Nobody can make this stuff up

I'm an ER nurse- a member of that elite group of society that may be saving a life one minute and trying to explain to an aggravated drunk why it really isn't a concern that they "don't want to be treated in a square room."
I love what I do because people are fascinating. There are people that need comfort; people that need help; people that desperately need psychiatric care and....people that really, really just ought to go home.
I thought I'd start a blog of some of my favorite ER encounters- things I'll forget about but will remember with a smile later. I've thought of doing this before, but decided no one but other ER personnel would believe the stories. Lately, though, I've decided that no one can make this shit up.
Case in point: It's Halloween. I'm sitting in triage and a large fat man walks in naked. He sits down in the triage room. This doesn't surprise or startle me at all, which is a sad comment on the state of my psyche and/or an indication I've worked ER too long. I ask the fellow what's going on tonight- no need to mention the lack of clothes, since I don't especially want to know- and he announces that he's been bitten by a werewolf and asks if we have an antidote. I solemnly inform him that yes, we do, and he's quite relieved. I'm not lying, either- the Haldol worked really well.
A few weeks ago an elderly man, otherwise completely alert and oriented, entered with a goose-egg hematoma (bruise) on his forehead. He cheerfully tells me that he has a unicorn- a very pretty white unicorn, with a fluffy pink mane- and she's awfully sweet, but now and again her temper flares up and she's poked him in the head. He says quite seriously "Now, honey, I'm not crazy. I know you all aren't a veterinary hospital. But what I really need is a sedative for my unicorn. I don't want her getting put down." Unicorn man, as we've come to call him, has been in and out several times since- once with non-unicorn-related injuries (his wife had smacked him- probably because she's tired of hearing about the nonexistent unicorn) and several times with scraps and scratches from falling off the unicorn.
This one wins the prize for the What-do-you-say-to-that-statement category. Thirtyish white male enters triage room looking nervous and schizoaffective. Sits very stiffly on the chair. Stares at me and announces, "My brain wave has changed." Now, there are some stock responses to the chief complaint, such as- when did this begin? What other symptoms are you having? Have you started any new medicines? etc., etc. I really couldn't come up with a response for that one for at least a minute. Finally I said, "And how can we help you with this today?" and he replies, "I want that doctor to change it back."
Brain-wave dude (as he is now known- don't ask me why he's dude and unicorn man is man- just accept reality, people) then started coming in almost every night with different delusional complaints until he was finally C.O.N'ed to the local mental health facility, for that whopping three days of treatment. The other night one of our older and generally non-humorous nurses answers the phone and starts falling over laughing. She puts the caller on hold, hands me the phone and says "You gotta here this." (this is not a good sign) I pick up the phone and it's brain wave man, who is playing the funeral march on an organ in the background. He tells me that his brain wave was acting up again, but he fixed it himself this time- only when he fixed it, he lost his voice. HE TELLS ME THIS. Hmm. So I say, (because we're on a first name basis with brain-wave-dude by now, and I know exactly who it is) "But Jason- you're talking to me. Your voice IS working." He replies with a disgruntled sigh, "That's what you know." and plays even louder. I kind of want to keep him on the phone because this is the most fun I've had all night; so I mention that I didn't know he played the organ. He gloomily responds "I used to play in church. But they asked me not to come back." How crazy do you have to be before a CHURCH tells you not to come back?
Here's our last-but-not-least. Young twentyish female (all young females are known to ERs for fits of histrionics, Drama Queen impressions to get Boyfriend Attention, and fake seizures) calls EMS for "uncontrollable shaking" They bring her in and she's got her elbows folded and is flapping her arms in a seal-like fashion, while scissoring her legs madly and shrieking: "I NEED SOMETHING TO STOP THIS!" (the something was her Xanax, which she'd taken all of in a week and was now withdrawing from) Our laconic male physician says in his professional-yet-stern voice, "Ma'm. These movements are voluntary." She stops the scissoring, quites the flapping, points her finger directly in his face and screams: "NO, THEY ARE NOT!"
All of this leads me to ask someone at least once a day....What is wrong with these people?
Then said drama queen dramatically announces "I'm going out....I'm going out...." and pretends to fall unconcious. Now, here's a tip if you're ever of the mindset to fake syncope (fainting) to get Boyfriend Attention or whatever. People who actually faint DO NOT announce it before they do so. You're just drawing grandma's blood and, BANG! grandson standing behind you hits the floor. Drama Queens of the World always announce it (at least twice, maybe three times) in sepulchral tones and with much rolling of the eyes and twitching of the limbs.
There's a really common cure, however. Start cutting off the clothes (which you would do to an actual unconcious person, to examine them for injuries). Said Drama Queen will then begin shrieking about Her-Favorite-Bra-That-You-Are-Gonna-Pay-For and will not be at all embarrassed when you inform her that wow, she isn't unconcious at all.
Anyway, because to the girl with the arm-flapping and leg-scissoring. She continues this business, along with the intermittent "fainting" spells; and one of our very sly and funny nurses takes her cell phone and calls the doc and tells him in a low, gloomy voice: "This...is...Doctor...Chin....neurologist. You have...(gives patient's name) as...your....patient." Doc is rather baffled, states, I'm sorry? She continues: "The...patient...is...suffering...from...an acute case of Flaptarditis....for which, there is no known cure."
She then hangs up the phone and shrieks with laughter; we all fall over on the floor, and doc himself is quite amused. Better Flaptarditis than Retarditis, I guess, although it was meant to be a combination of both.
well, that's enough for today. I'll keep you posted on who wanders in next.