bother me. The gentleman who garages his car downstairs (that would be a Pontiac with glass packs) is first pick.
Five things in my car:
1. A trash bag.
2. Two silver spoons I used to eat yogurt that I haven't brought in yet.
3. A security card for the hospital parking garage. Ditto the apartment.
4. A jug of laundry detergent.
5. A copy of the book "The Evolution of Useful Things."
Five things on my desk:
1. A small garden gnome with a basket of flowers over one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other. My friend Jeanie from the 'Net sent him to me. His name is Alan.
2. My passport.
3. A cartoon of two snakes with snaggle teeth, one saying "Where *is* everybody?" and the other saying, "I have the *snacks* all ready!" with the caption "Your typical nest of vipers has an undeserved bad reputation."
4. A pair of speakers I keep turned down.
5. A jar of Carmex.
1. I'm a total snarky bitch at work, but I cry at "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." And "Cold Case." Hell, I just watched "The Princess Diaries" and cried at that.
2. I have no clue what to do with my hair.
3. I lived in a commune--and got college credit for it.
4. I know quite a lot about engines.
5. I often fantasize about having a high-precision rifle with a laser sight in order to get rid of people who bother me. The gentleman who garages his car downstairs (that would be a Pontiac with glass packs) is first pick.
Five things in my car:
1. A trash bag.
2. Two silver spoons I used to eat yogurt that I haven't brought in yet.
3. A security card for the hospital parking garage. Ditto the apartment.
4. A jug of laundry detergent.
5. A copy of the book "The Evolution of Useful Things."
Five things on my desk:
1. A small garden gnome with a basket of flowers over one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other. My friend Jeanie from the 'Net sent him to me. His name is Alan.
2. My passport.
3. A cartoon of two snakes with snaggle teeth, one saying "Where *is* everybody?" and the other saying, "I have the *snacks* all ready!" with the caption "Your typical nest of vipers has an undeserved bad reputation."
4. A pair of speakers I keep turned down.
5. A jar of Carmex.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Just...ew.
***Beloved Sister, Scroll Down.***
An hour and a half into the process, I was getting a little tired of things. Three urology residents were bent over my patient with speculae and a headlamp, trying desperately to find her urethra.
Things had started to go badly when the fourth Foley catheter came out. (For those non-nurses in the audience, a Foley catheter is a long tube that goes into the bladder through the urethra and sits there, held in place with a little balloon filled with sterile water. It drains urine.) The damned thing actually shot out of her urethra and flew to the end of the bed, splattering urine as it went. I'd seen some interesting reactions to Foleys before, but never that.
I couldn't get the thing back in, primarily because I couldn't find her urethral meatus (opening). Normally, with women, this is not a problem--although bodies differ, I can usually manage on the first try. But this time? No go. No go, either, for the second-year resident, who found the ridge of muscle that usually marks the urethra, but whose attempts at inserting a Foley ended when the catheter coiled up time and time again.
So in came the third-year. He didn't have any better luck.
By this time, I had a lumbar drain that needed opening, so I went and did that. I came back to find the fourth-year in my patient's room as well, complete with OR headlamp and a variety of other...stuff.
No go. Still, with three people working away, sweating and cursing under their breath, no go. Things were complicated by the fact that my patient couldn't move her legs at all, and had some pretty amazing contractures.
Finally, the doctors figured out why they couldn't insert a catheter into this poor woman:
She had no urethra. And no neck to her bladder. They'd been worn away after twenty years of wearing an indwelling Foley catheter. The only thing left outside her bladder were three fistulas to the outside.
We put her in a diaper and scheduled her for a suprapubic catheter placement.
***You May Now Resume Reading***
Speaking of things you wish you could forget, I left a lumbar drain open too long the other week. Although my patient drained nearly double what she should've into the drain, her brain did not herniate down through her skull. I got very lucky, and so did she. There is no feeling worse than the feeling that you could've irrevocably fucked somebody up--unless it's the feeling of waiting to see if that's the case.
New nurses, take note: You will make minor mistakes on the average of once a day. Major mistakes might come as often as twice a month. A really huge mistake, like leaving a lumbar drain open for an hour, will happen at least once a year. The first time it happens, you'll be crushed. Later you'll learn to manage the mistake, figure out what caused you to make it, make changes in your practice, and keep going. Have faith.
And speaking of things new nurses should know, I have become a more-than-respectable IV starter. For the first three years, I sucked. There is no other way of putting it. Unless I was presented with a vein the size of a firehose on a comotose patient, I would dig and stick and fumble around and generally cause horrible bruises without getting a blood flash.
That seems to have changed, hopefully permanently. For some reason, over the last few months, I have had The Mojo. Even people with tiny threadlike veins that hide present only a minor challenge. I can't point to any one thing that changed in my technique; the only thing I can come up with is that the process finally got so routine that I was no longer spooked by it.
And finally, go read this. I tried to leave a comment, but was speechless. (The rest of her blog rocks too.)
An hour and a half into the process, I was getting a little tired of things. Three urology residents were bent over my patient with speculae and a headlamp, trying desperately to find her urethra.
Things had started to go badly when the fourth Foley catheter came out. (For those non-nurses in the audience, a Foley catheter is a long tube that goes into the bladder through the urethra and sits there, held in place with a little balloon filled with sterile water. It drains urine.) The damned thing actually shot out of her urethra and flew to the end of the bed, splattering urine as it went. I'd seen some interesting reactions to Foleys before, but never that.
I couldn't get the thing back in, primarily because I couldn't find her urethral meatus (opening). Normally, with women, this is not a problem--although bodies differ, I can usually manage on the first try. But this time? No go. No go, either, for the second-year resident, who found the ridge of muscle that usually marks the urethra, but whose attempts at inserting a Foley ended when the catheter coiled up time and time again.
So in came the third-year. He didn't have any better luck.
By this time, I had a lumbar drain that needed opening, so I went and did that. I came back to find the fourth-year in my patient's room as well, complete with OR headlamp and a variety of other...stuff.
No go. Still, with three people working away, sweating and cursing under their breath, no go. Things were complicated by the fact that my patient couldn't move her legs at all, and had some pretty amazing contractures.
Finally, the doctors figured out why they couldn't insert a catheter into this poor woman:
She had no urethra. And no neck to her bladder. They'd been worn away after twenty years of wearing an indwelling Foley catheter. The only thing left outside her bladder were three fistulas to the outside.
We put her in a diaper and scheduled her for a suprapubic catheter placement.
***You May Now Resume Reading***
Speaking of things you wish you could forget, I left a lumbar drain open too long the other week. Although my patient drained nearly double what she should've into the drain, her brain did not herniate down through her skull. I got very lucky, and so did she. There is no feeling worse than the feeling that you could've irrevocably fucked somebody up--unless it's the feeling of waiting to see if that's the case.
New nurses, take note: You will make minor mistakes on the average of once a day. Major mistakes might come as often as twice a month. A really huge mistake, like leaving a lumbar drain open for an hour, will happen at least once a year. The first time it happens, you'll be crushed. Later you'll learn to manage the mistake, figure out what caused you to make it, make changes in your practice, and keep going. Have faith.
And speaking of things new nurses should know, I have become a more-than-respectable IV starter. For the first three years, I sucked. There is no other way of putting it. Unless I was presented with a vein the size of a firehose on a comotose patient, I would dig and stick and fumble around and generally cause horrible bruises without getting a blood flash.
That seems to have changed, hopefully permanently. For some reason, over the last few months, I have had The Mojo. Even people with tiny threadlike veins that hide present only a minor challenge. I can't point to any one thing that changed in my technique; the only thing I can come up with is that the process finally got so routine that I was no longer spooked by it.
And finally, go read this. I tried to leave a comment, but was speechless. (The rest of her blog rocks too.)
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Random Musings
Gosh, it's nice to have my brain back.
*** *** ***
Buck's traction for a dwarf is not easy.
For those of you who don't know or don't remember, Buck's traction is a type of traction used for femur (thighbone) fractures. You get a one-size-fits-badly foam rubber boot with a metal bar across the bottom and velcro straps across the front, and once you put that on, you attach the traction ropes and weights.
Unfortunately, there are two problems when you're doing that for a person who's smaller and differently-shaped than the creators of the Buck's traction setup anticipated. First, dwarves' legs are shorter and usually a bit bowed. Second, they're short people. Traction depends on a straight run of rope to hold a fractured leg properly; if the person in traction is only about three feet tall, there's a lot of rope that can catch on the bed and in the sheets. Unless you put the person more than halfway down the bed, you're going to have Trouble, with a capital T, and that rhymes with M, and that means I had to be the MacGyver of Traction yesterday.
It works like this: grab the Buck's boot. Note that the metal stabilizer bar comes only halfway up the boot and then runs across the bottom. Good deal. Cut the top part of the boot away with a #11 scalpel. Now we have a shorter boot. Excellent. Grab two catheter leg-bag kits and scavenge the Velcro wraps out of them. Use those to help tighten the boot around the lower leg. Now you've got the boot on.
Remake the bed so that the bottom sheet lies flat and is held in place with a top sheet, folded lengthwise and tucked very tightly, so there are no wrinkles across the bottom third of the bed. Then fold another top sheet crosswise and lay it across the patient. This covers them without smothering them. Do the same with a blanket. One of the patient's feet will necessarily be outside the covers, but oh well.
Snag a fresh coil of traction rope. Measure twice, cut once. Set up traction. In order to keep things clear, use paper flags marked "TRACTION ROPE" to label the, you guessed it, traction rope as it goes down the length of empty bed. Adjust weight to be sure it's hanging freely.
Pat self on back. Collect accolades from co-workers, the patient in question, and the orthopedic surgeon. Eat a bar of chocolate.
*** *** ***
Somebody put a lock cap on a lumbar drain the other day. They disconnected the lumbar drain (which is supposed to be a sterile, closed setup) from the bag, locked off the drain with the cap from a syringe, and sent the patient out to have a smoke. This did not happen on the neuro unit, obviously.
*** *** ***
New squick I never thought about before: watching a doc put in a couple of really deep retention sutures, through skin and subcutaneous fat, with a curved needle and 2.0 vicryl. I felt a little queasy.
*** *** ***
Speaking of squick, this is probably the single most potentially-gross thing I've run across in a while...
I had a patient in a few weeks ago for a shunt. We use them when the pressure of fluid in the brain gets to be too high; the shunt pulls fluid off the brain and sends it into the abdominal cavity. Anyway, this guy had a shunt placed and came to me post-op. I knew he'd been in prison a couple of times and had had some close calls with regards to bullets.
One of his shoulders had a patch about the size of my palm. The skin was thickened and whitish, with what looked like embedded pieces of doveshot or gunpowder in it. The whole thing looked for all the world like Dick Cheney had taken a bead on him. I thought it was a gunshot scar. So, "Did you get shot here?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "That's a big ol' blackhead. Last time I was inside, my cellmate squeezed part of it, and something popped out and hit the wall of the cell."
I managed to warn him against doing that again, as sebaceous cysts like that are sterile as they are, but can get badly infected if you try to pop them. Then I got a wheelbarrow and took my jaw out of the room.
Eugh.
*** *** ***
*** *** ***
Buck's traction for a dwarf is not easy.
For those of you who don't know or don't remember, Buck's traction is a type of traction used for femur (thighbone) fractures. You get a one-size-fits-badly foam rubber boot with a metal bar across the bottom and velcro straps across the front, and once you put that on, you attach the traction ropes and weights.
Unfortunately, there are two problems when you're doing that for a person who's smaller and differently-shaped than the creators of the Buck's traction setup anticipated. First, dwarves' legs are shorter and usually a bit bowed. Second, they're short people. Traction depends on a straight run of rope to hold a fractured leg properly; if the person in traction is only about three feet tall, there's a lot of rope that can catch on the bed and in the sheets. Unless you put the person more than halfway down the bed, you're going to have Trouble, with a capital T, and that rhymes with M, and that means I had to be the MacGyver of Traction yesterday.
It works like this: grab the Buck's boot. Note that the metal stabilizer bar comes only halfway up the boot and then runs across the bottom. Good deal. Cut the top part of the boot away with a #11 scalpel. Now we have a shorter boot. Excellent. Grab two catheter leg-bag kits and scavenge the Velcro wraps out of them. Use those to help tighten the boot around the lower leg. Now you've got the boot on.
Remake the bed so that the bottom sheet lies flat and is held in place with a top sheet, folded lengthwise and tucked very tightly, so there are no wrinkles across the bottom third of the bed. Then fold another top sheet crosswise and lay it across the patient. This covers them without smothering them. Do the same with a blanket. One of the patient's feet will necessarily be outside the covers, but oh well.
Snag a fresh coil of traction rope. Measure twice, cut once. Set up traction. In order to keep things clear, use paper flags marked "TRACTION ROPE" to label the, you guessed it, traction rope as it goes down the length of empty bed. Adjust weight to be sure it's hanging freely.
Pat self on back. Collect accolades from co-workers, the patient in question, and the orthopedic surgeon. Eat a bar of chocolate.
*** *** ***
Somebody put a lock cap on a lumbar drain the other day. They disconnected the lumbar drain (which is supposed to be a sterile, closed setup) from the bag, locked off the drain with the cap from a syringe, and sent the patient out to have a smoke. This did not happen on the neuro unit, obviously.
*** *** ***
New squick I never thought about before: watching a doc put in a couple of really deep retention sutures, through skin and subcutaneous fat, with a curved needle and 2.0 vicryl. I felt a little queasy.
*** *** ***
Speaking of squick, this is probably the single most potentially-gross thing I've run across in a while...
I had a patient in a few weeks ago for a shunt. We use them when the pressure of fluid in the brain gets to be too high; the shunt pulls fluid off the brain and sends it into the abdominal cavity. Anyway, this guy had a shunt placed and came to me post-op. I knew he'd been in prison a couple of times and had had some close calls with regards to bullets.
One of his shoulders had a patch about the size of my palm. The skin was thickened and whitish, with what looked like embedded pieces of doveshot or gunpowder in it. The whole thing looked for all the world like Dick Cheney had taken a bead on him. I thought it was a gunshot scar. So, "Did you get shot here?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "That's a big ol' blackhead. Last time I was inside, my cellmate squeezed part of it, and something popped out and hit the wall of the cell."
I managed to warn him against doing that again, as sebaceous cysts like that are sterile as they are, but can get badly infected if you try to pop them. Then I got a wheelbarrow and took my jaw out of the room.
Eugh.
*** *** ***
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Wow.
Just...wow.
I opened my email box yesterday afternoon, about an hour and a half after posting "Gee, Officer Krupke!" and found more than two dozen emails. Some were comments on the blog postings about my brain; others were just emails, sent to say "hang in there" or "throwing yourself under a bus is a bad idea" or "look at me; I'm stable and healthy and have been doing this for thirty years".
I can't thank you all enough. It's a relief to know, of course, that you're not alone, but it's also a relief to know that there are people in the world who are nutjobs like me but who can also use paragraph breaks and spell correctly.
A couple of points I need to clear up: I am not going to toss myself off a high building, or even a low one. Suicide is not attractive in the least.
Also, I'm feeling better. Either I have the fastest chemical-reaction time known to man or this is the placebo effect; either way, I'm not arguing. This happened the first time I upped my dosage of Effexor, from 37.5 to 75, even though "everybody says" that it takes a week or two. I'm a little speedy yet, but feeling much better.
Too, I think I figured out what Doc Pedro meant by "rapid cycling". The last time I saw him was March of 2005, and he didn't get the date right. He thought I'd gone from peachy to miserable in three months, not in fourteen. Regardless, I'm still going to find a shrink. I got a little grumpy when I realized Pedro hadn't read my chart right, for Chrissake, but that just reinforces my next two points:
Doctors are human and can screw up, especially in minor ways, especially when they're stressed out; and,
It's never a bad idea to hold up a hand and say "Wait. Stop. I don't understand." If *I* can fail to do that, as somebody who's used to dealing with doctors all the time, *anybody* can.
Still, shrink it is. Brain chemistry is a specialty, and I have some questions about my med that Pedro couldn't answer.
Thank you all again for your emails and comments. It was really and truly like being borne up on a huge wave.
I opened my email box yesterday afternoon, about an hour and a half after posting "Gee, Officer Krupke!" and found more than two dozen emails. Some were comments on the blog postings about my brain; others were just emails, sent to say "hang in there" or "throwing yourself under a bus is a bad idea" or "look at me; I'm stable and healthy and have been doing this for thirty years".
I can't thank you all enough. It's a relief to know, of course, that you're not alone, but it's also a relief to know that there are people in the world who are nutjobs like me but who can also use paragraph breaks and spell correctly.
A couple of points I need to clear up: I am not going to toss myself off a high building, or even a low one. Suicide is not attractive in the least.
Also, I'm feeling better. Either I have the fastest chemical-reaction time known to man or this is the placebo effect; either way, I'm not arguing. This happened the first time I upped my dosage of Effexor, from 37.5 to 75, even though "everybody says" that it takes a week or two. I'm a little speedy yet, but feeling much better.
Too, I think I figured out what Doc Pedro meant by "rapid cycling". The last time I saw him was March of 2005, and he didn't get the date right. He thought I'd gone from peachy to miserable in three months, not in fourteen. Regardless, I'm still going to find a shrink. I got a little grumpy when I realized Pedro hadn't read my chart right, for Chrissake, but that just reinforces my next two points:
Doctors are human and can screw up, especially in minor ways, especially when they're stressed out; and,
It's never a bad idea to hold up a hand and say "Wait. Stop. I don't understand." If *I* can fail to do that, as somebody who's used to dealing with doctors all the time, *anybody* can.
Still, shrink it is. Brain chemistry is a specialty, and I have some questions about my med that Pedro couldn't answer.
Thank you all again for your emails and comments. It was really and truly like being borne up on a huge wave.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Cue "Gee, Officer Krupke!"
"You--take him to a headshrinker!"
So I saw my pal Pedro, also known as Doc Pedro, PCP, today.
Doc Pedro wasn't having the best of days. Somebody's grandchild was trying to systematically dismantle his waiting room as somebody's grandchild's grandmother made a big stink about nothing, and in walks his primo, pure-dee, brass-plated Headcase Du Jour.
Poor Doc Pedro. He's sending me to a headshrinker. On accounta, she says, channelling Action and Riff, I'm depraved. And on account of the "cyclical nature of my depression." Yes, he really talks like that.
Never mind that four years of good control on Effexor is the longest damn cycle I've ever seen, Jack, and maybe he got me mixed up with somebody else; I'm headed off to find a psychiatrist.
All joking aside, there's a definite period of adjustment when you come to terms with the fact that you need medication to function like a normal person. Then your medication gets doubled on the same day that your PCP tells you he can't really manage your care any more, and you're forced to look at yourself in the sunshade mirror of your car and say,
I am mentally ill.
I have a chronic condition that is not curable, but is manageable with lifestyle changes and medication.
I will be doing this the rest of my life.
Whereupon, driving up the street, it suddenly made sense to me why some people actually kill themselves.
I, of course, not wanting to deprive the Reading Public of my thoughts, did not drive my car under a bus. Instead, I went out and got an order of nachos with extra guacamole and drank a beer. Then I considered my plight.
I am mentally ill. I will be doing this the rest of my life. I will be managing, with any luck, my illness with lifestyle changes and medication. Forever.
Then I swallowed another Effexor. Doc Pedro doubled my dosage today, given that all my symptoms are those of somebody whose body has grown accustomed to Effexor. He wasn't willing to change my meds, fearing that that would merely confuse any other practitioner I consulted.
So, here I am. I'm depraved, not on account of I'm deprived (unless it's some intrinsic genetic failing), but I'm depraved. Just knowing that I have some problem that he can't help me fix makes me feel better. You know those questionnaires that you take, where the max score is 21? I got 18. I think anything over 15, for him, merits a referral.
I swear to Frog I'll find the silver lining in this. (See? My mood's improving already.) It might take a while, but I'll find it.
Meanwhile, I have to find a shrink I can handle. Good thing I work on the Brain Unit, eh?
So I saw my pal Pedro, also known as Doc Pedro, PCP, today.
Doc Pedro wasn't having the best of days. Somebody's grandchild was trying to systematically dismantle his waiting room as somebody's grandchild's grandmother made a big stink about nothing, and in walks his primo, pure-dee, brass-plated Headcase Du Jour.
Poor Doc Pedro. He's sending me to a headshrinker. On accounta, she says, channelling Action and Riff, I'm depraved. And on account of the "cyclical nature of my depression." Yes, he really talks like that.
Never mind that four years of good control on Effexor is the longest damn cycle I've ever seen, Jack, and maybe he got me mixed up with somebody else; I'm headed off to find a psychiatrist.
All joking aside, there's a definite period of adjustment when you come to terms with the fact that you need medication to function like a normal person. Then your medication gets doubled on the same day that your PCP tells you he can't really manage your care any more, and you're forced to look at yourself in the sunshade mirror of your car and say,
I am mentally ill.
I have a chronic condition that is not curable, but is manageable with lifestyle changes and medication.
I will be doing this the rest of my life.
Whereupon, driving up the street, it suddenly made sense to me why some people actually kill themselves.
I, of course, not wanting to deprive the Reading Public of my thoughts, did not drive my car under a bus. Instead, I went out and got an order of nachos with extra guacamole and drank a beer. Then I considered my plight.
I am mentally ill. I will be doing this the rest of my life. I will be managing, with any luck, my illness with lifestyle changes and medication. Forever.
Then I swallowed another Effexor. Doc Pedro doubled my dosage today, given that all my symptoms are those of somebody whose body has grown accustomed to Effexor. He wasn't willing to change my meds, fearing that that would merely confuse any other practitioner I consulted.
So, here I am. I'm depraved, not on account of I'm deprived (unless it's some intrinsic genetic failing), but I'm depraved. Just knowing that I have some problem that he can't help me fix makes me feel better. You know those questionnaires that you take, where the max score is 21? I got 18. I think anything over 15, for him, merits a referral.
I swear to Frog I'll find the silver lining in this. (See? My mood's improving already.) It might take a while, but I'll find it.
Meanwhile, I have to find a shrink I can handle. Good thing I work on the Brain Unit, eh?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Reflections of a Nutjob
It has come to my attention that I am a nutjob. Not a hard-core nutjob (meaning, I take only one medication, and the lowest effective dosage of that one), nor an unmedicated nutjob, but a nutjob nonetheless.
Please. I am not "depressed" or "differently serotonined". Euphemisms are for the differently brained. I am nutso. A whackjob, if you prefer that terminology. A crazy. Whoo-whoo-whoo, a la Moe of the Three Stooges. I have a shopping list of things that gets me through the day, most of them mind-altering substances of varying availability (Caffeine, Effexor, Caffeine, Simple Carbohydrates, Norepinephrine, Effexor, Scotch, and venlafexine for dessert). I have been known to have anxiety attacks for no particular reason, and in fact had one today.
So. In the spirit of past Things To Do lists, here's:
What To Do If You Know A Whackjob, Version One-point-Zero
1. Do not, under any circumstances, indulge their desire to talk about nuclear holocaust or other forms of apolcalypse. See, whackjobs get anxiety in weird ways, and this is one of them. Steer them away from the David Brin and onto the Spider Robinson, where everything turns out okay.
2. Do indulge their desires for simple carbohydrates and alcohol, within reason. Carbs raise serotonin levels while alcohol in moderation can keep the garden-variety nutcase from jumping off a bridge. Make sure it tastes good, and you'll have accomplished another goal: showing the loonie in question that tomorrow is indeed another day.
4. Crazymeds dot org (thanks, Anon, for the correction!) is an excellent resource website for both the interestingly-brained and their friends and relations. True, there are some postings on the site what will make you say "Wooo. Buh?", but overall, it's a nutjob presenting what it's like to be a candidate for the whackshack with grace and humor.
5. If your crazy pal needs a warm body around, be that warm body. I cannot tell you what a difference it makes from the loonie perspective to have somebody around who can quote Bloom County and make coffee. It's invaluable.
6. If you work with even one other person, do not make denigrating comments about crazy folk at work. That one other person might be me, and I might be on a short leash due to my antidepressants not working all that well, and then there might be a lot of mess to clean up. Crazy people *are* different from you, yes: we're often smarter and more creative. We're certainly posessed of a well of nastiness that you can't even conceive of. So be nice.
7. Answer the phone at 3 am.
8. Don't pressure the nutcase in question to go out in public with you. Often, nutcases such as myself can't muster the energy to go to the bar or a restaurant. It's simply too overwhelming. Bring by a clamshell of Chinese instead if you really want to see me.
9. Make sure the nutcase keeps their doctor's appointments. This is not such a problem with the minorly-medicated, but can be a real issue with those of the brotherhood who take multiple meds or meds in major doses.
10. If in doubt, call 911. I am not saying here that this has ever been an issue for me. I have been blessed up to this point with having not had any serious thoughts of self harm....but I can certainly see how some people might.
If you work with, live with, or love a moderately- to severely-depressed person, or a person who deals with bipolar disorder, keep in mind that calling the fuzz in might someday be necessary. This does not mean that you or the other person has failed; it's a modern response to an age-old problem that used to drag the median lifespan down. Think of it as your way of boosting our national life expectancy.
Tomorrow I see my Muppet-like doctor. We'll talk about how to regulate this pinkish lump of neural tissue behind my eyes. I'll certainly, since everything is fair game here, keep things updated.
Please. I am not "depressed" or "differently serotonined". Euphemisms are for the differently brained. I am nutso. A whackjob, if you prefer that terminology. A crazy. Whoo-whoo-whoo, a la Moe of the Three Stooges. I have a shopping list of things that gets me through the day, most of them mind-altering substances of varying availability (Caffeine, Effexor, Caffeine, Simple Carbohydrates, Norepinephrine, Effexor, Scotch, and venlafexine for dessert). I have been known to have anxiety attacks for no particular reason, and in fact had one today.
So. In the spirit of past Things To Do lists, here's:
What To Do If You Know A Whackjob, Version One-point-Zero
1. Do not, under any circumstances, indulge their desire to talk about nuclear holocaust or other forms of apolcalypse. See, whackjobs get anxiety in weird ways, and this is one of them. Steer them away from the David Brin and onto the Spider Robinson, where everything turns out okay.
2. Do indulge their desires for simple carbohydrates and alcohol, within reason. Carbs raise serotonin levels while alcohol in moderation can keep the garden-variety nutcase from jumping off a bridge. Make sure it tastes good, and you'll have accomplished another goal: showing the loonie in question that tomorrow is indeed another day.
4. Crazymeds dot org (thanks, Anon, for the correction!) is an excellent resource website for both the interestingly-brained and their friends and relations. True, there are some postings on the site what will make you say "Wooo. Buh?", but overall, it's a nutjob presenting what it's like to be a candidate for the whackshack with grace and humor.
5. If your crazy pal needs a warm body around, be that warm body. I cannot tell you what a difference it makes from the loonie perspective to have somebody around who can quote Bloom County and make coffee. It's invaluable.
6. If you work with even one other person, do not make denigrating comments about crazy folk at work. That one other person might be me, and I might be on a short leash due to my antidepressants not working all that well, and then there might be a lot of mess to clean up. Crazy people *are* different from you, yes: we're often smarter and more creative. We're certainly posessed of a well of nastiness that you can't even conceive of. So be nice.
7. Answer the phone at 3 am.
8. Don't pressure the nutcase in question to go out in public with you. Often, nutcases such as myself can't muster the energy to go to the bar or a restaurant. It's simply too overwhelming. Bring by a clamshell of Chinese instead if you really want to see me.
9. Make sure the nutcase keeps their doctor's appointments. This is not such a problem with the minorly-medicated, but can be a real issue with those of the brotherhood who take multiple meds or meds in major doses.
10. If in doubt, call 911. I am not saying here that this has ever been an issue for me. I have been blessed up to this point with having not had any serious thoughts of self harm....but I can certainly see how some people might.
If you work with, live with, or love a moderately- to severely-depressed person, or a person who deals with bipolar disorder, keep in mind that calling the fuzz in might someday be necessary. This does not mean that you or the other person has failed; it's a modern response to an age-old problem that used to drag the median lifespan down. Think of it as your way of boosting our national life expectancy.
Tomorrow I see my Muppet-like doctor. We'll talk about how to regulate this pinkish lump of neural tissue behind my eyes. I'll certainly, since everything is fair game here, keep things updated.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Frog Soup
I feel like the guy in the cartoon who brings his car into the shop, complaining that it's running rough, only to have the mechanic point out that he's missing two wheels on one side of the vehicle. *There's* yer trouble, with the understood "dipwad" coming as a modifier.
My antidepressants aren't keeping up with changes in my brain chemistry. Oh, boy. It took me a while to realize this, but now I'm on board.
Funny thing, depression: it's a lot like that old wives' tale about putting the frog into a slowly-heating pot of water. By the time you realize there's a problem, you're nearly Froggy Consomme. There's a long history of Frog Soup on the female side of our family; the previous generations mostly self-medicated with alcohol and charity work, but the women of my generation and Beloved Mom's generation have pharmaceuticals.
However, even modern medical miracles can sometimes lag behind when it comes to the Wonder That Is The Jo-Brain, so I'm snarkier and less energetic than usual. (Comments about how this makes me a super-snarky three-toed sloth will not be approved, people.) And in that nonenergetic, snarky mode, I bring you....
Rules for Stupid People, Some Of Them Residents, Part Three Thousand and Sixty-Five
1. If I page you post-call, it's not because I like playing with the pretty buttons on the phone. It's because you've written the prescription wrong, failed to include your DEA number, and written for over the maximum allowable dispensation of narcotics. So don't snark when you call me back.
2. If you don't call me back, even after I've paged you 911, don't snark when I get your attending to deal with it. I *will* start removing your digits if that happens.
3. Stamp your fucking H & Ps, okay? I can't let an unmarked H & P, lacking any indication of who it's on, just sort of migrate into a chart somewhere. Digit removal, people, digit removal.
4. I don't date residents. Ever. Stop asking already.
5. Pathologists are not allowed to turf. If you attempt to turf over a biopsy that should've been in my lab five days ago, things will get nasty indeed. I don't care who you are or who you work for; I have a guy whose brain is turning to mush, probably because of something infectious, and we needed that biopsy last week. You think I'm snarky with the residents? You should see me with attendings, who *ought* to know better.
6. Don't drive 45 in the left lane. Even if you're in a Prius. Thank you.
7. Don't ever, ever tell me that I need to have more information, or a better grasp of the information available, before I come to you with a question. I might then be forced to point out (in front of either your attending or your fellow, whichever is there) that you haven't left a note in the chart in, oh, three or four days. That will suck. And not for me.
8. I don't care how much of a genius you are: if you start to jack around in somebody's spine without wearing a mask and gown in addition to your sterile gloves, I'll stop you. And if you snark at me, one of us will be sad later. Hint: it will not be the nurse who had to reinforce proper sterile technique.
9. If I've ordered a scan with and without contrast, I really do mean "with and without", regardless of whether you think the contrast will be helpful. Trust us on this one, okay? Thanks.
10. Dictation can be fun! Really! They offer a free lunch every Tuesday and Thursday down in the dictation cave so that you can dictate what you should've dictated ten days ago and eat at the same time! It's great! You should try it!
It struck me about a year ago that the life of a nurse goes like this: Know All, See All, Fix All. It also struck me that we really, as a professional group, ought to agitate for better ways to get other people to do their jobs better. I'm thinking either a mass issuing of Super Soakers or some slingshots and M & M's as ammo.
My antidepressants aren't keeping up with changes in my brain chemistry. Oh, boy. It took me a while to realize this, but now I'm on board.
Funny thing, depression: it's a lot like that old wives' tale about putting the frog into a slowly-heating pot of water. By the time you realize there's a problem, you're nearly Froggy Consomme. There's a long history of Frog Soup on the female side of our family; the previous generations mostly self-medicated with alcohol and charity work, but the women of my generation and Beloved Mom's generation have pharmaceuticals.
However, even modern medical miracles can sometimes lag behind when it comes to the Wonder That Is The Jo-Brain, so I'm snarkier and less energetic than usual. (Comments about how this makes me a super-snarky three-toed sloth will not be approved, people.) And in that nonenergetic, snarky mode, I bring you....
Rules for Stupid People, Some Of Them Residents, Part Three Thousand and Sixty-Five
1. If I page you post-call, it's not because I like playing with the pretty buttons on the phone. It's because you've written the prescription wrong, failed to include your DEA number, and written for over the maximum allowable dispensation of narcotics. So don't snark when you call me back.
2. If you don't call me back, even after I've paged you 911, don't snark when I get your attending to deal with it. I *will* start removing your digits if that happens.
3. Stamp your fucking H & Ps, okay? I can't let an unmarked H & P, lacking any indication of who it's on, just sort of migrate into a chart somewhere. Digit removal, people, digit removal.
4. I don't date residents. Ever. Stop asking already.
5. Pathologists are not allowed to turf. If you attempt to turf over a biopsy that should've been in my lab five days ago, things will get nasty indeed. I don't care who you are or who you work for; I have a guy whose brain is turning to mush, probably because of something infectious, and we needed that biopsy last week. You think I'm snarky with the residents? You should see me with attendings, who *ought* to know better.
6. Don't drive 45 in the left lane. Even if you're in a Prius. Thank you.
7. Don't ever, ever tell me that I need to have more information, or a better grasp of the information available, before I come to you with a question. I might then be forced to point out (in front of either your attending or your fellow, whichever is there) that you haven't left a note in the chart in, oh, three or four days. That will suck. And not for me.
8. I don't care how much of a genius you are: if you start to jack around in somebody's spine without wearing a mask and gown in addition to your sterile gloves, I'll stop you. And if you snark at me, one of us will be sad later. Hint: it will not be the nurse who had to reinforce proper sterile technique.
9. If I've ordered a scan with and without contrast, I really do mean "with and without", regardless of whether you think the contrast will be helpful. Trust us on this one, okay? Thanks.
10. Dictation can be fun! Really! They offer a free lunch every Tuesday and Thursday down in the dictation cave so that you can dictate what you should've dictated ten days ago and eat at the same time! It's great! You should try it!
It struck me about a year ago that the life of a nurse goes like this: Know All, See All, Fix All. It also struck me that we really, as a professional group, ought to agitate for better ways to get other people to do their jobs better. I'm thinking either a mass issuing of Super Soakers or some slingshots and M & M's as ammo.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
MBTs and my MCL: Not Quite a Love Story
I have strained my right MCL. That's apparently a ligament in my knee (I don't remember; I was drunk that day in A & P, I guess) that does something like keep one's knee from bending at some crazy angle toward one's other leg. Mine is strained, not torn, which is a good thing. It means that I can still shop for groceries and do laundry and work, though I do all those things with a limp and a pronounced disinclination to squat, and it also means that I won't need surgery.
It happened like this: I had just gotten out of a nice, hard 30-minute workout on the treadmill and exercise bike, and spotted my buddy Bunsen. Bunsen's half Golden Retriever and half Traveling Salesman, as Mom would say, and is about a year old and about 80 pounds. He's also enthusiastic about playing Chase The Ball And Then Tackle The Human. We played Try To Tackle The Human for about twenty minutes, during which time I had to feint repeatedly to each side...while wearing my MBTs.
When you buy the things, they come with a little booklet that cautions you to be careful of doing things that require lots of feinting to each side. They also caution you against doing things that require a combination of balance and weight, like lunges. What they don't caution you against is being a blasted idiot, so of course I went out and was a blasted idiot.
The chief of the ortho department's reaction was this: "Dude. Bummer. A week or two. Ice. Bummer." (Yes, he really talks that way.) Chef Boy's reaction was this: "Wow, that was stupid." (Yes, he's really that supportive and gentle.) Chef Boy did provide me with an ice pack and some ibuprofen last night, though, and I was able to head out and pick up coffee and bread today. I'm going to spend the rest of the day icing this dadratted knee off and on and reading fashion magazines.
Tomorrow starts a week of intensive upper-body training and, I guess, very little in the way of aerobic exercise. I suppose I'll have to wrap my leg, or something, to provide extra stability while I'm wandering around work.
Take-home from this experience: Do not, under any circumstances, no matter how happy he is to see you, play with a puppy pal while wearing your MBTs. Run home and change your shoes first.
It happened like this: I had just gotten out of a nice, hard 30-minute workout on the treadmill and exercise bike, and spotted my buddy Bunsen. Bunsen's half Golden Retriever and half Traveling Salesman, as Mom would say, and is about a year old and about 80 pounds. He's also enthusiastic about playing Chase The Ball And Then Tackle The Human. We played Try To Tackle The Human for about twenty minutes, during which time I had to feint repeatedly to each side...while wearing my MBTs.
When you buy the things, they come with a little booklet that cautions you to be careful of doing things that require lots of feinting to each side. They also caution you against doing things that require a combination of balance and weight, like lunges. What they don't caution you against is being a blasted idiot, so of course I went out and was a blasted idiot.
The chief of the ortho department's reaction was this: "Dude. Bummer. A week or two. Ice. Bummer." (Yes, he really talks that way.) Chef Boy's reaction was this: "Wow, that was stupid." (Yes, he's really that supportive and gentle.) Chef Boy did provide me with an ice pack and some ibuprofen last night, though, and I was able to head out and pick up coffee and bread today. I'm going to spend the rest of the day icing this dadratted knee off and on and reading fashion magazines.
Tomorrow starts a week of intensive upper-body training and, I guess, very little in the way of aerobic exercise. I suppose I'll have to wrap my leg, or something, to provide extra stability while I'm wandering around work.
Take-home from this experience: Do not, under any circumstances, no matter how happy he is to see you, play with a puppy pal while wearing your MBTs. Run home and change your shoes first.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Huzzah. Nnnng.
This is post #350. Huzzah. Nnnng.
Meh. That's all I have to say today: meh.
This morning's workout didn't go all that well, and then Chef Boy added insult to injury by guilting me about not wanting to go to the pool with his kids. Never mind that I was surrounded by pots, pans, half-empty jars of spices I've not used in a couple of years, and a few plastic and Pyrex containers I'd never seen before. I was cleaning out the kitchen cabinets, obviously, and not in any shape to trot into a swimsuit and go to an indoor pool.
Meh.
The crazies have come out of the darkness at work. They're all lined up in the chairs in the family waiting room: from the person who wants gait training for her semi-vegetative daughter (who's been like that for, oh, about twelve years now) to the family member who insists that she *will* read her husband's chart *whenever* she likes, they're all there. If they're not there, they're getting underfoot, attempting to 'help' with things like moving people, changing dressings, or (I kid you not) inserting central lines.
Note to crazies: your daughter hasn't bothered to open her eyes except to pain for twelve years. Gait training is not a possibility. Also, you may *not* read the chart, it's against the rules. And finally, if a resident is putting in a central line or lumbar drain, or if I'm putting in a Foley catheter, the last thing we need is your grimy little paw in our way.
To those of you nice enough to send me links and do your own trackbacks: I promise, promise, *promise* I will get to blogrolling you either tomorrow afternoon or this weekend, whichever can provide more coffee and chocolate. I'm terrible about updating things, I know, and I plan to do a major update...sometime soon. Promise. Really.
Nnnng. Meh. Blar.
I think I'll cook today. That'll make me feel better, having a clean and well-organized kitchen with good and happy and well-cooked food in the fridge.
But first I'm going to go chew my cuticles and say "meh" some more.
Meh. That's all I have to say today: meh.
This morning's workout didn't go all that well, and then Chef Boy added insult to injury by guilting me about not wanting to go to the pool with his kids. Never mind that I was surrounded by pots, pans, half-empty jars of spices I've not used in a couple of years, and a few plastic and Pyrex containers I'd never seen before. I was cleaning out the kitchen cabinets, obviously, and not in any shape to trot into a swimsuit and go to an indoor pool.
Meh.
The crazies have come out of the darkness at work. They're all lined up in the chairs in the family waiting room: from the person who wants gait training for her semi-vegetative daughter (who's been like that for, oh, about twelve years now) to the family member who insists that she *will* read her husband's chart *whenever* she likes, they're all there. If they're not there, they're getting underfoot, attempting to 'help' with things like moving people, changing dressings, or (I kid you not) inserting central lines.
Note to crazies: your daughter hasn't bothered to open her eyes except to pain for twelve years. Gait training is not a possibility. Also, you may *not* read the chart, it's against the rules. And finally, if a resident is putting in a central line or lumbar drain, or if I'm putting in a Foley catheter, the last thing we need is your grimy little paw in our way.
To those of you nice enough to send me links and do your own trackbacks: I promise, promise, *promise* I will get to blogrolling you either tomorrow afternoon or this weekend, whichever can provide more coffee and chocolate. I'm terrible about updating things, I know, and I plan to do a major update...sometime soon. Promise. Really.
Nnnng. Meh. Blar.
I think I'll cook today. That'll make me feel better, having a clean and well-organized kitchen with good and happy and well-cooked food in the fridge.
But first I'm going to go chew my cuticles and say "meh" some more.
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