Shades of Crazy

Working the ED, obviously, means you learn a lot about Crazy. More so than being a psych nurse, actually; and I did that for five years. There's enough of it to turn you into her.
However, I digress.
I think there are shades of crazy. First there's, say, the Old Lady who's just a little batty, wears very strange clothes, makes random statements at inopportune moments, embarrasses her grandchildren, is quite sure men didn't really land on the moon and that W is an awesome president, and is, in short, Not Quite Right. But definitely lovable. She's what I call a yellow.
I really like HER, actually.
Then we'll move up to the fellow who's brought in because bystanders found him a bit frightening at the gas station, what with that rambling on and on about all the guns he has and how we just need to wipe out all the hippy/commie/pinko/liberal/fags. He knows where he is and where he's at, what day it is, and he's usually pleasant enough if you're nice to him. You really don't want to get on his bad side, though, and for heaven's sake don't tell him about that C.O.N. (the commitment paper) the doctor's signed sending him to the local mental health facility until the police are standing outside the door. Let's call him anorange.
Finally we have The Real Deal- the one six police officers literally drag in handcuffed kicking, screaming, cursing, and foaming at the mouth. He's just killed his dog and now he wants you. (This actually happened last week) They toss him in the seclusion room and lock the door; where he proceeds to bang on it, shriek the filthiest words imaginable at the top of his lungs while the patients in nearby rooms are hiding under their beds in horror and the security guards are flipping a coin to see Who's Gonna Open the Door and put him in those leather restraints. This happy camper is what I think of as a red.
ER nursing is by far the most dangerous of all nursing occupations; luckily, however, I am fearless. Except when it comes to dentists. And tunnels. And oversized anythings. (such as a twenty foot giant cow in front of a steakhouse) I guess my worst nightmare would be my car being blocked inside a tunnel by an oversized statue of a dentist with a drill in his hand. Now THAT'S scary.

Funny Hats

Guess who showed up the other morning? I'll give you a hint.
It was really good timing. We had a very long and horrible Thursday night and it was going on Hour Fourteen (about 9 am) and I'm trying to catch up on charting when Paul, the cheerful registration dude, stumbles out of the registration room laughing hysterically and desperately motioning for me to get in there NOW. Paul is generally a laconic sort of fellow, so I was interested enough to go and look. Signing in at the registration desk was the Unicorn Man, wearing what has to be the World's Funniest Hat- a tall stovepipe red-and-green striped Dr. Seuss hat with a pink plastic bill- apparently two hats put together. Don't ask me how he did this (we're hoping the owners of the two hats aren't buried somewhere in his backyard)but Unicorn Man always has great hats. Outfits, too. One night he was wearing camoflauge pants, a pink sateen ladies' blouse, a flat wool cap with a big green bown wrapped around it, and knee-high yellow rubber boots. I guess those were for wading around in unicorn doo-doo when he's cleaning it up.
Anyway, Paul and I were trying to figure out how to take his picture on Paul's camera phone without, you know, getting fired or going to jail. Not that Unicorn Man would care; he'd have been thrilled if we asked to take his picture, and probably struck a pose for us; but it Isn't Allowed. Privacy, you know, what's that about? So Paul took a picture of "me" with Unicorn Man just happening to be in the background, but it didn't turn out very well. We were very disappointed. It was a sad ending to a dreadful night. But the hat was great.
I want my niece, Rachel, who loves funny hats, to meet Unicorn Man. We could invite him to my sister Cyndi's house for that card game where everybody wears funny hats. It was a great game. What's the name of it, Jessi? Liz says you brought it home from college.
It's the little things that keep you going.

ER Nurses Can Be Stupid....at least, if they're me

You may have surmised from any previous postings that ER nurses think we know it all. Well, that's just because we do. Actually it might be a nurse thing....or maybe just a female thing? I think it's because you're only new in the ER for about six months, and then you've either a)run screaming out the back ambulance doors, never to return, or b)figured this shit out.
Anyway, since I like to tell amusing tales mocking other people, I thought it would be good to add one about myself.
(a few days ago)
Me (picks up cell phone and hears this message from my aunt, Shirley Bu) "Hi Cheri! I meant to say Carey in my blue tooth and I said Cheri! Oh well, I love you!"
Me (to husband): "This is the strangest message EVER. Aunt Bu said something about saying my name into a tooth."
Husband (who is watching football) "mmm....hmmmm."
Me: (worriedly) "This message doesn't make ANY SENSE. Why would she be talking into her teeth? What if she has early Alzheimer's? Some people get it in their forties! Who's going to take care of her? Do you think we should clean out a guest room?
Husband (sighs, gives up on game for a moment) "What did she say?"
Me: "She said something about SAYING MY NAME INTO A TOOTH and then her PHONE CALLED ME!"
Husband (laughing): "Was she drinking?"
Me (aggravated) "NO, she DOESN'T DRINK. I wish she WAS. I know it's early Alzheimer's! This is terrible!"
Husband (patiently, as he is the patient one) "What EXACTLY did she say?"
Me: "She SAID 'Hi Cheri I said Carey into my BLUE TOOTH And it called you!"
Husband begins laughing.
Me: (irritably) What? This ISN'T FUNNY!
Husband: BLUE TOOTH. That's that thing you talk into when you have the phone in your ear, you know like Celia has?
Me; (sheepishly) "ohhhhhhhh."
Duh-uh-uh. Well, now I know the name of those things I hate. I always just called it "that stupid thing Celia puts in her ear" because I hate them. People are wearing them and they just start talking, so you think they're talking to YOU, and you respond- and then feel very foolish and aggravated when you realize they weren't talking to you AT ALL but to some disembodied person.
Whatever happened to phones on the wall?

The Good, The Bad, and The Dead

The Good, The Bad, and the Dead


Since last night started with a dead patient and ended with a dead patient (same room, too- not a good night fto be inoT-6) I thought I would jot down a few thoughts on dead patients.
Pros:
1. The patient will not put on the call light thirty-eight times in one hour like my other patients are doing.
2. The patient will not attempt to hit, bite, or otherwise molest me.
3. In fact, the patient will not annoy me in any way. It's nice to have one that doesn't whine for a change.
4. I can talk about the patient in front of them and they don't mind.
5. There's no need to do all those admission or transfer papers.6. The patient will not have to get up to the commode; necessitating a ten-minute-search for the portable potty, a twenty-minute search for the toilet paper, a lower back strain while attempting to hold onto grandma as she pivots her enormous behind from bed to potty, and the cleaning of the portable commode.


Now, if you're thinking a dead patient is pretty much a perfect patient- it would seem that way, wouldn't it? However, there are the Cons.
Cons:
1. The patient will have no identification anywhere on their body. If the patient is female, her purse will contain only candy, cigarettes, lighter, unlabeled pills, hairbrush/comb and makeup bag. If the patient is male, his wallet will contain only: five unused condoms and one that I'd rather not guess; various court citations in which his name is smeared illegibly as if it's been dropped in the toilet one too many times; a few one dollar bills, a pound of change- which will fall all over the floor in the room- a phone number for Bubba (there's always a Bubba) and a pocketknife.
2. Three hours later five family members/friends/live-ins will come into the lobby and start screaming that no one called them. If you call Bubba, he'll sound very panicked and say he doesn't know anybody that could possibly be dead. Bubba doesn't want to give his last name, either.
3. Family members/friends/live-ins will begin to argue over the dead body as to who's fault it is that they're dead and bring up every past grievance they have ever held against the other person. Attempts to redirect their "misplaced grief" (we're hoping that's what it is) will result in said family members/friends/live-ins informing you that they've been through this before and don't need your advice, thank you very much
.4. The Organ Donors must be called. They must. It's a State Law. No matter how long you put it off, eventually you must call them. They will put you on hold for twenty minutes while your other three patients are 1)pulling out their IVs 2)screaming for their pain medicine 3)vomiting in the hallways and 4)getting more short of breath. If you hang up and call back, they'll put you on hold longer. Once they answer, they will ask you five hundred and eighty six questions about the dead person's medical history, medicines, lifestyle, sexual preferences, etc., of which you have absolutely no idea. You're lucky if you get a correctly spelled name out of the family members/friends/live-ins. They will argue with each other over the patient's age, and nobody has a clue as to the birthday. The organ donors will make you go ask the family/friends/live-ins all their questions, and they will shriek at you that they do not know either and is this any time to be asking questions? Because, you know, they're busy fighting with each other.
5. Someone must decide where the body will be sent. In theory this is very simple. "What funeral home do you choose?" "Oh- mother has prior arrangements at Such and Such." This happens once in a freaking blue moon. Or maybe I just don't get those patients. My asking about the funeral home always results in the person asked giving me a horrified look and yelling, "I'M NOT PAYING FOR ANYTHING!" Nobody wants to pay for the funeral, so nobody's picking a funeral home that might possibly expect payment- and NOBODY is going to sign the paper releasing the body. Never, ever, ever.
6. Family/friends/live-ins will begin wandering around the unit, chatting with other patients, bumming cigarettes and coffee, and when asked to remain in their assigned area, will state they are too upset to sit down.
7. The funeral homes take turns accepting bodies that have no responsible person (i.e., the nobodys-paying-the-bills, which is most of them) They are not thrilled when you call them at 3 am and inform them you have such a client and would they please get out of bed and come cart their dead ass away? They do not show up for three hours. When they do, they are very surly. By this time, the patient, who was found down in a field and had probably been dead five hours anyway- (but must be heroically coded for forty-five minutes and brought to the ED to be pronounced- i.e., dumped on us)- has been dead twelve hours and They Don't Look So Good. Dead trauma patients aren't necessarily the most gruesome; although I suppose if severed body parts or gaping holes or brains hanging out bothers you they might be- I vote for the Drowning Victim. They Look Bad. All bloated up and no place to go. It won't keep me from my sphaghetti and meatballs lunch break, though, if said break time ever occurs (generally at the end of thirteen hours)
Every now and then there is that rare exception- an upstanding citizen who actually has a driver's license and a working cell phone; actual grieving relatives, etc. This is not fun because it's very sad. If it's a young person, it's horrible and you don't ever get used to it. Fortunately, most of our deceased fall into the above category.

My Favorite After Death Scene: Momma, in her early fifties, falls off porch and breaks her hip. Momma vomits during surgery, aspirates it into her lungs, codes and dies. Momma's children come in and promptly begin screaming at each other in the waiting room over who is going to get Momma's black-and-white TV, her Frigidaire, and the money she has in her underwear drawer. This is an absolute true story. The 6 foot tall sister has her much smaller brother pinned up against the wall by the time security comes. When the surgeon arrives to try and apologize his way out of a lawsuit, they punch him.
Labels: death, ER
posted by cherigrace 6:03 PM

1 Comments:
Liz said...
I like all the different categories of dead people, haha. People need to be told to keep ID on them so they won't be a burden to Bubba or the ER staff. :)
8:55 AM
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