When you want to smother them

Sometimes, there are patients who really try your patience. Take for instance, a patient of whom we all dubbed, "Precious". She truly believed she was a precious little thing, so needy and sickly. Apparently, she also believed herself to be the only patient on the floor. We were put on this earth to answer her every beck and call bell.
Now Precious really did have some health issues, but certainly none that required a nurse or tech being present in her room at all times to fetch her tissues (because she claimed she couldn't reach them on the bedside table which was hanging over the edge of her bed), fluff her pillows (she felt we should "refresh" them every 30 minutes), or wipe her bottom ("three times because if you do less than that, I can still feel the moisture").
For twelve hours, her primary nurse and tech answered her multiple, multiple, did I say multiple call bells every hour. It would have been nearly bearable if Precious was in a regular room. However, because she had a history of MRSA five years ago, we were required to put on a hot plastic gown and glove up each time we crossed her threshold. It was like the Roach Motel...we could get in but couldn't get out. Precious always had multiple, multiple, did I say multiple requests which kept us trapped for long periods of time.
Twice I jumped in to rescue her primary nurse from having to go in there because, after all, she had five other patients, some in worse shape than Precious. The tech had fifteen patients, almost all back-breaking completes to change and turn, and toilet every two hours.
The third time I went in to see what earth-shaking event caused Precious to require us to rush in there ,I gowned and gloved and toileted her. Getting her out of bed and onto the bedside commode was a ten minute process. Precious felt she was unable to withstand the indignity of a bedpan. That's okay, we don't mind injuring our backs hefting her 170 lb frame to and from the bed when she refused to carry even part of her own body weight. We can always get a chiropractor for our aching backs. Dont' worry, Precious, we really don't mind putting ourselves at risk. You certainly can stand and have the easy ability to walk. Nothing is wrong with your legs but we understand your need to be babied and certainly can carry you two feet to the bedside commode.
So I toileted her, gave her tissues, tucked her in and took off my gown as I was exiting the room. "WAAAAAAIT!" she cried. She needed me to fluff her pillow, she whimpered, threatening to cry at any moment. I regowned, gloved, and fluffed. Ungowned, walked out the door only to hear, "WAAAAAIT!" again. (Mind you, I had already asked, saccharine-sweetly, "Is there anything else I can do?" before she released me from her clutches). She stated the blanket she had under her back "just isn't comfortable. I need it repositioned," she welled up with tears. So I did it, and once again was allowed to leave. But no, "WAAAAAIT!" I heard as I turned the corner. Regown. Reglove now sweaty hands. These gowns don't breathe. Oh, the touch, the feel of cotton would have been nice....This time, she was shaking, begging for a refreshed cup of ice water, not too much ice, just a bit, and don't forget a lid and new straw. So I ungowned...again....got a "fresh" ice water, not too much ice, new lid and straw, regowned, and handed it to her. The woman actually began to sob, "It's too big, I can't drink out of it...I need a smaller (hiccup) cup." Mind you, it was the same size cup she had previously and before that and before that, and, well, you get the idea. So I ungowned, got a smaller, more acceptable cup, lid, and straw, regowned, and gave it to dear, sweet, Precious. I was leaving once again when she sobbed, "I need a pillow." Yeah, I'll give you a pillow, I thought.

When I finally emerged, over thirty minutes later, I ran into her doctor to which I stated, straight-faced, "Just give me thirty seconds with a pillow and I'll put her out of everybody's misery." Now, mind you, I could never actually do that, but still, the comical thought of it made us nurses giddy with laughter. Sure, their eyes got big but they were all chuckling anyway. The doc, by the way, laughed and said that sometimes instead of drinking, he goes to Pierre's chocolates and eats a box to calm himself.

So, my advice: Don't smother them. Instead, go buy a box of really good chocolates and eat every last one. And truly, please refrain from any serious urges to smother your more challenging patients.