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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68336072010-09-10T13:46:23.299-07:00Head NurseBrain on the top, spine down the back.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.comBlogger1169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-6711594161348429822010-09-10T07:12:00.000-07:002010-09-10T07:32:25.340-07:00The word of the week:<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">REFUTE.</span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm just a-sittin' over here, refudiating everything. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">By golly. (*wink*)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I got up this morning and put a flashlight into my mouth (all the more amusing if you know that the flashlight is one of those spatula-shaped ones with the LED lights and the flat handle) and shined it on Cap'n Lumpy, and said out loud, "Aagh aaaghooee aaaghooo ooo ehh ehhooo eeeee aaagheennnng *gronk*."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Translated, that means "I absolutely refuse to let you be anything nasty."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It's not denial. I understand quite clearly that this could indeed be something awful, but I cannot dwell on that and get anything done. It's more the stubbornness that comes out when somebody either tells me I can't do or shouldn't do something, or that options are limited.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So, listen up, Cap'n Lumpy: You are benign. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It's interesting to be in this position, of not knowing, that so many of my patients have been in. (What a sentence; sorry.) I'm finding that the advice I used to give in absolute cluelessness is actually pretty good. Such as, "Panic for a full 48 hours at a minimum. Once you're done panicking, you can make decisions."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And, "For God's sake stay away from Google."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I didn't do *that*, of course. Instead, I went online as soon as I got home and started looking stuff up. Then I realized that my heart was pounding and my palms were sweating, and that this was not necessarily a good thing, and I stopped. Because, really? Nine out of ten of the things you see on Google, or read about, are both absolutely textbook examples of whatever you're looking up, and also the most severe, awful textbook cases you could imagine.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It's also interesting to note that what I always used to say about paranoia is true: No matter how calm you are intellectually about something, small things will start looming large in your lizard brain and make you crazy.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">F'rinstance, I woke up with a headache and stuffy sinuses this morning. Given that I'd spent the whole day yesterday alternately sobbing hysterically and swigging Scotch, this should not have been a surprise. Instead, though, of looking at stuffy sinuses and a headache as a sign of overindulgence in both panic and alcohol, I immediately figured that Cap'n Lumpy had invaded my sinuses overnight and was going to kill me in the next ten minutes.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">*sigh* Geez m'knees, woman. Get a freaking grip, willya?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have to thank everybody again for their continuing thoughts and prayers. I laid in bed this morning for a few minutes after the alarm went off, feeling really fortunate to have all you guys rallying around. So, thank you. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Provided the reputing works, and the prayers work, and I slide out of this unscathed, I will have learned about sixteen dozen gross new good lessons about all sorts of stuff. And no, I don't intend to list them all here. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">If everything goes south and I do indeed have a Planet-Destroying Horrible Yikes Thing in my head, well, at least I've gotten a kicky new purple toothpaste and some free floss out of it.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-671159416134842982?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-86868640898136895222010-09-09T19:00:00.000-07:002010-09-09T19:18:40.712-07:00Y'know what the weirdest part of all of this is?(First of all, thank you, each and every one of you, for your thoughts/prayers/offers of scotch/offers to let the dog out/et cetera. It means so, so much right now; you can't know.)<div><br /></div><div>So, yeah. I was having dinner with The Man of God and his Lovely Wife, and in the middle of the second bite of pizza, with us all trying to make polite conversation, I burst out, "Can we all please stop pretending that everything's okay? Because it's not."</div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless of what happens next, I have four days ahead of me in which things will not be okay. Maybe, at the end of it, this'll all be some huge false alarm, and I can spend a couple of weeks in relieved bliss and then go back to fucking up the way I always have. Or maybe I'll get a diagnosis that mandates whiskey and gardening, and I can continue to fuck up the way I always have.</div><div><br /></div><div>Either way, until one or the other happens, things are Not Okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've spent all day apologizing to people for having to give them the news that things are not okay. I have--and this is rather a shock--more people than I expected that I wanted to tell.</div><div><br /></div><div>(And secondly, if I didn't tell you in person and you found out about this through Facebook or the grapevine, my apologies. I didn't go in any sort of order, and at about two o'clock I found myself utterly unable to repeat the same words again.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Can we please stop pretending that it's all okay? Thank you. I feel better now.</div><div><br /></div><div>My pal Jo, who works the night shift opposite me, had the most appropriate reaction: a moment of silence and then the word "Shit" said calmly and without emphasis. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is not okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>I fear losing my airway, or worse, my ability to swallow. I fear chemo and radiation and enough of a chance that going through those things would seem like a good plan. I fear losing. I fear the process of dying, even though I've seen it more times than I can count and mostly, it's been an okay thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I *have* to think about these things now, because if I get a nasty diagnosis on Tuesday, I'll be too shocky to think about them then. It's like putting an emergency kit in your car: you do it early in hopes you won't ever have to use it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, the cats are playing with their toys and Max is lying on the floor staring at me and wondering why I didn't bring him more pizza bones. I have Rob and Adam and Shannon coming over tomorrow, and I don't have to pretend that things are okay with them. I do have to cook, which might be a bit of a challenge, given how much alcohol I've consumed today, but what the hell: the Chinese place delivers.</div><div><br /></div><div>So most things are okay. This right here, this thing I'm doing with the whole breathing and digesting and metabolizing bidness, is not okay, but most things are. And they will continue to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>So maybe it'll be okay after all. Either way, at some point it'll cease to matter, right?</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-8686864089813689522?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-27483104547248394282010-09-09T11:59:00.000-07:002010-09-09T12:48:13.784-07:00Living in the present, part twoWell, I've told Mom. And I've told my sister. And friend Pens the Lotion Slut is on her way, and I've told the love of my life via voice mail, so I might as well tell the world:<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XiOcW_YR1G8&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_detailpage&amp;fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XiOcW_YR1G8&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_detailpage&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div>I opened my mouth today for the dental hygenist, and she said, "Um....how long have you had that lump on your palate?" and "I'm going to have the doctor look at that" and "Excuse me while I get the camera out to take a picture of that lump" and "We'll just get a 360 on the X-ray on this, and I won't charge you for it, but I want to see the soft tissue involvement."</div><div><br /></div><div>I laid on the comfy reclining chair with my head in the comfy head-holder and watched the clouds blow past the pine tree branches and tried to come to terms with the fact that the people at my dentist's office--who see a lot of weird shit--thought that I had something in my throat that is Bad News.</div><div><br /></div><div>You can be as nice as possible when you run into a lesion like the one I have, but one thing is true: when the doc gets solemn, and the hygenist gets solemn, and the person behind the desk is solemn as they make the appointment for you with the oral surgeon who can't see you before Tuesday, you know it's not good.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not. Good.</div><div><br /></div><div>I might have cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Really, truly cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've thought about this so much over the last three hours that it's gone completely third-person.</div><div><br /></div><div>Radical neck dissection. CT of the neck and chest. Bronchoscopy. Radiation. Chemotherapy. Tracheotomy; not being able to talk.</div><div><br /></div><div>If it comes to that, no. Just....no. I may be ridiculous and vain and petty, but I would like to preserve my ability to taste food and swallow steak and Scotch and my relatively-normal-looking face, and not have all that treatment.</div><div><br /></div><div>They really and truly think I might have cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I look at the thing on the right side of my hard palate, right behind my molars, and I can't believe it. It's big, yes, but it's innocent-looking. Kind of pink, kind of vascular, but not anything weird or lumpy or scary. It's nothing I noticed, for however long it's been growing there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, of course, I know it's there. That side of my throat feels swollen and sore, and though I know it's globus hystericus, I wonder: does that mean that my lymph nodes are involved? Because that decreases the chances of survival from 57% to 17%.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stoya and Bossman just called. Both of them told me not to panic, to wait for a formal biopsy and diagnosis. Neither of them know how hard that is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to wonder why the first question my patients would ask--via voice or whiteboard--was "When can I get back to work?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I wondered about that. Why on earth, with a diagnosis like this, would you want to go to work?</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I know. I plan to ask the doc on Tuesday that very question. Because it's not "when can I go back to work". It's "when can I feel some control again" and "when will people treat me like a normal person" and "when can I pretend everything is okay".</div><div><br /></div><div>I might have cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>The doctor is solemn.</div><div><br /></div><div>The hygenist hugged me as I left, and told me to take care, and let them know how things turned out.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I'm dramatic enough about this, maybe it'll turn out to be a false alarm. Maybe I should play it up, and ignore how often I have to pop my ears because the right one feels full. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>I am sore afraid.</i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-2748310454724839428?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-88892560449099123182010-09-08T19:23:00.000-07:002010-09-08T19:41:06.809-07:00Living in the presentThe fascinating (well, one of the fascinating) things about working in the CCU is that it teaches you to live in the present.<div><br /></div><div>The moment when my car about ended up in the lake today? Was not unfamilliar. I've had the same feeling when I've tried to suction an inch-long mucus plug out of a patient's lung, or when I've tried to start an impossible IV, or when somebody's coded for the sixth fucking time in a day.</div><div><br /></div><div>The universe collapses to what you're doing right then, all emotion disappears, and your thinking is incredibly clear and precise. It's as though a road map of what's about to happen is laid out in front of you, and you simply manage the situation, with all the diverse things that entails coming naturally to you.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to have that feeling in micro class. One of the prerequisites for my nursing degree was a combined micro and patho class, with a hugely complex three-hour lab twice a week. I loved that lab; I'd show up early and leave late and blast through the assigned stuff, to the point that the instructor would give me contaminated cultures or shit he'd found living on a deerhide to analyze. Everything in the world would stop. All I could see was whatever was in the field in front of me, and the lack of emotion and judgement was clean and cold, like snow. Either something got stained with methylene or it didn't; there was no sorta-staining going on.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the same with nursing. Nine times out of ten I have to page the doc if a patient codes; more than once they've called me back with no clue as to what's happening. I've had to break it to them non-gently, as in "Mrs. Whittaker is coding right now. She has no rhythm except for compressions" as soon as they identify themselves. There is no room for comfort at those times.</div><div><br /></div><div>But that, in a way, is freeing. You either die or you don't; we get you a stable rhythm or we call the code (or I suck that glob of snot out of your lung/I don't, and you code, or I get that IV/I don't, and you code, or I manage this crisis/I don't). There is no "a little bit dead" or "a little bit alive". Even on pressors, maxed out and on a vent, you're technically alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that? Is what I love about critical-care nursing. I spent more than a decade, counting what I did as a paraprofessional, being warm and fuzzy. I like the fact that right here, right now, what I see is concrete. Even in my unit, where we're much more human than they are down in the surgical CCU, there are absolutes. I go to work, and all the emotional drama of being human recedes. You're either alive or you're not; you're either injured or you're not. There's still plenty of space for the warm fuzzies; I do gobs of educating and encouraging and rehabbing in my job, but it still comes down to the cold, hard facts: are you fucked up or are you not?</div><div><br /></div><div>If you're all jacked up, I'll help your ass out. If you're not, I'm kicking you out to go to rehab.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder sometimes if I could qualify as being somewhere on the Asperger's spectrum, as I'm certain my pal Jo (yes, there are two of us) on nights certainly does. I wonder sometimes if my folks saw the social anxiety I'm still plagued with and shoved me into music and acting as a way to combat that--to learn to act like normal folks. I wonder, amazed, at the gift I maybe have? of being able to combine the snow-clean, cold, emotionless scientist with the warm-huggy-loving education-crazy, comfort-giving snuggly nurse. </div><div><br /></div><div>All I know is this: the times when I yearn for microscopy are the times that something like a flooded highway or a coding patient are likely to come up to save me. And the times when I'm feeling as sensitive as a bashed thumb, all purple bruised nerve endings and swollen, taut skin, are the times when somebody will suddenly be human to me, and I can reciprocate.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am so, so, so damn lucky.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-8889256044909912318?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-2661276947874485942010-09-08T15:22:00.000-07:002010-09-08T15:52:23.078-07:00Auntie Jo Faces the Apocalypse, then Turns Tail and Runs AwayAuntie Jo doesn't know if you've heard, but there was some rain in Texas this week. It apparently came from some hurricane or other bashing against the south end of the state. <div><br /></div><div>Auntie Jo is no stranger to rain, bad weather, or zombie hordes, having grown up here. However, she doesn't remember there ever being a rain like this one. Sure, that storm drain in Littleton overflowed last year, trapping her in rapidly-rising water, but this was... ... ...</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll just tell you the story, shall I?</div><div><br /></div><div>I went into work late. We didn't have any patients in the neuro critical-care unit, and I'd asked to be pushed back if that were the case. At about nine, Stoya called, so I got my skates on and wandered out into the fairly heavy, but nothing unusual, rain.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was ten to ten at that point.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everything went well for about five minutes, until I reached the southern edge of Littleton. Then traffic slowed to a crawl, the rain got heavier and heavier, and I watched with some interest as the water in a drainage ditch rose and rose, until it was covering the highway and creeping up the wheels of the truck in front of me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just after eleven, I called my boss. I had spent an hour on the road and had gone approximately ten miles, and the highway department had closed the highway due to high water. Closed. The. Highway. I remember this happening exactly twice in my lifetime: once due to a tanker truck that exploded and spilled fuel all over the road, and once because some creek north of here in nowheresville hopped its banks and flooded the road close to the Oklahoma border. It never happens between Yeehawville and Bigton, though. Ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>My boss, Frog love her, said, "We'll deal with it." I had not made the decision not to try to make it until I was on the phone with her. As we were talking, I looked to my left and saw that one of the many fingerlike projections of Lake Giganto had come across the highway just ahead of me. My lizard brain kicked in. I decided to turn around.</div><div><br /></div><div>The highway patrol guys (and lordy lordy how I would hate to be a cop in those situations!) had opened one whole lane of the road, and people were picking their way across the (moderately deeply flooded) area. I downshifted to second, said a little prayer, and proceeded across with the stately grace for which I'm known.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everybody made it but me. The Honda's wiring harness hangs low and wobbles to and fro, apparently, because suddenly the car just freaking quit working. There was water lapping against the bottom of the car (odd sensation, that), the power steering went out, the engine quit with a horrible sound, and I was left wrestling the car to the side of the road, thankfully out of the water. Inertia is a very useful tool sometimes; it can get you out of a puddle as easily as it can get you into one.</div><div><br /></div><div>So. I'm on the side of the road with a very nice man tapping on the window asking if I'm all right. After I opened the door (no power for the windows, dammit!) and reassured him, I sat for what felt like an hour, shaking, and then restarted the car. It caught and came to life on the second try. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was nearly noon at that point.</div><div><br /></div><div>The homebound traffic was moving faster. I was going a whole thirty miles an hour at the moment that an eighteen-wheeler and I went through the same puddle simultaneously, and the truck's wheels created a wash that lifted the Honda clear off the road and sloshed me over to the right shoulder. "Oh no, not again" was not what I was thinking. I was not thinking anything. I felt strangely calm and remote, and the two seconds I was not in control of the car lasted a week. Then the car's wheels caught the gravel on the shoulder, the electrical system coughed once and decided to continue to work, and I spun out the ass-end of the car to the edge of a ditch before I managed to get back on the highway.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was not raining in Littleton when I finally got home at twelve-thirty, having spent two hours and forty minutes going twelve miles in one direction and twelve miles in the other.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reader, I will not lie: I came in, called Boss Lady and Stoya to let them know I was okay, and then poured myself a healthy shot of the 18-year-old Laphroiag I'd been saving for a special occasion. Then I made myself a sandwich, ate it, and poured myself another shot. It was halfway through the second shot that I quit shaking and sweating. </div><div><br /></div><div>Max and I snorgled on the kitchen floor for a while before I took a nap.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am never doing this day again.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-266127694787448594?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-45099628113604092992010-09-06T16:35:00.001-07:002010-09-06T16:36:22.588-07:00I luff heem. Then I keel heem.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cEuQf8SUB6c/TIV67HSqrmI/AAAAAAAAALA/9i6G6lteeec/s1600/100_0634.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cEuQf8SUB6c/TIV67HSqrmI/AAAAAAAAALA/9i6G6lteeec/s200/100_0634.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513948474773253730" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-4509962811360409299?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-65406650429073153932010-09-06T15:44:00.000-07:002010-09-06T15:54:08.781-07:00Not a bad day, per se, but sort of disheartening.Stable CVA with new MI? Fine. Transfer him upstairs to CVCCU.<div><br /></div><div>Hypertensive crisis? Good deal. Fix it, then transfer her to the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cerebellar bleed with an increase in ICP? Off you go to the SCCU for an emergency shunt placement.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, I did come home four hours early. That was nice. I made an enormous salad for lunch tomorrow and reflected on how nice it would be if "The Extra Man" were playing right now, or, failing that, a re-screen of "The Triplets of Bellville."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I'm off to cuddle two kitties (who are grooming each other and purring loudly in Poppy's old green velvet chair) and drink beer. Because it's Labor Day, and seeing the results of your labor going off to other units is a little disheartening.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-6540665042907315393?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-55998956988483812452010-09-05T12:06:00.000-07:002010-09-05T12:32:08.138-07:00An answer to Markus' and Sarah's question: How to Start A BlogI got a very, very sweet email this week from Minion Markus and his wife, Minion Sarah. In it, they asked how I decided to start a blog, and why things weren't rough at the beginning, and how other people could do it, too.<div><br /></div><div>Given that I'm finally a Real Blogger (I got an offer recently in which some poor sot offered to pay me for writing) and not one stuffed with sawdust, I figured I'd give that whole stack of questions a shot. Herewith, Jo's rules for becoming a blogger:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>1. Pick something you can stick with.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>For me, this was nursing. I do it practically every day; even when I'm off, I think like a nurse. My life has slowly begun to revolve around efficiency (twelve pairs of identical socks) and idiot-proof solutions (nonstick pans). </div><div><br /></div><div><b>2. Shake it up now and again.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Your blog can't be all one damn thing day after day; that's not how people live. It's okay to blog about your cats, your wardrobe, your home renovations; it's fine to talk about product reviews or occasionally get political. You'd be shocked how many comments and reads off-topic things get: my most-commented posts are the ones about how being a nurse changes you, but the most *read* ones are the ones about Max or the Avatars of Concentrated Evil (aka the cats).</div><div><br /></div><div><b>3. Start slow.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>A post every three to seven days is plenty when you're starting. In that vein....</div><div><br /></div><div><b>4. Don't be discouraged if you don't have the writing thing down right away.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Markus mentioned in his email that this blog seemed very polished from the git-go. It was, because I spent HOURS editing things when I first started. I had grown up with a very academic, concise writing style that still managed to inject humor (my father's), but it was hard to get the correct balance at the beginning. Given that most blog posts are short, because that's sort of the point, I had to edit the hell out of things for the first year or so. </div><div><br /></div><div>Rough writing is fine. Bad writing is not. You will get to the point where you can tell the difference in the first few lines. If a story isn't going somewhere, don't try to force it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not saying that I'm a good writer, necessarily, but that I have a defined style that seems to grab and hold people. Once in a while I'll post something that makes me feel like God on the seventh day and that, in retrospect, I can't believe I wrote. Those moments are worth the thousands of semi-literate, semi-interesting things that show up here.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>5. You are not your blog.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>If I got upset over every criticism that I get, I'd be in therapy even more than I am now. Thankfully, the people who get upset about what I post can rarely spell or punctuate correctly. That gives me the luxury of a better grasp of technical English than they apparently have, which means I can pretty much ignore 'em. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still, it's important to remember that You Are Not Your Blog. Criticism and kudos should be given exactly the weight of the electrons it took to send 'em in.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>6. Do not shy away from snot.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>"If it bleeds, it leads" is a chestnut, but it's a true chestnut. Sometimes, the grossest, most horrible things can lead you into meditations on the Bigger Meaning Of Life. You just have to go there. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>7. Be not afraid.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I was afraid--really and truly afraid--when I started blogging about my diagnosis of depression. I was scared that people would brush off some of my darker writing with an "Oh, she's a whackjob anyhow", or that I was revealing too much. I agonized for several hours over whether or not to push the "post" button.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thankfully, nobody was an asshole. The last thing a depressed person--even a stable depressed person--needs is people to be assholes. Instead, I got comments and emails and even a couple of e-cards from people who were pulling for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>That experience taught me not to be afraid. Saying, "I lost a patient today through a stupid mistake, and it really sucks" is something we all dread having to do, but doing it in public? is now a whole lot less intimidating. Because we do make mistakes.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>8. It ain't all that.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>This is a corollary to "you are not your blog". Your blog ain't the be-all and end-all. If you find yourself getting all wrapped up in it, and wondering what happened to those last three followers who dropped away, it's time to get outside.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>9. Emotion should be used like hot mustard or daikon: it's a condiment, not the meal.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Too much pathos ruins a blog, or turns it into something you'd see from a thirteen-year-old.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>10. You should always, always doubt.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Doubt your abilities. Doubt your talent. Doubt whether you're keeping your readers engaged. Doubt whether you ought to do this at all, or maybe just hang it up instead and start searching for the perfect cinnamon roll recipe. Doubt is an extremely powerful thing in writing of any sort; it makes you work harder and edit more carefully.</div><div><br /></div><div>And with that, I leave you to start your own blogs. Me, I have a date with some hard salami and a homemade batch of sourdough bread. I'm still looking for that cinnamon roll recipe, though; feel free to email me.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-5599895698848381245?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-22974151528491221272010-09-04T17:55:00.000-07:002010-09-04T17:56:56.363-07:00Saturday Night, maybe-I'm-getting-a-cold Random:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cache.gawker.com/assets/images/comment/39/2010/09/0ead8208bcca65411ca8a1b75d89c57f/original.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 595px; height: 744px;" src="http://cache.gawker.com/assets/images/comment/39/2010/09/0ead8208bcca65411ca8a1b75d89c57f/original.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><object style="height: 344px; width: 425px" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yLasNK-aiY8?version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yLasNK-aiY8?version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-2297415152849122127?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-13562025698427826922010-09-04T16:49:00.001-07:002010-09-04T17:02:08.795-07:00Massive Clusterfuck in 3...2...Dear Doctor Mellowly:<div><br /></div><div>I understand that things get busy in the ED at around nine on a Friday night. I also understand that the availability of Urdu translators is limited in this area.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, when you have a patient in her late eighties, with family members who can translate for you, present at your ED with excruciating neck pain, quadriparesis (weakness in all four limbs), a visible contusion on her head and one on her neck, and a history of fractures secondary to osteopenia (weakness of the bones), who fell at home, it might behoove you to do a c-spine (neck) X-ray.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, yes, I know. The radiology department is busy with drunks and gunshot wounds. Still, consider doing an actual X-ray and not just a head CT. Because, you see, that would prevent you from sending your itty-bitty, fragile patient out to Sunnydale's neuro critical care unit in the middle of the night with a broken neck rather than with a stroke.</div><div><br /></div><div>At least you were nice enough to give her an ice pack to relieve the pain from the hangman's fracture* that she had. </div><div><br /></div><div>When she showed up in the Sunnydale NCCU, our nurse was bright enough to connect the weakness in all four limbs with the neck pain (as you failed to do) and order a c-spine. Which showed the chunk of bone floating freely in MeeMaw's spinal column. She also ordered a chest X-ray, going by that gut feeling that we nurses sometimes have, and discovered a high thoracic fracture as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>MeeMaw, surprisingly, is fine. I transferred her this morning to the surgical CCU, where they put her in a pair of tongs that provided a few pounds of traction. I had given her ten of Decadron IV shortly before that, so the feeling in her hands and feet was beginning to come back when I left today. She's damned lucky that in the move from the ED bed to the ambulance cot, the fracture didn't take her life. And somehow, she managed not to be paralyzed over the forty miles of bumpy roads she had to ride to Sunnydale.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously, dude? This was a colossal fuckup; a sentinel, never-event. And I put all the wheels in motion, along with my night-shift counterpart, to nail your ass to the wall. In fact, I recommended to my boss that he not call your hospital's risk management department to clue them in to what had happened: it was that serious.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know if you were drunk on-shift (again) or what. What I *do* know is that, after misdiagnosing a rotator cuff tear, cervical myelopathy, appendicitis, and a broken neck as things that need to come to *my* unit as neurological emergencies, you deserve to be spanked.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*A "hangman's fracture" is a fracture of the part of the spine that connects your head to your neck. The usual mortality for such a critter is around 60%. As in immediate mortality; the figure rises if you include misdiagnoses from folks like Dr. Mellowly.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-1356202569842782692?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-70463080508924277142010-09-04T06:38:00.000-07:002010-09-04T06:39:18.921-07:00Quick wonky technical note:Blogger comments are acting up again. If you've submitted a comment in the last 72 hours and don't see it, my apologies. Please resubmit it, and I'll try to publish it again.<div><br /></div><div>Thanks!</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-7046308050892427714?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-26765279394002868982010-09-03T19:42:00.000-07:002010-09-04T02:14:54.837-07:00It's a conspiracy.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://groups.ku.edu/~kuindia/LordGanesh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 317px; height: 402px;" src="http://groups.ku.edu/~kuindia/LordGanesh.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Damn, that's some sharp eyeliner.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>When I eat a mostly high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet, my back is broad in relation to my hips, and my waist mostly disappears.<div><br /></div><div>When I eat carbohydrates, my boobs and butt get so large that my waist looks small by comparison (like a VW Bus would look small by comparison to a mastodon; let's be real), and my belly gets all voluptuous. I wiggle. I jiggle. I look like Girl, Inc. (It's water retention. This is why people on Atkins lose fifteen pounds in two weeks: they diurese like crazy.)</div><div><br /></div><div>My beloved coworker Anamma brought me rice today. And potatoes. And jackfruit seeds. And a tiny amount of chicken, with the bones still in, all in curry.</div><div><br /></div><div>And my beloved coworker Susamma asked me what sort of Indian man I was looking for, exactly.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've got it all figured out: they want to marry me off to an Indian man. The only way to accomplish this, apparently, is to make me into a smaller-nosed Ganesha, and then introduce me to all the brothers/brothers-in-law/cousins they have.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm on it. There's still flatbread and roti and curry with cauliflower to be had. Athletic build be damned; bring on the starch!</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-2676527939400286898?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-40564789898441574142010-08-31T18:02:00.000-07:002010-08-31T18:03:55.540-07:00I dare you to watch this and not grin like a lunatic:<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZYL3j27sSH8&amp;rel=0&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_embedded&amp;fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZYL3j27sSH8&amp;rel=0&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_embedded&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div>Does anybody else have the urge to do the routine they learned as part of Strutter tryouts in high school? I hear this song, and "Let's Hear It For The Boy" and I'm transported to that two weeks in June of 1984, before I realized I. Can't. DANCE.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-4056478989844157414?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-15610643322025574122010-08-31T14:29:00.000-07:002010-08-31T15:18:16.297-07:00Totally not (well, mostly not) work-related.Walp, I learned something today.<div><br /></div><div>We have two Chinese intensivists at work. I had always wondered why, when they ate lunch with the nurses, things like "Pass the salt" were said as "Pass the salt", while things they said on the unit were prefaced with "please" and "thank you". Turns out, thanks, NPR! that "pleases" and "thank yous" are considered a more formal sort of address in Chinese, and that using them in a social situation (which lunch is, given that The Manhandler is showing us what she learned in pole-dancing class) is considered offensive. It's sort of the difference between "Dear John" and "My Dear John" for those of us who read Victorian lit.</div><div><br /></div><div>This helps explain why they're so formal on the unit and so abrupt off of it. Especially when we're all at Joe's having a beer, and things....devolve.</div><div><br /></div><div>All of which helps me not at all when it comes to the relationships between Eastern European or Indian doctors. One of the things I love most about working at Sunnydale is that I work with people from all over the world. One of the things I hate most is not knowing jack about the cultures that these folks come from. With the folks from Eastern Europe and India it's especially hard, as customs vary from city to city and even neighborhood to neighborhood, depending on where you're hailing from. When two of the Indian docs are apparently in the middle of a shouting match and about to go hand-to-hand over something, it's a little disconcerting.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's even more disconcerting to find out that they're merely discussing where to go to lunch, say, or who's got the better cricket team.</div><div><br /></div><div>Likewise, when one of the docs from Moldova or Chechnya or Bjorkistan starts frowning and talking through her teeth, I'm concerned that something must be Very Wrong about something I've done. It rarely is; mostly, it means that the doc in question is merely concentrating, or thinking (again) about lunch, or is working differential equations in her head.</div><div><br /></div><div>Noti bene for my fellow nurses in this situation: accept any food offered you; it will be uniformly delicious. Do not attempt to guess where somebody is from. If you guess "Russia" and it's actually some tiny offshoot of the Soviet Union's breakup that you've never heard of, and that only came into being in 1997, you will be in the doghouse.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, never, ever, <b>ever</b> drink with Russians. You will be sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div>*** *** *** *** ***</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had three days off of work, which has given me plenty of time to think about these things (if I had actually been thinking about them, which I wasn't). It's also give me plenty of time to stand, chin on hand, and consider how exactly I'm going to hang the typewriters from the wall. This has become my new Holy Grail: hang the typewriters in such a way that they're both interesting-looking and accessible. Given that I have 24" on-center, sorta, wall studs, this is going to be a challenge.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oooo. Maybe I could hang them in a straight line, right down the middle of the wall to the side of the arch going into the dining room.</div><div><br /></div><div>*** *** *** *** ***</div><div><br /></div><div>I did squats yesterday and ran for the second time in months. Today I ran again. I am sad and sorry today; I will be sadder and sorrier on Friday.</div><div><br /></div><div>*** *** *** *** ***</div><div><br /></div><div>My massage therapist, when I walked in yesterday, didn't even say hello. All she said was, "Who's Adam?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I told her that Adam is the husband of Friend Rob (not <a href="http://www.abilenerob.com/">Abilene Rob</a>; he's not been holding out on you) and a friend of mine. She'd heard that I'd gone to dinner with some Adam guy the other night, and was hopeful. I hated to disappoint her, so I told her instead that both Adam and I had come to the conclusion that we could be brother and sister: both stocky, redheaded, freckled, and short. </div><div><br /></div><div>We wandered around the shopping area where he works and then went to a teeny restaurant for dinner. I waited until after we'd consumed chicken and cheese and greens to hit him with the dessert selection. His eyes bugged out. It was marvelous to see somebody with an actual sweet tooth enjoying little tiny hazelnut cookies and caramel and berries.</div><div><br /></div><div>*** *** *** *** ***</div><div><br /></div><div>I need a stud-finder-finder. Mine is somewhere buried in the shed, and I need it to hang those typewriters. Except it's too hot to go out and paw through the shed.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-1561064332202557412?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-35090739237417858542010-08-30T03:35:00.000-07:002010-08-30T03:36:15.633-07:00Monday Morning Remedy!Ay Ay Ay, Woof Woof Woof!<div><br /></div><div><object style="height: 344px; width: 425px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nc9xq-TVyHI?version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nc9xq-TVyHI?version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-3509073923741785854?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-55007417496274153342010-08-29T05:56:00.001-07:002010-08-29T05:56:24.235-07:00Sunday get-yer-engines-runnin'<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5EGx4_WSMSE&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_detailpage&amp;fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5EGx4_WSMSE&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_detailpage&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-5500741749627415334?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-16292574949109750412010-08-28T18:18:00.000-07:002010-08-29T04:42:28.118-07:00So I'm taking care of this dude who has cancer.......really *bad* cancer, as in "you don't want this sort of cancer, ever" cancer, and I've just wasted about a half a milligram of hydromorphone more than was ordered in the tubing, so he's feeling pretty good.<div><br /></div><div>So I lean over him, and I remind him that he should let me know if he's uncomfortable--because, what the hell, he's gonna die anyhow; the graft's fighting his body--and I'll bring him more meds. Even if it's not time. He doesn't need to know that; he just needs to know that once his pain hits a four on a one to ten scale, I'll be there with the happy drugs.</div><div><br /></div><div>And he says to me, "How many counselling classes did you need to take before you learned how a person feels?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "None. It's all experience." I didn't tell him that grimacing and guarding and short, gasping breaths are indicators of pain, universally, that don't need a lot of training to recognize.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Trial and error," he said, "that's bullshit."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I've been doing this longer than I'm willing to admit" I said, "and you wouldn't believe the number of patients I killed before I got to you."</div><div><br /></div><div>That brought a smile.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure there was some point, maybe working at Planned Parenthood or the abortion clinic, when I realized that what was coming out of the person's mouth didn't match what was on their face, or in their body language. I can't remember that particular moment, but looking back, I'm sure it happened like a lightning strike.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ever since then, I've been much more conscious of what the person isn't telling me. I had one nursing instructor who bothered to touch her patients with an un-gloved hand, and I've followed her example ever since. Sometimes a simple skin-to-skin touch makes all the difference in letting somebody know that you're not just some sort of health-care-providing automaton; you're a person like them who actually gives a damn what they're feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I have to hurt somebody by starting an IV or a catheter, I try to touch them just afterwards without gloves on, just to make sure that their last memory of the whatever-it-was isn't plastic and pain. Sometimes I even hug my patients without a gown on, zut alors! despite the rules.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the same token, sometimes it's best to just shut the hell up. The dude I was working with was worried that his insurance wouldn't cover his return to the ICU. I let him vent for about ten minutes about how stupid his insurance company was, and it helped. His heart rate went down, his blood pressure dropped. Shutting up and being a body in the room who's attentive is a therapeutic intervention just as much as a Cardene drip is.</div><div><br /></div><div>And as much as I hate to admit it, a lot of nursing has to do with intuition and gut feelings. We don't get trained in intuition, but we all use it. You have to develop the skill, and so you do.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-1629257494910975041?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-69189663243296796202010-08-25T17:17:00.000-07:002010-08-25T17:30:41.348-07:00The joys of loose cannons.And I thought the acute-care floor I used to work on was bad.<div><br /></div><div>I've been pulling shifts in critical care the past couple of weeks, because the patients we've gotten have been critical enough to need easy access to things like Femostops and ventilators. I had forgotten how nutso these girls could be.</div><div><br /></div><div>I say "girls" because we're all female and I'm usually the granny of the bunch, except for Kemal, who's Muslim, so we're trying to go easy on him this month. He gets a little punchy anyhow at the end of the day after not eating or drinking anything, and it's harder to resist the temptation to be highly inappropriate when you're hungry or thirsty. When Kemal's there, we're kind and gentle helpmeets and angels. When he's not, things like this happen:</div><div><br /></div><div>Cap'n Obvious, the critical-care med fellow, had asked why, after being raised by fine upstanding churchgoers and having gone to a religious college, I no longer went to church. </div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "Well, the last time I went, the whole place spontaneously combusted the minute I walked through the door. The pastor got a little annoyed."</div><div><br /></div><div>The look on the devoutly-Catholic unit secretary's face was enough to make Cap'n O. burst into laughter. He kept laughing until his attending showed up, at which point he turned a delicate shade of purple in an attempt to keep from busting a gut.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or the conversation between The Bomber, Kitty-Kat, Cap'n Obvious, and me on the subject of what one does in an ocean-view cabin in Oregon for a vacation. Cap'n Obvious, true to his internal med roots, prefers doing active things on vacation, like climbing mountains. Or ziplining. Or, and I wish I were kidding, swimming with whales.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So what do you <i>do</i>?" Cap'n Obvious asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Drink." said The Bomber.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Have sex?" suggested Kitty-Kat.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Go out for a hike and take a picnic lunch," I said, thus proving how old I really am.</div><div><br /></div><div>"And then come back and drink." The Bomber said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"And have more sex. <i>Kinky</i> sex" added K-K.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, like when I imagine I'm Ben Bernanke and the guy is a Keynesian economist." That was me.</div><div><br /></div><div>And again, Cap'n Obvious turned a little red and a little purple and bent over and puffed out his cheeks. The neurosurgery team was rounding at that point, and it wasn't quite appropriate for a fellow to be seen peeing his shorts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then we did a little forks-in-a-blender, and Manhandler made fart noises with her armpit, and then we all went home. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-6918966324329679620?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-45042535903003790142010-08-22T12:44:00.000-07:002010-08-22T12:46:46.357-07:00I wouldjust like you all to know:<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I have a monster knot in my left calf.</div><div><br /></div><div>As in, so bad it made me think I have a DVT. Nope, just a monster knot.</div><div><br /></div><div>How come?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Atilla made me do one hunnert-n-twenny (three sets of forty) calf raises on a step yesterday. With twenty pounds in each hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then running.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then more lifting.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I were Hyperbole&amp;1/2, I would be drawing pictures of screaming people with really, *really* muscular calves right now.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Ow.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-4504253590300379014?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-72198141343909739992010-08-21T18:43:00.001-07:002010-08-21T18:43:46.033-07:00Ten years; I never spoke your name.<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/o8pQLtHTPaI&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_detailpage&amp;fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/o8pQLtHTPaI&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_detailpage&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div>But I was made for you.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-7219814134390973999?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-53470450125718646182010-08-21T02:29:00.000-07:002010-08-21T18:03:07.364-07:00Auntie Jo's Guide to Faking Neurological (and other) DisordersFriend, are you feeling bored? Dissatisfied with your life? Vaguely disappointed by everyone and everything? Do you think you ought to be getting more attention from your family and from strangers than you do currently? Do you need a vacation from responsibility for a few days? How about your meals brought to you in bed? Does that sound good?<div><br /></div><div>Well, Friend, do I have an offer for you! In a few easy steps, you can waste tens of thousands of dollars of resources, undergo unnecessary and sometimes unpleasant testing, and contribute to the inefficiency of the American health care system! You'll get all the attention you want and then some! You'll have people waiting on you hand and foot! You'll get visits daily from attractive young men and women! Just read this first:</div><div><br /></div><div>Auntie Jo's Guide to Faking Neurological (and other) Disorders:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Remember to be consistent. If you present to the emergency room with a pronator drift, be sure that that pronator drift either stays the same or improves very slowly over time. Pronator drift testing is a cornerstone of the neurological exam, and drifts don't get better suddenly, only to worsen in a few moments, then improve again.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. The same goes for unilateral weakness. Keep track of where, exactly, you're supposed to be weak. Having your leg give way and land you on the floor is an excellent dramatic touch, but only if it's the same leg every time. Again: consistency is key!</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Retrograde amnesia rarely shows up in the absence of head trauma (internal or external) or really, really good drugs. It also rarely presents in a person with no other deficits. Try not to bring out the big gun of amnesia unless you're in danger of being discharged.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Beware the CT scan and MRI! They might just show that you have, indeed, no basis for your extremely interesting neurological exam. Watch out for the MRI especially: it's best to avoid being scanned by telling the tech at the last possible minute that you have a pacemaker, artificial joint, or bullet fragments in your body. It doesn't matter if you forgot to include that on your medical history before; you won't have to get scanned for now!</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Don't forget: Migraines and somatic pain are for amateurs. There are too many non-narcotic options for treatment these days, and too many neurologists who are themselves migraneurs. Go with something more exotic, like the classic ipsilateral/contralateral/whateverlateral "falling out" syndrome.</div><div><br /></div><div>A quick couple of notes on other disorders:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Rheumatoid arthritis generally affects more than one side of the body. Although a good-quality deformity can be achieved in one hand with time and self-harm, it's best to create problems on *both* sides of the body.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Blood tests and X-ray results have no place in your concept of reality. Even if radiology reports and test results come back normal time after time, keep insisting that a test you had at some hospital (the name of which you've conveniently forgotten) at some undefined time in the past was indeed positive. It'll create doubt and the need for even more exciting testing.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Never, ever admit to having any psychiatric diagnosis. It makes diagnosing your current illness that much easier. Instead, insist that you're fine, just fine: your hospitalization will be dragged out for days (or weeks) that way!</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Hospital-Hopping!</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-5347045012571864618?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-3825088344264968522010-08-20T18:17:00.001-07:002010-08-20T18:17:57.678-07:00Shake your groove thing!I have stories of Munchausen to tell later. Get ready!<div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, shake that peppy, happy, vaguely folky groove thang!<br /><div><br /></div><div><object style="height: 344px; width: 425px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DtKhFaW2Z1E"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DtKhFaW2Z1E" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-382508834426496852?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-19070773308106337972010-08-19T18:57:00.000-07:002010-08-19T18:59:01.740-07:00Stolen, without shame, from Anna at Door Sixteen:Danish rabbit agility trials. They leave me in awe. Because, first of all, they're Danish. And who else would've thought up something as silly as rabbit agility trials, only to have it turn out so damn well? <div><br /></div><div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ptyKSiRyQ4Y&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_embedded&amp;fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ptyKSiRyQ4Y&amp;color1=0xb1b1b1&amp;color2=0xd0d0d0&amp;hl=en_US&amp;feature=player_embedded&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div>Swear to God the Danes will profit from global warming when nobody else can, and it'll be in a fun, sort of silly, extremely comforting way that none of us can imagine at this point. With tongue clicks.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-1907077330810633797?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-68741020158235580142010-08-18T18:39:00.000-07:002010-08-18T18:43:32.362-07:00Why I love my shrink, Dr. Dink(Because this is totally random and just came to me as I was trying to compose a very frustrated blog post about the bugnuts patients I've had lately. I decided to do cute instead.)<div><br /></div><div>Dr. Dink has a dog. His dog is a laborador mix who's been trained as a therapy dog and wears his cute little yellow vest every day. He's black, with big brown soulful eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I see Dr. Dink once a year, long enough to tell him Yeah The Meds Are Working Everything's Great.</div><div><br /></div><div>This time, Snooger (dog) came back into the office with us and curled up on the couch with me. I reflexively started patting Snooger's head and belly. He ended up on his back with his head on my lap, sound asleep from belly rubs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dr. Dink glanced up from my chart and at his watch. "Well, that's taken us exactly five minutes, but I hate to disturb the dog. Tell me, then: how did you learn to hang wallboard?"</div><div><br /></div><div>We chatted about house renovations for fifteen minutes, until Snooger woke up.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-6874102015823558014?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833607.post-25689197190517103522010-08-17T18:10:00.000-07:002010-08-17T18:31:44.213-07:00It's not so surprising, really.The olfactory center of the brain is right next to the place where you process and store memories. That's why the smell of a pot roast, or the scent of somebody's perfume can take you back to 1959, when you were at that jazz club with the skinny guy named Frankie who had the bad bow tie.<div><br /></div><div>Today I smelled two things: pine needles in the middle of a very hot day, and the combination of my dad's mother's perfume and chlorine on a woman who'd just gotten out of the pool.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first took me back to weeks at Mom's parents' house in Saint Jo. We had tomatoes for dinner that had had their finishing on the kitchen windowsill. Granny's kitchen was all steel; I still lust after solid-steel countertops and steel cabinets. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'd eat dinner, and then I'd have a very small demitasse cup ("demitasse" pronounced in the French way by my grandmother, who'd learned her French both at school and from the maids at the place where they spent their winters in Bermuda) of coffee, while watching my grandfather pour cream into his iced coffee. The Coffee Fairies would make the cream hit the bottom of the glass and swirl up into amazing patterns.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the morning (after I'd laid awake, thanks to that demitasse of boiled percolator coffee) we'd go walking, because the doctor had recommended that Granddad walk for his heart. We'd feed biscuits to the various dogs on the route, who knew when we were coming. I knew them all, from Molly the enormous mop-like sheepdog to Sheriff, my favorite, a giant Schnauzer with a star on his chest and a lovely curly black vest on his back. Then home, for tiny bowls of cereal with cream and strawberries, and eggs and toast (endless toast, warmed with the butter melting in the toaster), and my grandmother asking if I'd like more "wipie kweepies"--my toddler name for Rice Krispies.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, finally, the smell of pine needles: that came after Granny parked the Mercedes convertible (I was relegated to the nonexistent back seat, which I savored--the smell of dust and leather and the fabric liner of the hard-top) at the country club and we walked up the path between the pine trees to the pool, where we swam--always a careful hour after lunch.</div><div><br /></div><div>The country club pool wasn't as cold as the one that Dad's mother took us to. Dad's father was a Shriner, complete with fez, and the Moila Shrine in Saint Jo had a pool that had been built out of post-World War Two surplus steel. Even at two or three in the afternoon, it was cold. It lost heat quickly at night (when the mourning doves and cicaidas would sing) and wouldn't gain it back until sometime in August, long after we'd gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Moila pool had, in addition to the iciest water this side of the Comal, a high dive. I remember quite vividly being eight years old and standing on the high-dive board, wondering if I would die if I jumped. It was a detached, impersonal wondering: the other kids visiting their grandparents had already gone, and I knew I wouldn't last long at the pool if I didn't jump too. The next summer, thanks to the experience of beating Eric Burch up during a soccer practice and thus exorcising all my childhood fears, I went off head-first. The sensation of my hair parting as I hit the water was memorable, to say the least--there was no bubbler for that three-meter high dive.</div><div><br /></div><div>Granny II would lie on a chaise longue (not a "lounge", thankyouverymuch) with her silver rings and bangles and occasionally let me get a disappointing ice cream bar from the cart at the edge of the pool. She'd then make me sit for ten minutes before I was allowed to swim again.</div><div><br /></div><div>The baby pool was always warm. The real pool, the one my sister and I were allowed in because we knew how to swim, was always ice freaking cold and required some getting used to.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I always smelled my grandmother's perfume along with chlorine and hot pavement and the burnt-cotton smell of the towels we used. I know she didn't use the same scent every day, but it's always the same in my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>So when I was gravely sorting through cucumbers today at the local Indie Mart, it hit me like a sledgehammer, to smell chlorine and pool water and maybe Youth Dew or Chanel #5 or whatever it was she wore, and to turn around, expecting to see a short woman with white hair in a bun, wearing white linen and silver. Instead, I saw a tall, slender woman who must've been a well-preserved seventy, with wet hair and workout clothes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I go to Michael's, the craft store, just to walk through the aisles where they keep the dried flowers. Sometimes I tempt fate and pull off the road to cut cat-tails in the fall, in order to dry them and keep them in a big floor-standing vase in my kitchen, near the back door. Sometimes I make myself toast out of Pepperidge Farm bread (very-thin sliced, please) and keep it warm in the oven for breakfast, when I drink tiny cups of boiled coffee. </div><div><br /></div><div>Barton Springs, while lovely, doesn't match the Moila. And the Comal, as nice as it is to tube down, doesn't match the quiet calm of the country club swimming pool: the smell of chlorine, and hot dogs, and pine needles, and the hot, hot Missouri afternoons.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6833607-2568919719051710352?l=head-nurse.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16520599099436383317noreply@blogger.com9 http://www.impactednurse.com Sun, 05 Sep 2010 05:10:53 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.8.4 en hourly 1 the health system explained (in a simple diagram). http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2295 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2295#comments Sun, 05 Sep 2010 05:10:53 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2295 Here is my take on the entire complexity of major problems that exist in our health system distilled down into a single venn diagram.

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use of oral sucrose as pain relief in infants questioned. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2290 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2290#comments Sat, 04 Sep 2010 22:11:32 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2290 A new study published in the Lancet has questioned the practice of using oral sucrose to relieve procedural pain in newborn infants. This is a practice that is common use in many hospitals (and I wrote about it recently here).

In this double-blind, randomised controlled trial of 59 newborn infants, a heel lance was performed to produce a noxious stimulus. A solution of either saline or sucrose was then placed onto the anterior surface of the tongue as is current practice.
An EEG was used to analyse pain specific brain activity, in addition to noting the infants facial expressions, heart rate and oxygen saturation.

The study found that although the observational assessment of pain relief (based on facial expressions) suggested a decreased response to pain, this was not confirmed by direct EEG readings of neural nociceptive activity.

The authors of the study conclude:

Thus in infants exposed to noxious procedures, sucrose could mediate a brainstem inhibition of behaviour, and inhibit facial motor activity, while strong pain activation still occurs in the forebrain. This notion is especially important in view of the increasing evidence for short-term and long-term adverse effects of infant pain experience on neurodevelopment.
The absence of evidence for an analgesic action of sucrose in this study, together with uncertainty over the long-term benefits of repeated sucrose administration, suggest that sucrose should not be used routinely for procedural pain in infants without further investigation.

Reference:

Oral sucrose as an analgesic drug for procedural pain in newborn infants: a randomised controlled trial (pdf) The Lancet

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the things you find in folds of fat. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2285 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2285#comments Sat, 04 Sep 2010 02:09:24 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2285 I have been thinking about my own use of humour quite a bit since a very short post I made a little while back blew up in my face.  There is no doubt in my mind that the use of humour is one of the more powerful tools on my belt, and like all power-tools it can build something magnificent and it can cut to the bone like a hot knife through sputum.
Here is an article from the Journal of Academic Medicine that provokes even more reflection:

The study relates the results of a series of focus groups conducted on a group of 56 medical students that explored their experiences of cynical or derogatory humour directed towards patients.
These conversations were then analysed sorted into the following categories: objects of humour, locations of humour, the humour game, not-funny humour, and motives for humour.

Object of humour:

By far the largest target of derogatory humour were morbidly obese patients, with the greatest incidence occurring in surgery and obstetrics/gynecology.

Other examples of making fun of obese patients were the circulating stories about objects found in the folds of their bodies, as one student described: There’s lots of stories about larger older women who when you lift up their fat, and you see Oreo cookies, a remote …

Next, patients who’s problems were viewed as ” being their own fault”.
This included patients with conditions related to smoking, excessive alcohol intake, driving under the influence, criminal behaviour, and non compliance with medical treatments.

The third largest was the ‘difficult’ group. That is, patients who were demanding, aggressive, talkative, disrespectful, persistent or periodic.

The students that were interviewed all agreed that certain groups of patients were definitely off limits for cynical humour. These included:

  • Terminally ill or dying.
  • Patients with a history of recent loss.
  • Oncology patients in general.

Location:

According to the students, derogatory or cynical humor generally can be found anywhere in the hospital but most commonly they experienced it in the operating rooms. They observed that despite the widespread use, such humour would never deliberately occur in close proximity to the patients themselves.

Rules

The students reported that humour was often initiated by more senior doctors, which was a flag for lower ranks to initiate their own contributions. However not all junior staff would appreciate or find the humour appropriate, Even so, they often felt pressured to laugh along, or at least not object.

The big thing for me personally is when you go into a room with an attending and they are talking to the patient real empathetic and they are discussing these problems appearing like they really care. As soon as you walk out of the room the attending says that patient is a nut job. [His behavior] wasn’t even real. I am going to be there one day and want to see myself as someone who really cares. But if my role models are like that, I question, Am I going to become like that?

Motives:

Most students believed that those who use such humor do so as a form of coping mechanism, or an outlet to deal with frustrating or depressing situations, particularly when patients do not take care of themselves in spite of the time, care, and resources spent on them.

One student explained how repeat offenders are resented by some medical staff because they’re drains on the resources of the hospital … they come in with problems because they don’t take their medications, and we often say, ‘So and so is in again, who wants to take him, Not me! Not me! Not me!’
Cynical humour was also thought to be used to prevent the patient becoming too familiar or getting too connected to the treating doctor:

The authors of the paper go on to discuss the use of such humor as both a defensive/protective mechanism, as a venting or purging of pent up feelings, and as an expression of (perhaps) hidden feelings of superiority.
Whatever the reason, the authors express concern over the effects of such humour on both those who use it, and those who are looking for role models amongst medical professionals.

The issues raised here go to the heart of professionalism in medicine, yet few of us want to acknowledge them directly. But we suggest that an honest engagement with the realities of clinical training faced by our students, even those realities that make us wince, is necessary.
We must forewarn students early and consistently in their training that contradictions will abound everywhere once they begin their clinical clerkships. We must alert students that they will hear horrible, disrespectful comments about patients’ bodies, about their ability to pay for care, about their addictions. We must impress upon students that there are always choices when these moments arise-to ignore such comments, to laugh or chime in, to talk to a trusted role model about what to do, or perhaps even to risk confrontation with the sources of such humor.

Reference:

Making Fun of Patients: Medical Students’ Perceptions and Use of Derogatory and Cynical Humor in Clinical Settings (Journal of Academic Medicine)

Related:

Inappropriate conversations in the health-care setting.

When the patient becomes the enemy.

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when nurses laugh. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2279 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2279#comments Sat, 04 Sep 2010 00:24:33 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2279

In an article from the Journal of Advanced Nursing (2008), May McCreaddie and Sally Wiggins performed a comprehensive literature search and review of the use of humour in the nursing profession.
Their conclusion?

Nursing and nurses, have thus far had a perfunctory, token and somewhat fleeting association with humour research. Somewhat paradoxically, they have failed to take humour seriously, perhaps afraid that, as members of a struggling profession, they may not be taken seriously themselves.
Humour is not about whether we can tell a joke or not: it is complex, challenging, context-dependent and an integral part of who we are and how we interact with others. Current research does not support the humour–health hypothesis directly, but rather indirectly via interpersonal interactions and support. Nursing and nurses can contribute to interdisciplinary research by moving the debate out into the real world, among healthy and unhealthy people. Further, they can challenge the notion that humour is an entirely positive phenomenon and the dangers inherent in such an assertion, particularly when communicating with disempowered patients who may be struggling to cope with illness.

Some of the more interesting points to consider from the paper include:

  • Commonly, the use of humour is said to be effective in lowering blood pressure, pulse rate, increasing immune response and decreased pain perception. In fact, there remains very little evidence of such effects but rather, much speculation.
  • Humour or laughter may assist in decreasing stress levels and enhancing social competence and support and may be closely linked with traits such as empathy, intimacy and interpersonal trust. However, some forms of humour such as self-depreciating humour may increase loneliness and interpersonal anxiety.
  • Quantitate studies support the suggestion that humour is effective as a coping strategy in managing the symptoms of burnout. Particularly in and enviroment posing stressors such as death and dying, excessive workloads and poor working environments. Humour was found to act as a stress moderator and may also confer a positive emotional state, thereby improving interpersonal relations among staff.
  • Two notable studies examining the use of humour between nurses and patients with renal failure or in hospice settings concluded that it was primarily used to facilitate communication and avoid conflict. It was found to be present in up to 85% of interactions. Interestingly, 70% of the time it was patient initiated.
  • Amongst clinically depressed people, or people with physical or mental illness, an individuals sense of humour may be radically altered. But, even if they do, what exactly does it mean? For example, is self-deprecating humour indicative of (a) poor psychological well-being, physical or mental health and, or maladaptive coping or (b) simply the patient’s ‘normal’ humour use?
  • Several studies contend that humour is inappropriate and unethical to use when engaged in ‘serious’ dialogue or dealing with tragedy, or managing patients who are psychologically impaired or emotionally unable to appreciate it.
  • However other authors suggest that such studies fail “to recognize that the very tragedy and disease-related symptoms may provide the commonality between patient and nurse and potentially offer the basis for shared understandings and humour use.

Reference:

The purpose and function of humour in health, health care and nursing: a narrative review (pdf):: May McCreaddie and Sally Wiggins ::

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Why we walk to emergencies. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2271 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2271#comments Thu, 26 Aug 2010 09:04:38 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2271

Our departments medical emergency team (MET) consists of a senior doctor and nurse who respond to medical emergencies occurring throughout the hospital. We actually call them the MET team, which is kinda like saying: ATM machine.

When their pager goes off they respond by pushing this rather large trolley bristling with advance life support equipment to the scene of the emergency.

But its not like on TV.

We don’t take off running down the corridor with the doctors coat flapping behind him like a Batman cape.
We walk to our emergencies, Its safer that way.

When I was young and stupid. I did run to emergencies. We didn’t have such a large crash cart back then. In one hand you picked up a fishing tackle box full of emergency drugs and cannulation equipment, with the other you grabbed the defibrillator (which was pretty heavy back then) and off you sprinted.

One night I was running to a code, full tilt down a long underground corridor that leads from one hospital building to another.
As my arm carrying the heavy defibrillator swung past my hip it knocked the pager from my waist. The pager bounced off my knee and fell to the ground breaking open… the very instant before I trod on it.

For some reason known only to Motorola, its old pagers were packed with a hundred little small ball bearing springy thingies, and I skidded along on one leg for several meters on the now disintegrating pager, arms flapping out to the sides.
One of the paddles of the defibrillator came loose wrapping around my flailing legs.

I landed heavily on my back.
The defibrillator came crashing down; seriously injuring three of the Tweety-Birds that were now flying around my head. Once I collected myself and sat up on my elbows, I could see that I had broken the pager, the defibrillator and the world record for the slowest response to a medical emergency.

Another time one of my colleagues was on the MET that responded to a man who had jumped through a large window on the ninth floor of the hospitals main building. He landed on the roof directly above the hospital main entrance.
Initially the code was called to the ninth floor, and our intrepid team, thinking it would be far quicker than waiting for our glacial lifts, humped up the stairs (right past the crumpled roof), arriving totally exhausted to find their patient was back down where they had started.

To get to him Chris and the doc had to break a thick window on the first floor and clamber out onto the roof. They were knackered. And they fully expected the man to be dead. The roof had partially collapsed under his impact leaving him laying at the bottom of this human shaped crater.
The crumpling of the roof must of cushioned his fall somewhat, for as they climbed out to him he lifted his arm and said, “I know I just died…but I feel OK.”

Crap. Now what do we do?
Chris was checking the poor guy over and figuring out how the heck they were going to extricate him off the roof whilst maintaining spinal precautions, when an enormous section of glass from the window way up on the ninth floor sliced down like a guillotine just centimeters from where they were crouched.

Chris and the doc looked at each other, MET was trumped by WTF, and without a further word of discussion, they dragged the man unceremoniously by one arm and one leg, out of his crater, across the roof and back through the window.

And then of course there was the time I ran to a code way, way over at the other end of the hospital. I was a young nurse back then and I thought I looked pretty cool yelling at little old ladies on their hopper frames to stand clear as I sprinted past. Yes, this is what being an ED nurse is all about.
By the time I got there, I was so knackered I vomited into the physiotherapy pool.
Nope, you don’t see that on TV.

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differential diagnosis. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2263 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2263#comments Wed, 18 Aug 2010 06:28:20 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2263

I was looking after this young man with pneumonia today. At one point he waved me over to him.
“Doctor”, he mumbled from behind his oxygen mask..”are my testicles black?”
“Actually”, I corrected him, “I’m a nurse. Just relax and concentrate on your breathing”.
He wriggled around in the bed for a moment before repeating with a little more urgency:
“Nurse! Are my testicles black?”
I’m beginning to think something is wrong. Could he be getting hypoxic?
“My testicles! Are, they, black?!!” He yelled.
I’m thinking now that he must have some sort of severe testicular pain.

I quickly pull the curtains around, lift up his gown and carefully examine his testicles.
The man sits bolt upright. Pulls his oxygen mask off his face….
“For Gods sakes man!!….Are my test results back?”1.

  1. I know, its an oldie…but there is a whole new generation of nurses who probably haven’t heard it yet.
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Where (exactly) to stick a needle into your patients bum. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2250 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2250#comments Sun, 15 Aug 2010 04:10:41 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2250 Today a new-graduate nurse taught me how to give an intramuscular injection.
No, really….

After studiously watching one of our senior staff give an intramuscular (IM) injection, the new-grad informed us that, in fact, she was not taught to give injections into the upper-outer quadrant.
This is were I have been sticking my needles for many years now, and I have given thousands (if not millions) of injections this way.
We were about to re-orient her….but as this student is no dummy,  the senior staff member and I thought we had better get our facts straight before engaging our mouths.
We quickly slipped away under the pretext of ‘going to check for leaks in the pan room’ to find out what exactly is best practice for selecting a site for an adult IM injection in the buttocks.
Turns out she was right.

OUT: The Dorsogluteal IM injection site.

This site been used by nurses for years as the target of choice for IM injections.
It is found in the area of the superior lateral aspect of the gluteal muscles, commonly known as the ‘upper outer quadrant’.
It is located by dividing the buttock into four equal quadrants. This is usually done by drawing an imaginary cross (bisecting it vertically and horizontally).

Problems that have been identified with using this site include:

  • Presence of major nerves and blood vessels in this area, including the sciatic nerve and superior gluteal artery.
    It has been taught that you will probably avoid this by further dividing the upper outer quadrant into another quadrant and giving the injection into the upper outer of the upper outer.
    Despite this, there have been reports of injuries to the sciatic nerve leading to problems ranging from foot drop to paralysis of the lower limb.
  • Thickness of fat in this area. A number of studies have found that the depth of muscle in the dorsogluteal region is often greater then the length of a standard needle used for IM injections, resulting in a failure to achieve intramuscular deposition of the medication.
    In fact, one study found the success rate of IM injections to be 32% (which fell to 8% in female patients)!
    With the increasing incidence of obesity amongst our patients we are probably going to be delivering subcutaneous injections if we choose this location.
  • Pain receptors are located in the subcutaneous layer, not in muscle tissues and so medication delivered into this area may be more painful.
  • Dorsogluteal site has a decreased absorption rate increasing the possibility of a depot effect with drug build up and potential for overdose.

IN: The Ventrogluteal IM injection site.

The ventorgluteal (VG) site has less subcutaneous fat and a thicker muscle mass than the dorsogluteal site with an almost certain probability of penetrating muscle with a standard needle.
The VG site is also sparse of any major innervating nerves or blood vessels whilst remaining well perfused from smaller branches.

Locating the VG site.
The ventrogluteal site is located halfway between the hip and the head of the femur. One method to locate the correct site is:

  1. First, place the heel of your  hand (use your L hand if injecting into the patients R VG and vice-versa) over the patients greater trochanter, and feel for the anterior superior iliac spine with your index finger.
  2. The middle finger then slides across to make a peace-sign pointing up to the iliac crest.
  3. The injection site is in the middle of this peace-sign.
  4. Wipe site with alco-wipe in a circular motion and allow to dry.
  5. Use your peace sign to spread skin taut.
  6. Insert needle at 90 degree angle. Take care as you are inserting needle in proximity to your fingers.
  7. There is no evidence for the need to aspirate the plunger when using the VG site.
  8. Inject medication slowly (around 10 seconds per ml), remove needle quickly, and gently apply pressure to site for 10 seconds.

So, the ventrogluteal site is indeed the best practice location for delivering an adult IM injection.
You live and learn.

References:
Intramuscular injections: a review of best practice for mental health nurses:
COCOMAN A. & MURRAY J. (2008) Journal of Psychiatric and Mental Health Nursing 15, 424–434

Are techniques used for intramuscular injection based on research evidence? (NursingTimes.net)

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how (not) to insert a naso-gastric tube. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2246 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2246#comments Wed, 11 Aug 2010 11:21:31 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2246 There is no doubt that inserting a naso-gastric tube is one of the more uncomfortable things we do to our patients.

And for some strange reason, all over the world, student nurses, paramedics, and med students are keen to find out first hand just what all that gagging is about…..

And Leo, wherever you may be……you are the man.

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NG tube into brain. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2235 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2235#comments Wed, 11 Aug 2010 07:32:58 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2235 The insertion of nasogastric (NG) tubes is pretty common these days.

Most nurses have inserted them, and those that have had any experience with the management of trauma patients, know that attempting to insert a NG tube into a patient with a potential base of skull fracture is contraindicated due to the risk of the tube entering the cranium via a fractured cribriform plate1.

However, here is something that is a little disturbing.

From the British Medical Journal comes a 1996 report on a NG tube that was accidentally passed into the brain of 59 yo female patient who had no history of trauma.
The lady ( a poorly controlled epileptic) presented with a 6 hour history of seizures following a prodrome of several hours vomiting.
The seizures were terminated following IV diazepam on arrival at the ED.

To decrease the risk of aspiration, the staff then attempted to insert a NG tube:

Three attempts at insertion were made,each of them producing blood stained fluid. When the fluid was aspirated and tested using litmus paper there was no colour change.
The tube was left in position after the third insertion as the fluid was assumed to be blood stained nasal secretions resulting from traumatic intubation.
Although the resuscitation was successful in terminating the fit, the patient remained deeply unconscious.
In view of this, and the past history of meningitis, computerised tomography was undertaken.

The patient subsequently had the tube surgically removed… but eventually died from an overwhelming sepsis.
Postmortem examination identified a small defect, a ‘congenital anomaly’ known as a nasal glioma just lateral to the cribriform plate.

This is an extremely rare occurrence, with only one or two cases ever documented.
But things like this serve to remind us never to get too complacent, even  with our ‘routine’ procedures.

You just do not want to see a CT scan like that on your shift.

Reference: Inadvertent intracranial insertion of a nasogastric tube in a non-trauma patient (BMJ)

  1. The cribriform plate is a sieve-like region of the ethmoid bone (which separates the nasal cavity from the brain). When base of skull fractures are suspected an oro-gastric tube is placed instead
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why we have motor vehicle accidents. http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2222 http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2222#comments Tue, 10 Aug 2010 06:54:43 +0000 impactEDnurse http://www.impactednurse.com/?p=2222

There are plenty of reasons for why people cause car accidents.

And we get to hear excuses for them all.
Most seem to begin with “I was just driving along minding my own business….”

Here is a list of some of the most common reasons why people actually do cause car accidents.

Of everything listed 1 and 2 are by far the most common, with 13 running close for 3rd place.)

  1. Speed
  2. Sloshed
  3. Substance abuse
  4. Sleepy
  5. SMS (texting on mobile)
  6. Seizure
  7. Sex
  8. Sneeze.
  9. Spider.
  10. Singing (distracted).
  11. Suicide.
  12. Sinister.
  13. Stupidity.
  14. Somewhere they shouldn’t have been.
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