Don't cluck at me

Last night I had a patient of whom I can honestly say I didn't care for. Despite the humor related to my patients, I generally do like nearly every single one of those bowel-fixated gems. But once in a while, I get a patient who rubs me the wrong way. And makes me wish it was legal and ethical to smother them. (Remember, this is a humorous blog, not at all intended to be serious...or murderous...) At any rate, this one patient is a younger female, on a vent, who has become quite the manipulator. This description is her family's assessment and I completely concur. This gal, bless her heart, has limited muscular ability. She wiggles her eyes or eyebrows to indicate yes or no and I am pretty adept at asking the right questions to discern her needs. Well, maybe sometimes it takes more than twenty questions, but I never said I was a mindreader. This manipulator has a habit of clucking her tongue which sounds like a loud squirrel during mealtime. At first, I didn't mind. But after twelve hours of her clucking furiously for one thing after another, having me figure out a new request before I was finished with the last task left me wanting to run over every middle-of-the-road squirrel on the way home. And aim for a few on the sidewalks. I used to like the cute sounds of squirrels. Now I want to bring out my BB gun and silence them all. Do nurses experience post-traumatic-stress? You bet.

Yet another pee pee story

Recently, I had a patient of whom rang all.night.long. to use the bedside commode. In the morning, I had already given report and was headed out the door intent on enjoying a sunshine snooze. The patient in 13 had other ideas. As I collected my things I heard the insistence of the call bell ring-ting-tinging away. Despite my internal warning bell hammering at me to let the tech get it, I set everything down and wearily entered the House of Urine.

I assisted 13 to the bedside commode and waited as she took her bladder for a walk and left a few kids off at the pool. Then I got her snuggled back into bed. Not one to leave a mess for others, I figured I would quickly empty the bucket and then scoot out the door. Ah, but no. Some joyful wingnut left some kind of plastic inner liner in the bucket which caused the Niagara of Bowels to rush out, skid along the rim of the toilet and land squarely on my sneakers. Sneakers which are generously vented on the top to reduce sweating.

I scooped up the poop and sopped up what little my socks and shoes did not suck in like a roll of the Quicker Picker Upper towels. No one had to ask when I walked by what had happened. The telltale squeaking of my smelly UTI shoes was all the information the laughing crowd at the nurse's station needed. Ah....I love my job.