Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


People Never Cease to Amuse Me.

And by amuse, I mean "make me want to beat my head against something hard till I lose consciousness and/or die."

If you're at your doctor's office, and they tell you that your blood glucose is over 1,000 (yes, one thousand)* and you have another blood chemistry level that, if left untreated through the evening would very well lead to your imminent demise (yes, "impending DEATH" underlined twice "if not treated tonight" was written on the orders). would you:
a) rush right over to the hospital, which is approximately 2 blocks away
b) refuse immediate treatment, but arrange a direct admission for a scheduled time that afternoon.
c) refuse immediate treatment, accept direct admission, yet show up two hours late for your admission.

If you answered C. You'd be our idiot patient. Five bucks said they went to dairy queen on the way over.

Also; if you're a patient in "double secret isolation" (contact and droplet precautions- meaning I have to gown up and put a mask on just to see you), and you ring your bell like you're Anita Ward we are going to have issues. Especially if my closing remarks to you have been:
"Is your bed OK? Is the head of the bed OK? Is the foot of the bed OK? Do you feel as if you've been adequately suctioned? You did your own oral care, so that is OK, yes? Is the fan ok? No? How about now? (2 degrees to the left. now back 2 degrees to the right, original position for the observant...) OK now? Perfect? Great! OK, You are done with the bedpan, and everything is comfortable, is there anything at all that I can do for you before I leave this room and go see my other patients? Nothing? Nothing at all? OK- I am going to go see my other patients now." (She's trached, so she doesn't talk, just gesticulates...) She insists she's fine.

I degown, deglove, wash up, unmask, get out of the room, and not more than two minutes later, that effin' bell rings.

I stick my head in. She's nauseous. She wants he anxiety meds. She forgets what she wants. She wants my soul. She wants the fan moved. Sometimes, if it's been less than five minutes, I admit, I turn off the bell without going in. Because if I don't, I'll throttle her. Or shove a marshmallow peep into her stoma. "I have no idea how it got in there, mister Respiratory Therapist. Maybe she was celebrating easter and missed her mouth?" Luckily we did have one weapon against marshmallows... the power of versed. God bless the doctor that prescribed that beautiful stuff.

I'm typing, not wiping tonight, and more often, actually- so I will have fewer fun stories I think. Then again, clinicals start soon, so who knows.

*Normal is between 80-100


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