Actually, he rolled in. On a stretcher. After a TIA. Transported by EMS from the airport. And it was, sadly, no joke.
There are surgeons nobody hears about, even if they've been working in the same place for twenty years. There are surgeons you only ever hear good things about. Then there are surgeons like Dr. Guts, about whom the most complimentary thing I've ever heard is, "Well, he's not quite Satan."
This is a man I once saw push a chart rack (remember those? Welded wire, meant to hold eight or so charts at once? Big, heavy three-inch plastic chart binders, full of paper, each weighing more than a couple of pounds?) over on to a unit secretary because he didn't like something that had just happened. Nothing having to do with the secretary. If she hadn't jerked out of the way, I think the weight might've broken both her forearms.
And here he was, in my unit. I should mention that Dr. Guts has quite the reputation for patching up people whose lower intestines have sustained damage of one sort or another. He's particularly good at reattaching colons to anuses.
Like attracts like.
The first words out of his mouth when I walked into his room were "GODDAMMIT! Why is this goddamned hospital so fucking disorganized??" I greeted him, introduced myself, and prepared to do a neuro exam.
"I was examined" he sneered--and I'd never actually seen anybody sneer before; I thought it only happened in books-- "by a qualified physician less than four hours ago. I do not wish to repeat the exam."
"Good" I said. "That's gonna save me a lot of time the next time I have to assess one of your patients."
He looked at me.
"Because an exam by a qualified physician means that exam will stay stable, right? Now, look right here at my nose."
He hated the food. He hated our MRI suites. He kept complaining that the hospital was disorganized--a hospital he helped found--and that everything in the world was wrong. He bitched about the doctors, the night nurses, the phlebotomists from the lab.
Finally, midway through his second (and last) day on the unit, I said, "Is it possible for you to be any less of an asshole? Just for a minute?"
His wife, sitting on the couch with a book, said, "She has a point, dear."
A week later he was back on the wrong side of the bedrail, this time for a cardiac problem. Thankfully, not in my unit.
Rabu, 17 Juli 2013
Selasa, 25 Juni 2013
Styling the bedroom? Ain't nobody got time for that!
If you've been reading this blog for a while, you'll know that I've become addicted to renovation/decorating/house blogs.
It's a shameful thing.
It's a shameful thing because, to be honest, my addiction (which started when I bought this house, seven or so years ago) has resulted in nothing except my painting every wall in the house white. Well, and putting up those two-inch-wide, faux-wood blinds that JCPenney sells because I was sick of uncleanable Roman shades. Did that today. Lost some patience, some years of my life, and not a little bit of blood.
Somehow, despite being glued to Anna's and Daniel and Max's escapades, and reading Chezerbey with the sort of dedication I usually reserve for science fiction, I have missed all the finer points of design.
Dudes, I Used Pelican Tile In The Bathroom. In my defense, subway tile was still too expensive for my budget at the time, and I was under a huge time constraint, as a house functions best with a working bathroom. Still, I look at those squares of tile and kick myself every time I pee.
And, worst of all, I'm ashamed. My bedroom's been described as "stark"--as in, all-white, no frills, no tchotchkes sitting on things, and very few things for tchotchkes to sit on. The living room is mostly neat, with several bookshelves, but I spend most of my time keeping the dog-hair and cat-hair under control, not working out vignettes with the Thai dragon Dad got me years ago.
I'm a good cook. I'm fantastic at makeup. I can dress myself with only a minor amount of trouble. I can refill the windshield-washer-thingy in my car with no problem. I make gorgeous compost. I can handle power tools without losing digits, and my solder doesn't drip. I'm not the worst nurse you ever worked with. But I cannot for the life of me decorate.
I was excited when The Boyfiend told me he was bringing his Schlitz chandelier. (Which has since been lost, but I'll go into that tragedy later if ever.)
Tomorrow I'm going to IKEA. I'm going to buy curtains, following Dana's advice and getting the longer ones, and I'm going to put them up. I'm going to put them up, moreover, on the nifty bendy curtain rods I got a million years ago from West Elm. It's going to be fabulous.
Aaaaand they will make the rest of the bedroom look skanky and as if it needs to be repainted, which it does, but dammit, who has time for that when there are tomatoes to grow?
It's a shameful thing.
It's a shameful thing because, to be honest, my addiction (which started when I bought this house, seven or so years ago) has resulted in nothing except my painting every wall in the house white. Well, and putting up those two-inch-wide, faux-wood blinds that JCPenney sells because I was sick of uncleanable Roman shades. Did that today. Lost some patience, some years of my life, and not a little bit of blood.
Somehow, despite being glued to Anna's and Daniel and Max's escapades, and reading Chezerbey with the sort of dedication I usually reserve for science fiction, I have missed all the finer points of design.
Dudes, I Used Pelican Tile In The Bathroom. In my defense, subway tile was still too expensive for my budget at the time, and I was under a huge time constraint, as a house functions best with a working bathroom. Still, I look at those squares of tile and kick myself every time I pee.
And, worst of all, I'm ashamed. My bedroom's been described as "stark"--as in, all-white, no frills, no tchotchkes sitting on things, and very few things for tchotchkes to sit on. The living room is mostly neat, with several bookshelves, but I spend most of my time keeping the dog-hair and cat-hair under control, not working out vignettes with the Thai dragon Dad got me years ago.
I'm a good cook. I'm fantastic at makeup. I can dress myself with only a minor amount of trouble. I can refill the windshield-washer-thingy in my car with no problem. I make gorgeous compost. I can handle power tools without losing digits, and my solder doesn't drip. I'm not the worst nurse you ever worked with. But I cannot for the life of me decorate.
I was excited when The Boyfiend told me he was bringing his Schlitz chandelier. (Which has since been lost, but I'll go into that tragedy later if ever.)
Tomorrow I'm going to IKEA. I'm going to buy curtains, following Dana's advice and getting the longer ones, and I'm going to put them up. I'm going to put them up, moreover, on the nifty bendy curtain rods I got a million years ago from West Elm. It's going to be fabulous.
Aaaaand they will make the rest of the bedroom look skanky and as if it needs to be repainted, which it does, but dammit, who has time for that when there are tomatoes to grow?
Rabu, 19 Juni 2013
Neophilia.
Gracious. Has it been nearly a month?
There's been a lot going on.
ANNOUNCEMENT NUMBER ONE: I have a new boss.
Not only do I have a new boss, I have a *fantastic* new boss. The honeymoon period is long over; I've worked with this person in a boss-capacity for going on two years now.
This boss, unlike the last boss, does not say things like "All vasoactive drugs are the same" and "I don't see why you're worried about your skills; you're a critical-care-trained nurse, right?" and "*I* had to work a whole twelve hours twice this week, so why can't *you* come in for a couple of extra shifts?"
All of which are verbatim from Old Boss's mouth.
New Boss says things like, "I'm expected at neuro rounds in ten minutes" (OB never managed to make a single round) and "No matter what happens, your unit will be taken care of" and "I don't know much about the brain, so I'm taking three classes in the next month to get up to speed."
NB also says things like, "It sounds to me like you guys aren't getting what you need in terms of support. What are your top three priorities, and how can I make those things happen?"
Also taken verbatim from New Boss's mouth.
I can't go in to too much detail right now, because every time I think about how my charts are being audited by somebody who actually cares, or my unit is being staffed by somebody who has actually worked as a nurse in a critical-care unit for more than nine months and who, moreoever, still does work in a critical-care unit to keep their skills fresh, I get all giddy and I can't type.
Everybody is happy about this: from speech pathology to physical therapy to the housekeeping staff, everybody's happy.
ANNOUNCEMENT NUMBER TWO: I have a new dog.
His name is Mongo, after the "Blazing Saddles" character.
Mongo likes snuggles, and kitties (and the cats love him), and playing catch, and carrying his stuffed toys around, and climbing up on top of me when there's a thunderstorm, and going for car rides, and generally being a capital-D Dog.
He's a golden retriever with separation anxiety. If he can't see me, but he knows I'm around, he flips out. I've asked the neighbors, and he hasn't been an asshole when I leave for work, so, good. We had a thunderstorm the other day when I wasn't here, and Mongo went calmly into his doghouse (evidence: he wasn't wet when I got home) and hung out.
His old human had to move and couldn't keep him. He's a year old. I never thought I'd have anything other than a shepherd or LSG or northern breed, but that was before I met Mongo-Man. He's the sweetest, lovingest dog I've ever met, even if he does bark when I mow the lawn. It took the cats about twenty-four hours to warm up to him; after that, I found them all three playing on the rug in the living room. Mongo was on his back with Flashes on his chest, biting his neck, and Notamus was playing with Mongo's tail.
Mongo is behind my chair right now, snoring.
And yes, he came with the name. It is appropriate.
No pictures yet because I can't get him to slow down long enough to take a snapshot.
ANNOUNCEMENT NUMBER THREE: Consolidated Research & Healthcare Corp, holding company of Sunnydale General, has done the dumbest thing EVER.
For years now, we've had color-coded scrubs according to discipline. The head of CRHC decided to drag us boldly into the 1970's, and has mandated that we all--from nursing to PT to housekeeping--will wear dark blue scrubs, the sort of blue you see in the cheaper catalog pages. Not only that, but they'll be embroidered (and thus un-returnable, in case they don't fit) and available only from one company.
I got mine today. They're cheap as fuck. As dark as they are, you wouldn't expect that a nude bra would show through them, but boy-hidey if it doesn't. They're available in two fabrics: Horrible Polyester and Slightly Less-Horrible But More Transparent Cotton-Poly. Other people, who got theirs earlier, have reported such things as the back seams on the pants ripping as they were put on or the shoulder seams ripping under the slightest stress. I can see why.
My only question is who's making money off this. Somebody somewhere has to be getting a cut of Sunnydale's employees' business.
Never mind that our patients, let alone our staff, had come to rely on color-coding to tell who was who. It's a nice thing, to be able to look up in the middle of a code and see maroon scrubs and know that RT has arrived. Those days are gone; now we'll have six-by-three inch plastic hangtags behind our IDs that state our discipline.
Of course, a fair number of my patients can no longer read, and depended on scrub color to tell what was going on.
I'd happily eat the cost of these scrubs if The Powers That Be came back and said, "Wait, never mind, bad idea," but I don't think that's gonna happen.
So I'll just go off and rub some MongoBelly. He loves that.
There's been a lot going on.
ANNOUNCEMENT NUMBER ONE: I have a new boss.
Not only do I have a new boss, I have a *fantastic* new boss. The honeymoon period is long over; I've worked with this person in a boss-capacity for going on two years now.
This boss, unlike the last boss, does not say things like "All vasoactive drugs are the same" and "I don't see why you're worried about your skills; you're a critical-care-trained nurse, right?" and "*I* had to work a whole twelve hours twice this week, so why can't *you* come in for a couple of extra shifts?"
All of which are verbatim from Old Boss's mouth.
New Boss says things like, "I'm expected at neuro rounds in ten minutes" (OB never managed to make a single round) and "No matter what happens, your unit will be taken care of" and "I don't know much about the brain, so I'm taking three classes in the next month to get up to speed."
NB also says things like, "It sounds to me like you guys aren't getting what you need in terms of support. What are your top three priorities, and how can I make those things happen?"
Also taken verbatim from New Boss's mouth.
I can't go in to too much detail right now, because every time I think about how my charts are being audited by somebody who actually cares, or my unit is being staffed by somebody who has actually worked as a nurse in a critical-care unit for more than nine months and who, moreoever, still does work in a critical-care unit to keep their skills fresh, I get all giddy and I can't type.
Everybody is happy about this: from speech pathology to physical therapy to the housekeeping staff, everybody's happy.
ANNOUNCEMENT NUMBER TWO: I have a new dog.
His name is Mongo, after the "Blazing Saddles" character.
Mongo likes snuggles, and kitties (and the cats love him), and playing catch, and carrying his stuffed toys around, and climbing up on top of me when there's a thunderstorm, and going for car rides, and generally being a capital-D Dog.
He's a golden retriever with separation anxiety. If he can't see me, but he knows I'm around, he flips out. I've asked the neighbors, and he hasn't been an asshole when I leave for work, so, good. We had a thunderstorm the other day when I wasn't here, and Mongo went calmly into his doghouse (evidence: he wasn't wet when I got home) and hung out.
His old human had to move and couldn't keep him. He's a year old. I never thought I'd have anything other than a shepherd or LSG or northern breed, but that was before I met Mongo-Man. He's the sweetest, lovingest dog I've ever met, even if he does bark when I mow the lawn. It took the cats about twenty-four hours to warm up to him; after that, I found them all three playing on the rug in the living room. Mongo was on his back with Flashes on his chest, biting his neck, and Notamus was playing with Mongo's tail.
Mongo is behind my chair right now, snoring.
And yes, he came with the name. It is appropriate.
No pictures yet because I can't get him to slow down long enough to take a snapshot.
ANNOUNCEMENT NUMBER THREE: Consolidated Research & Healthcare Corp, holding company of Sunnydale General, has done the dumbest thing EVER.
For years now, we've had color-coded scrubs according to discipline. The head of CRHC decided to drag us boldly into the 1970's, and has mandated that we all--from nursing to PT to housekeeping--will wear dark blue scrubs, the sort of blue you see in the cheaper catalog pages. Not only that, but they'll be embroidered (and thus un-returnable, in case they don't fit) and available only from one company.
I got mine today. They're cheap as fuck. As dark as they are, you wouldn't expect that a nude bra would show through them, but boy-hidey if it doesn't. They're available in two fabrics: Horrible Polyester and Slightly Less-Horrible But More Transparent Cotton-Poly. Other people, who got theirs earlier, have reported such things as the back seams on the pants ripping as they were put on or the shoulder seams ripping under the slightest stress. I can see why.
My only question is who's making money off this. Somebody somewhere has to be getting a cut of Sunnydale's employees' business.
Never mind that our patients, let alone our staff, had come to rely on color-coding to tell who was who. It's a nice thing, to be able to look up in the middle of a code and see maroon scrubs and know that RT has arrived. Those days are gone; now we'll have six-by-three inch plastic hangtags behind our IDs that state our discipline.
Of course, a fair number of my patients can no longer read, and depended on scrub color to tell what was going on.
I'd happily eat the cost of these scrubs if The Powers That Be came back and said, "Wait, never mind, bad idea," but I don't think that's gonna happen.
So I'll just go off and rub some MongoBelly. He loves that.
Selasa, 21 Mei 2013
What's in *your* closet?
It's that time of year again, Minions. Those of you in Tornado Alley know what I'm talking about firsthand. Those of you not in the Alley know what I'm talking about thanks to the coverage of what happened in Granbury and Moore.
The Disaster Closet at Chez Jo is up and running once again. Hooray.
What, you might ask, is a Disaster Closet? Is it a closet where you keep your Bai Ling costumes? Your emerald-green eyeshadow? The mutant cakes that failed to rise?
Nope. It's where the cats and I go (and eventually The Boyfiend and The Dog, if ever the latter shows up) when the sky turns the same color as that eyeshadow and the sirens blow.
It's not common around here to have tornadoes, but tornadoes are not the problem ninety percent of the time. I once heard a storm-spotter describe a tornado as a sneeze in the middle of a really bad thunderstorm, and that's true. The majority of the time, damage in storm-hit areas comes from straight-line winds, hail, and--the big danger--flying debris.
That's why they say to get into an interior closet or bathroom with no windows. Trees falling, debris flying around--those are much more likely to injure or kill you than a direct hit from one of Mother Nature's sneezes.
Besides, if you take a direct hit from a twister, even a small one, there's not a lot your house will do to protect you.
(A quick aside, as people are surely thinking this: "Why a closet? Why not a basement or storm cellar?" In this part of the country, Austin north to OKC, it's difficult if not impossible to dig basements. We have three types of impediment: heavy clay soil, a layer of quartz or limestone between two and ten feet thick, and high water tables. Safe rooms are common in larger buildings, but it's damned near impossible to excavate deep enough even for a small storm shelter, let alone a basement. It's perverse to think that we settled the most dangerous part of Tornado Alley without figuring that out, but there you are.)
Anyway, and this is not bad advice for anybody anywhere anytime, it's a good idea to have a central location for Stuff You Might Need Later. Here's what I put in mine (all of this fits on a shelf above my head):
1. Weather radio with flashlight and cellphone charger. It's solar- or crank-powered and gets good reception even in the D.C.
2. A couple of big bottles of water. If the forecast looks particularly bad, I might stick a six-pack in there, too. (Only sort of kidding.)
3. First aid kit with pressure dressings and so on.
4. Insurance paperwork for me, the house, and the car.
5. Extra medications, extra contact lenses, extra pair of glasses.
6. A prybar. No, really. It's great to have a shelter from bad weather, but on the offchance that my roof caves in or blows away, I want to be able to get *out* as well.
7. The cats' carrier. They both go into one.
Everything except the carrier can either go on the shelf or, more likely, be slung in a cross-body bag and put on my person. So far, I haven't had to use the Disaster Closet in its fullest capability, but there's little sense in being unprepared.
Which reminds me of a funny story: a couple of years ago, we were having some pretty intense weather. Hail was hitting the sides of the house rather than the roof, the winds were so strong. Max and the boys and I were riding it out in the living room, waiting to see if the weather guys blew the sirens. When the sirens went off, Max fixed me with the stinkeye, then went to the closet, pried open the door with his claws, and went in. I followed him.
The Disaster Closet at Chez Jo is up and running once again. Hooray.
What, you might ask, is a Disaster Closet? Is it a closet where you keep your Bai Ling costumes? Your emerald-green eyeshadow? The mutant cakes that failed to rise?
Nope. It's where the cats and I go (and eventually The Boyfiend and The Dog, if ever the latter shows up) when the sky turns the same color as that eyeshadow and the sirens blow.
It's not common around here to have tornadoes, but tornadoes are not the problem ninety percent of the time. I once heard a storm-spotter describe a tornado as a sneeze in the middle of a really bad thunderstorm, and that's true. The majority of the time, damage in storm-hit areas comes from straight-line winds, hail, and--the big danger--flying debris.
That's why they say to get into an interior closet or bathroom with no windows. Trees falling, debris flying around--those are much more likely to injure or kill you than a direct hit from one of Mother Nature's sneezes.
Besides, if you take a direct hit from a twister, even a small one, there's not a lot your house will do to protect you.
(A quick aside, as people are surely thinking this: "Why a closet? Why not a basement or storm cellar?" In this part of the country, Austin north to OKC, it's difficult if not impossible to dig basements. We have three types of impediment: heavy clay soil, a layer of quartz or limestone between two and ten feet thick, and high water tables. Safe rooms are common in larger buildings, but it's damned near impossible to excavate deep enough even for a small storm shelter, let alone a basement. It's perverse to think that we settled the most dangerous part of Tornado Alley without figuring that out, but there you are.)
Anyway, and this is not bad advice for anybody anywhere anytime, it's a good idea to have a central location for Stuff You Might Need Later. Here's what I put in mine (all of this fits on a shelf above my head):
1. Weather radio with flashlight and cellphone charger. It's solar- or crank-powered and gets good reception even in the D.C.
2. A couple of big bottles of water. If the forecast looks particularly bad, I might stick a six-pack in there, too. (Only sort of kidding.)
3. First aid kit with pressure dressings and so on.
4. Insurance paperwork for me, the house, and the car.
5. Extra medications, extra contact lenses, extra pair of glasses.
6. A prybar. No, really. It's great to have a shelter from bad weather, but on the offchance that my roof caves in or blows away, I want to be able to get *out* as well.
7. The cats' carrier. They both go into one.
Everything except the carrier can either go on the shelf or, more likely, be slung in a cross-body bag and put on my person. So far, I haven't had to use the Disaster Closet in its fullest capability, but there's little sense in being unprepared.
Which reminds me of a funny story: a couple of years ago, we were having some pretty intense weather. Hail was hitting the sides of the house rather than the roof, the winds were so strong. Max and the boys and I were riding it out in the living room, waiting to see if the weather guys blew the sirens. When the sirens went off, Max fixed me with the stinkeye, then went to the closet, pried open the door with his claws, and went in. I followed him.
Kamis, 16 Mei 2013
So, this whole Angelina Jolie thing. . .
Y'all have heard she had her boobs removed because she carries a mutant BRCA gene, right? And that she's gonna have her ovaries taken out pretty soon, too, right?
I cannot *believe* what folk been sayin' about that. First of all, it's nobody's place to have an opinion on what she does with her own body, even if she puts it out there in an op-ed in the New York Times. Second of all, if you have the kind of opinion that says, "She should've considered what that would do to her fans" or "She should've tried yoga and broccoli first," I will take you down.
Or, I would've, but then I read this:
Oh Fuck You.
Don't want your real name bruited about on Teh Interwebs? Don't sign it to a jackassed comment on those Interwebs.
Thanks for your input, Jackasses. No, really. Now I know who not to slow down for when I see a group of people crossing the street.
I cannot *believe* what folk been sayin' about that. First of all, it's nobody's place to have an opinion on what she does with her own body, even if she puts it out there in an op-ed in the New York Times. Second of all, if you have the kind of opinion that says, "She should've considered what that would do to her fans" or "She should've tried yoga and broccoli first," I will take you down.
Or, I would've, but then I read this:
Oh Fuck You.
Don't want your real name bruited about on Teh Interwebs? Don't sign it to a jackassed comment on those Interwebs.
Thanks for your input, Jackasses. No, really. Now I know who not to slow down for when I see a group of people crossing the street.
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