Dr. Ali and I were talking about our recent (constant) staffing problems last night. I said I couldn't figure out why a unit with patients with things like GBS and big MCA strokes (one makes you not breathe, the other can make you have fatal heart arrhythmias without warning) wasn't considered a priority in staffing. I mean, we had a code a couple of weeks ago when some poor sod went into ventricular fibrillation (non-medical definition: your heart quits beating and just shivers: very bad), and only one nurse on the floor. It was touch-and-go, but we got said poor sod coded, stabilized, and later discharged.
Dr. A. told me something he'd heard earlier this week from a VP of development: that the neurocritical care unit is only important in that we bring in money for the neurosurgical service.
(Imagine me standing there, open-mouthed, silent.)
Yeah.
Sunnydale General is supposedly going for a comprehensive stroke certification, but the department that handles everything from strokes requiring TPA to non-surgical neurological emergencies is considered worthwhile only because we send the occasional patient to the surgery guys for a cartotid endarterectomy or aneurysm clipping.
I asked Dr. Ali how he'd responded. He told me he'd told the VP of development that our unit was making plenty of money on its own, thanks, and that he didn't like to refer patients for surgeries that weren't proven to work. (That last is some obscure insult referencing some sort of study on CEAs, I guess; I don't know the details.) It was a calm, intellectual burn from one doc to another.
Still, to be told flat out that the unit that you're working on, that you've been helping to develop for umpteen years, isn't considered important by the big uppity-ups. . . .is disheartening. Although it does explain why we're having such a hard time getting funding for equipment and staff.
In other news, I worked with a patient care aide this weekend who was concerned about her ability to get a job after she graduates nursing school in December. She's been doing externships and internships and has great grades, but hasn't even had a nibble on the job front.
We went over all the things she was doing right, and all the things she might be doing wrong, and then I took a look at her resume.
She's graduating from a for-profit school that is not accredited.
Again, imagine me standing there, open-mouthed and silent.
This woman will owe more than $50,000 for two years' worth of classes from a school that lacks even the most basic accreditation from any authority. She therefore will not be able to get a job anywhere but the LTAC that employs her part-time now, and maybe not even them, as an RN. Add to that that her chances of getting into a decent nursing school for a BSN are practically nil, except if she goes back to Consolidated Larnin' Collidge, and she's screwed.
I can't. . .I can't even. Talk about predatory marketing: they promised her that in just under two years, she'd have earning potential that nobody in her family has ever had. They told her that the job market for nurses is hot, which it is--provided you've got a degree from a recognized school and are willing to slog for a few years. They then helped her get loans that are about four times what I paid for a degree from an accredited program, but didn't happen to mention that a) the interest rates are huge, and b) her education would be worth practically nothing.
She's not stupid, but she's not well-educated. She's poor, she's got a GED, and she took the only offer she got. She's a hard worker and driven as hell, but she's hobbled herself with a bullshit "degree" from a place that has classes in a storefront.
It was a demoralizing week at work.
Senin, 26 Agustus 2013
Kamis, 01 Agustus 2013
A late-summer, end-of-summer treat: fried green tomatoes.
I did not learn to make these when I was growing up. As far as I can remember, my Sainted Mother, being more or less a Yankee, never fried a green tomato, let alone okra or the leftovers of grits that had been left to become solid in the refrigerator.
At some point in the last ten years, though, I learned to make fried green tomatoes. They're not economical--very few people have enough tomato plants that finding a use for them is necessary, at the end of the season. They're not Paleo, or Atkins, or Clean--they're something you make as a special treat, to serve with fresh mozarella or shrimp or sausages, or just on their own, as soon as they come out of the pan.
They are purely Southern, in the sense that some version of FGTs extend from West Virginia all the way to Arizona. They are best made with green tomatoes found, by chance, at the farmer's market: the kind you get at the grocery store don't have enough flavor. Grab a half-dozen or so, stock up on cornmeal and breadcrumbs and fat, and go at it.
(This recipe can be made gluten free by the substitution of rice flour for the flour and gluten-free breadcrumbs for the breadcrumbs. Don't waste your money on panko; get the cheapest breadcrumbs you can find at the grocery store, or make your own from heels and odds of bread you've stored in your freezer. A blender helps here.)
You will need:
A large frying pan. Cast iron is best, but anything NOT non-stick will work.
A spatula or pancake turner.
Two large plates and a shallow bowl.
A fork. A knife. A horizontal surface onto which to slice the tomatoes.
Salt, breadcrumbs, cornmeal, pepper, at least three eggs, and a whole lot of oil or Crisco. Also four to six green tomatoes, the most symmetrical and greenest you can find.
To begin:
Obtain your tomatoes. Wash them briefly under cold running water and slice their ends off. Be miserly in slicing off the blossom end, as it's the most tender part, and promiscuous in slicing off the stem end. Green tomatoes have not yet formed a tough core, but who wants to eat stem? Now slice the tomatoes.
Some people swear by thick slices, at least a half-inch. I find I get better results with thinner slices--anything from a quarter-inch to almost paper-thin, depending on my mood and skill with the knife.
After slicing your fruit, lay them flat on a large plate or cutting board and salt them. You don't have to go nuts with the salt; this step is meant to draw out the extra juice and keep the breading from getting soggy. While they're sweating on the cutting board or plate, set up your breading station: on the first plate, dump a good amount of plain flour. On the second, dump equal amounts of breadcrumbs and corn meal, mixed well. I use a blender to do this because I am FANCY.
In the shallow bowl, mix up as many egg whites as you can scrounge up. Do not use whole eggs for this; the fat in the yolk will make your tomatoes soggy.
Now melt some Crisco (or lard) or heat up some vegetable oil (not olive!) (not butter!) (bacon grease is okay and traditional) in your frypan. You want it hot enough that a little pinch of flour sizzles when you toss it in there. Keep the heat at medium or medium-high. A half-inch of melted fat in the pan is the right amount. Too much and you'll end up with soggy, greasy tomatoes. Too little, and the fat will suck off all the cornmeal and burn.
Take your sliced tomatoes and pepper them. Press them gently into the flour. You want them coated with flour on each flat side. Don't worry about the edges where the skin is; they'll take care of themselves. (I do not recommend shaking the tomatoes with flour in a bag, as this will cause the innards of the tomatoes to fall out. Take the time to press them into the flour and you'll be much happier.)
Now dip them into the egg white. This will make your fingers gooey. Coat them with the breadcrumb-and-cornmeal mixture and set them aside in a single layer to wait for frying.
When the fat is hot, place five or so tomato slices into it. You want them to be uncrowded and in a single layer. Let them sit and sizzle until you see that they're beginning to get brown up the sides. Turn them carefully and allow to sizzle for a couple minutes more--the second side takes much, much less time than the first.
Remove to paper towels, (or do what the finest cook I know does: use slices of cheap white bread in place of paper towels. Use those bread slices to drain everything from bacon to fish, and then, at the end of a week or so, grill them by themselves and serve them with lots of ham gravy) and drain.
Continue in this way until the fat starts to smell like burning cornmeal. When that happens, stop everything. Take the pan off the heat and let it cool for a half-hour or so (your tomatoes will wait, I promise), then pour the fat out of the pan and replace it with clean fat. This step is essential. Otherwise, you'll end up with burnt-tasting FGTs.
You can eat them out of hand. You can layer them with slices of good mild cheese, or grate a tiny amount of good hard goat-cheese over them. You can cover them with shrimp or ham or sausage gravy. You can, if you like, layer them in a casserole with fresh sliced zucchini and ripe tomatoes and a little grilled eggplant and call it Southern Ratatouille, but I won't eat it.
They are best eaten as they are, with extra salt if you need it, off a plate, on a porch or in a kitchen in the middle of the dog days, below the Mason-Dixon line. You can fry okra or catfish if you have any cornmeal left over and feel very virtuous about not wasting food. I layer them with fresh mozzarella if I'm feeling fancy, or throw them into a roll with mayo, lettuce, and cheese and call it an FGT po-boy.
But most often I eat them as they come out of the pan, crisp and tangy and citrusy. These are the perfect bridge food between the humid hot horrible summer days of August and the crisper fall days to come. Enjoy.
At some point in the last ten years, though, I learned to make fried green tomatoes. They're not economical--very few people have enough tomato plants that finding a use for them is necessary, at the end of the season. They're not Paleo, or Atkins, or Clean--they're something you make as a special treat, to serve with fresh mozarella or shrimp or sausages, or just on their own, as soon as they come out of the pan.
They are purely Southern, in the sense that some version of FGTs extend from West Virginia all the way to Arizona. They are best made with green tomatoes found, by chance, at the farmer's market: the kind you get at the grocery store don't have enough flavor. Grab a half-dozen or so, stock up on cornmeal and breadcrumbs and fat, and go at it.
(This recipe can be made gluten free by the substitution of rice flour for the flour and gluten-free breadcrumbs for the breadcrumbs. Don't waste your money on panko; get the cheapest breadcrumbs you can find at the grocery store, or make your own from heels and odds of bread you've stored in your freezer. A blender helps here.)
You will need:
A large frying pan. Cast iron is best, but anything NOT non-stick will work.
A spatula or pancake turner.
Two large plates and a shallow bowl.
A fork. A knife. A horizontal surface onto which to slice the tomatoes.
Salt, breadcrumbs, cornmeal, pepper, at least three eggs, and a whole lot of oil or Crisco. Also four to six green tomatoes, the most symmetrical and greenest you can find.
To begin:
Obtain your tomatoes. Wash them briefly under cold running water and slice their ends off. Be miserly in slicing off the blossom end, as it's the most tender part, and promiscuous in slicing off the stem end. Green tomatoes have not yet formed a tough core, but who wants to eat stem? Now slice the tomatoes.
Some people swear by thick slices, at least a half-inch. I find I get better results with thinner slices--anything from a quarter-inch to almost paper-thin, depending on my mood and skill with the knife.
After slicing your fruit, lay them flat on a large plate or cutting board and salt them. You don't have to go nuts with the salt; this step is meant to draw out the extra juice and keep the breading from getting soggy. While they're sweating on the cutting board or plate, set up your breading station: on the first plate, dump a good amount of plain flour. On the second, dump equal amounts of breadcrumbs and corn meal, mixed well. I use a blender to do this because I am FANCY.
In the shallow bowl, mix up as many egg whites as you can scrounge up. Do not use whole eggs for this; the fat in the yolk will make your tomatoes soggy.
Now melt some Crisco (or lard) or heat up some vegetable oil (not olive!) (not butter!) (bacon grease is okay and traditional) in your frypan. You want it hot enough that a little pinch of flour sizzles when you toss it in there. Keep the heat at medium or medium-high. A half-inch of melted fat in the pan is the right amount. Too much and you'll end up with soggy, greasy tomatoes. Too little, and the fat will suck off all the cornmeal and burn.
Take your sliced tomatoes and pepper them. Press them gently into the flour. You want them coated with flour on each flat side. Don't worry about the edges where the skin is; they'll take care of themselves. (I do not recommend shaking the tomatoes with flour in a bag, as this will cause the innards of the tomatoes to fall out. Take the time to press them into the flour and you'll be much happier.)
Now dip them into the egg white. This will make your fingers gooey. Coat them with the breadcrumb-and-cornmeal mixture and set them aside in a single layer to wait for frying.
When the fat is hot, place five or so tomato slices into it. You want them to be uncrowded and in a single layer. Let them sit and sizzle until you see that they're beginning to get brown up the sides. Turn them carefully and allow to sizzle for a couple minutes more--the second side takes much, much less time than the first.
Remove to paper towels, (or do what the finest cook I know does: use slices of cheap white bread in place of paper towels. Use those bread slices to drain everything from bacon to fish, and then, at the end of a week or so, grill them by themselves and serve them with lots of ham gravy) and drain.
Continue in this way until the fat starts to smell like burning cornmeal. When that happens, stop everything. Take the pan off the heat and let it cool for a half-hour or so (your tomatoes will wait, I promise), then pour the fat out of the pan and replace it with clean fat. This step is essential. Otherwise, you'll end up with burnt-tasting FGTs.
You can eat them out of hand. You can layer them with slices of good mild cheese, or grate a tiny amount of good hard goat-cheese over them. You can cover them with shrimp or ham or sausage gravy. You can, if you like, layer them in a casserole with fresh sliced zucchini and ripe tomatoes and a little grilled eggplant and call it Southern Ratatouille, but I won't eat it.
They are best eaten as they are, with extra salt if you need it, off a plate, on a porch or in a kitchen in the middle of the dog days, below the Mason-Dixon line. You can fry okra or catfish if you have any cornmeal left over and feel very virtuous about not wasting food. I layer them with fresh mozzarella if I'm feeling fancy, or throw them into a roll with mayo, lettuce, and cheese and call it an FGT po-boy.
But most often I eat them as they come out of the pan, crisp and tangy and citrusy. These are the perfect bridge food between the humid hot horrible summer days of August and the crisper fall days to come. Enjoy.
Rabu, 17 Juli 2013
A surgeon walks into a neurocritical care unit. . . .
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.
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.
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.
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