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.
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