Sometimes all you can do is Laugh
The day is going alright, nothing out of the ordinary really. My second patient of the day told me I was pretty and asked me to make him some fried chicken, and a man with a clogged catheter kept grabbing and massaging his penis in pain, but really that was par for the course.
It was nearing the end of the day, and I was hoping to get off on time, but no such luck. We get a late discharge that was supposed to be picked up at 430pm (it being 530pm), but we knew we could bust the call out fast, so we wouldn't be so much overtime. My partner goes towards the room and I begin my paperwork. Suddenly my partner frantically gestures at me from down the hall and points as a woman is striding towards me. Immediately I recognize her.
Now, I am all about patient privacy and HIPAA. If someone in an elevator, even a nurse asks me who I'm picking up, I won't tell them. I'll say something like "3rd floor" and leave it at that. If they say "are you picking up so and so?" I'll usually say no, even if we are, so that privacy remains intact. I cover all my paperwork and I keep everything in front of me so no one can see. After all, you wouldn't want strangers to know your business. Two big pet peeves of mine are nosy people who ask too many questions and people who look over my shoulder while I'm working. I'm trying to concentrate on reading paperwork and deciphering doctor handwriting (which is akin to hieroglyphics written with someone's feet), the last thing I need or want is someone hovering over me.
The lady in question had committed two of my pet peeves. While I was picking up a different patient off the same floor, she tried to grill me for information on who I was picking up. She told me a name, and I had said no (which was true at the time), but she would not stop asking me questions. "What room is this person in? Is it a man or a woman? What disease do they have?" She then walks away only to turn around a minute later to try and leer over my shoulder at the paperwork, to which I give her a death glare and kindly ask her to give me some space. My partner is gesturing at me frantically to tell me that this woman is in fact, our patient's wife. Thankfully she walks by without much fuss other than a "I knew I'd see you again."
Now, I'm already in a bad mood of sorts due to getting this overtime job. While most people would say that overtime = money, after working 10 straight hours at my job, I'd rather get off on time, eat dinner and relax before going to bed. I put on my best "holy crap am I happy to be dragging your half dead ass to the cesspool that you call a nursing home" smile and walk into the room.
Me: *waves*
DM: Dementia Man
Me: "Hi sir, how are you today?" *smile smile*
DM: "Call me Sarge. I served under Patton in '44 but I was only 18, so I didn't know what to do with the mademoiselles."
Me: "Uh...ok." *smile faltering*
DM: "What's your name?"
Me: "Ariella."
DM: "That's very pretty, you're a very pretty girl. Do you like Greek men?"
Me: "Uh..."
DM: "Are you married?"
Me: "I have a boyfriend."
DM: "Tell him I'm handsome and rich, because I am."
So now I'm officially weirded out, since he's trying to flirt with me while fiddling with his blood/urine filled foley catheter tube,but not overly so. We move him over to the stretcher and he keeps blabbing on about being a dancer and all sorts of stuff. I smile and nod, thinking about the DNR that I will sign in a few decades to make sure I get the plug pulled before I get this badly demented. We start our drive and he comments about the smooth ride, so I figure I'm out of the woods. Oh silly me.
He turns to me and asks me if I'm Greek. I say no, to which he replies with, "you must be Italian, Italian girls are wild," and then proceeds to tell me, in GRAPHIC DETAIL, the experience he had during "the war" with an Italian hooker. I sit through it, trying not to imagine a large, sweaty, hairy, Greek man and an equally large, sweaty and hairy Italian hooker doing the nasty (no offense to the Greeks and Italians here) when I hear a noise. I immediately think "fart," and dismiss it until the man looks at me, full grin on his face and says, "I farted." I smile and say it's ok, only to hear, "too late, I pooped myself too."
The smell assaults me instantly, my nostrils burning and my eyes watering. I can take smells to be sure, but whatever hospital food this man had ingested over the course of the week had all come out at once in a bouquet that I could only describe as "hungover bathroom smell mixed with old cheese." I look to the heavens and ask whatever deity up there to give me the lung capacity to hold my breath for the next five miles.
When the second fart hits, and I just have to laugh.
It was nearing the end of the day, and I was hoping to get off on time, but no such luck. We get a late discharge that was supposed to be picked up at 430pm (it being 530pm), but we knew we could bust the call out fast, so we wouldn't be so much overtime. My partner goes towards the room and I begin my paperwork. Suddenly my partner frantically gestures at me from down the hall and points as a woman is striding towards me. Immediately I recognize her.
Now, I am all about patient privacy and HIPAA. If someone in an elevator, even a nurse asks me who I'm picking up, I won't tell them. I'll say something like "3rd floor" and leave it at that. If they say "are you picking up so and so?" I'll usually say no, even if we are, so that privacy remains intact. I cover all my paperwork and I keep everything in front of me so no one can see. After all, you wouldn't want strangers to know your business. Two big pet peeves of mine are nosy people who ask too many questions and people who look over my shoulder while I'm working. I'm trying to concentrate on reading paperwork and deciphering doctor handwriting (which is akin to hieroglyphics written with someone's feet), the last thing I need or want is someone hovering over me.
The lady in question had committed two of my pet peeves. While I was picking up a different patient off the same floor, she tried to grill me for information on who I was picking up. She told me a name, and I had said no (which was true at the time), but she would not stop asking me questions. "What room is this person in? Is it a man or a woman? What disease do they have?" She then walks away only to turn around a minute later to try and leer over my shoulder at the paperwork, to which I give her a death glare and kindly ask her to give me some space. My partner is gesturing at me frantically to tell me that this woman is in fact, our patient's wife. Thankfully she walks by without much fuss other than a "I knew I'd see you again."
Now, I'm already in a bad mood of sorts due to getting this overtime job. While most people would say that overtime = money, after working 10 straight hours at my job, I'd rather get off on time, eat dinner and relax before going to bed. I put on my best "holy crap am I happy to be dragging your half dead ass to the cesspool that you call a nursing home" smile and walk into the room.
Me: *waves*
DM: Dementia Man
Me: "Hi sir, how are you today?" *smile smile*
DM: "Call me Sarge. I served under Patton in '44 but I was only 18, so I didn't know what to do with the mademoiselles."
Me: "Uh...ok." *smile faltering*
DM: "What's your name?"
Me: "Ariella."
DM: "That's very pretty, you're a very pretty girl. Do you like Greek men?"
Me: "Uh..."
DM: "Are you married?"
Me: "I have a boyfriend."
DM: "Tell him I'm handsome and rich, because I am."
So now I'm officially weirded out, since he's trying to flirt with me while fiddling with his blood/urine filled foley catheter tube,but not overly so. We move him over to the stretcher and he keeps blabbing on about being a dancer and all sorts of stuff. I smile and nod, thinking about the DNR that I will sign in a few decades to make sure I get the plug pulled before I get this badly demented. We start our drive and he comments about the smooth ride, so I figure I'm out of the woods. Oh silly me.
He turns to me and asks me if I'm Greek. I say no, to which he replies with, "you must be Italian, Italian girls are wild," and then proceeds to tell me, in GRAPHIC DETAIL, the experience he had during "the war" with an Italian hooker. I sit through it, trying not to imagine a large, sweaty, hairy, Greek man and an equally large, sweaty and hairy Italian hooker doing the nasty (no offense to the Greeks and Italians here) when I hear a noise. I immediately think "fart," and dismiss it until the man looks at me, full grin on his face and says, "I farted." I smile and say it's ok, only to hear, "too late, I pooped myself too."
The smell assaults me instantly, my nostrils burning and my eyes watering. I can take smells to be sure, but whatever hospital food this man had ingested over the course of the week had all come out at once in a bouquet that I could only describe as "hungover bathroom smell mixed with old cheese." I look to the heavens and ask whatever deity up there to give me the lung capacity to hold my breath for the next five miles.
When the second fart hits, and I just have to laugh.