I like talking to my pediatric patients, because most of them are full of comedic gems that just can't be ignored.
Last week I was working in Fast Track. Fast Track is a section of our ER that we send the walking wounded - ear infections, sprains, strains. . .okay, basically it's where we send everyone that didn't need to come to the damn ER in the first place. But the nice part about it is that it's fast, people don't have time to get cranky and I get my own little fridge.
We see a lot of kids in Fast Track, simply because a lot of kids come in with the complaint of "I know she's fine, I just want to make sure." This is perfectly fine. I always tell worried parents that I'd rather have them in the ER and have it be nothing, rather than stay home and it was something serious. (Usually while I'm saying this, inwardly I'm making sarcastic comments about how pinkeye isn't an emergency, it's not deadly, there's pediatricians for a reason...yeah, I'm two-faced. Sue me.)
We've been on the prowl lately for a pediatrician, and since I see a lot of kids I just ask the parents if they like their pediatrician or who they could recommend. So far the #1 name I've heard is Kevin White. Dr. White is the old-school badass sort of pediatrician that will see his own patients and even check up on them if they're in the hospital. I've never heard a complaint against him. So I'd been waiting for a chance to ask one of his patients what they thought.
My chance came last week, when a little kidlet came in for some reason or another (To protect her privacy and such, we'll just leave it at that.) Jackpot! Her pediatrician was Dr. White! So while I was discharging her and her mom, I casually mentioned I was pregnant (which is obvious to most people at this point, or they just think I'm smuggling a grapefruit in my pants) and I was looking for a doctor for the baby. So I asked Little Miss, "Do you like Dr. White? Do you think he'd be a good doctor for my baby?"
Talk about opening the floodgates. This kid gushed about her pediatrician like he was Hannah Montana. He was nice, he smiles a lot, he's not mean, his shots don't hurt, he walks on water, etc. The mom interjected (when she could) to agree that they really loved him as their pediatrician. Not to be outdone, Little Miss leaned over and shouted into my belly button, "YOU'LL LIKE DR. WHITE A LOT, NURSEBABY. HE HAS THE BEST STICKERS."
Well, that settled it. I mean, can you ask for a better reference? No kid of mine is getting crappy stickers.
Afterthought: I still wonder how that kid knew the baby was in my tummy. She was pretty small, so she must have had a little brother or sister. Or she was just a genius ahead of her time.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The Hits Just Keep Coming
Sometimes I really wonder I get complacent, because right when I think everything is going relatively well, life hits me in the face with a flaming shitbag.
My job is going to hell. Before I left for Hawaii, my boss essentially told me I wasn't ever going to be anything but an RN II at my job. Basically, that means just a plain staff nurse, no leadership or anything like that. I can't really handle that, because I know I'm pretty good at my job and I'm a pretty good leader, too. So I started looking for other jobs. I don't really like the other hospitals in Ventura, so we started looking at moving North again. I got a recruitment from a big hospital in Montana, and it looked really good for awhile. We could actually afford to move and it'd be way less expensive; our kid wouldn't be an idiot SoCal native and I could get away from this jungle.
Well, not anymore. Today we got a letter from the State of Washington saying they're going to garnish Matt's wages because of a medical bill from six years ago. Y'know, the medical expenses from when he almost died.
What the fuck? I mean, pardon my language, but seriously: What the fuck? You can't pay a medical bill so here, we're going to take your paycheck? Do they even know or realize how bad we need that paycheck twice a month? It's not like we're down here rubbing elbows with movie stars and swimming in cement ponds. We're poor. Anywhere else in the nation, we'd be considered middle-to-upper class; in Southern California, we're poor. We have no possessions. We have no house, we have no stocks, we have no savings account. We have nothing, but that's okay because now the State of Washington found a way to subtract something from nothing. I applaud you, Evergreen State. Now, because of you I can't afford to move, I can't afford to stay here, and I'm not even sure I can afford to have my baby. Where am I supposed to let it sleep? In the crate with Moxie?
Sure, it's easy to blame it all on the State, but part of me knows that it's really my fault and Matt's fault, but when he told me he was paying the bills, I believed him. It doesn't matter. When you owe money, you're not a person and you don't have needs or a life; you're just a debt that has to be collected.
I thought that after yesterday, today could only be better; it was my own fault for thinking that.
My job is going to hell. Before I left for Hawaii, my boss essentially told me I wasn't ever going to be anything but an RN II at my job. Basically, that means just a plain staff nurse, no leadership or anything like that. I can't really handle that, because I know I'm pretty good at my job and I'm a pretty good leader, too. So I started looking for other jobs. I don't really like the other hospitals in Ventura, so we started looking at moving North again. I got a recruitment from a big hospital in Montana, and it looked really good for awhile. We could actually afford to move and it'd be way less expensive; our kid wouldn't be an idiot SoCal native and I could get away from this jungle.
Well, not anymore. Today we got a letter from the State of Washington saying they're going to garnish Matt's wages because of a medical bill from six years ago. Y'know, the medical expenses from when he almost died.
What the fuck? I mean, pardon my language, but seriously: What the fuck? You can't pay a medical bill so here, we're going to take your paycheck? Do they even know or realize how bad we need that paycheck twice a month? It's not like we're down here rubbing elbows with movie stars and swimming in cement ponds. We're poor. Anywhere else in the nation, we'd be considered middle-to-upper class; in Southern California, we're poor. We have no possessions. We have no house, we have no stocks, we have no savings account. We have nothing, but that's okay because now the State of Washington found a way to subtract something from nothing. I applaud you, Evergreen State. Now, because of you I can't afford to move, I can't afford to stay here, and I'm not even sure I can afford to have my baby. Where am I supposed to let it sleep? In the crate with Moxie?
Sure, it's easy to blame it all on the State, but part of me knows that it's really my fault and Matt's fault, but when he told me he was paying the bills, I believed him. It doesn't matter. When you owe money, you're not a person and you don't have needs or a life; you're just a debt that has to be collected.
I thought that after yesterday, today could only be better; it was my own fault for thinking that.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Guilt
My friend lost her baby today.
I hate using that phrase, but the truth is ugly and hard to say. She was my pregnancy buddy; we were only two weeks apart and she was one of the people I could turn to when I needed to whine about my misery. She struggled from the beginning with this baby, but that doesn't mean she wanted it any less; I think she wanted hers more than anyone else. I wish that love and affection and determination could keep a baby alive. It hurts my heart that their best case scenario was Down's Syndrome. I feel a little vacancy in losing this bond with her, and I feel a certain sort of melancholy guilt nestled in right beside my healthy baby.
I want to cry, but I can't. I just feel more alone instead.
I hate using that phrase, but the truth is ugly and hard to say. She was my pregnancy buddy; we were only two weeks apart and she was one of the people I could turn to when I needed to whine about my misery. She struggled from the beginning with this baby, but that doesn't mean she wanted it any less; I think she wanted hers more than anyone else. I wish that love and affection and determination could keep a baby alive. It hurts my heart that their best case scenario was Down's Syndrome. I feel a little vacancy in losing this bond with her, and I feel a certain sort of melancholy guilt nestled in right beside my healthy baby.
I want to cry, but I can't. I just feel more alone instead.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
ENPC, or "The Class You Should Never Take While You're Pregnant"
Sometimes I ask myself why I became a nurse because I have horrible, horrible test anxiety. Nurses are called "life long learners" for a reason - we have to take stupid classes every five minutes so we can keep our license and prove we're still smart. Or that we can at least fake being smart.
This weekend (my weekend off, of course) I was stuck in a class called ENPC - Emergency Nursing Pediatric Course. I say "stuck" because I hate this marathon, 10-hour-a-day classes where you spend the whole weekend in a strange hospital's basement with other ER nurses. In case you don't know, we ER nurses are not really a tribal community. We are territorial. I'd wager that the reason they don't use live patients in the classes is because each hospital-tribe would fight over it. "This patient belongs to the she-tribe of Community Memorial!" "Guess again, bitches! We claim this sickly one for the warrior-women of County General!" And so on. It'd be ugly.
Anyway, so here I am in a class that, put bluntly, is twenty hours of all the ways kids can die and what we're supposed to do about it. Now, we ER folk can all agree on one thing - there's nothing worse than the death of a child. Ever. Nothing. I don't think I really need to argue this point, because even people without kids can agree on it. If you know a really, really sick kid is coming in to the Pit, everyone sort of breaks out in a cold sweat; we breathe in a paper bag or busy ourselves getting the room ready, or whatever we have to do to keep that nauseating fear at bay.
But let's stop talking about that. That's not really a lighthearted blog discussion and I don't want to bring anyone down. The point is, this is the LAST class that I, Geriann "Please Sedate Me So I Can Stop Worrying" Bartz, needed to be taking while pregnant. I think my right hand was permanently attached to my little belly. By Saturday afternoon, I was entirely positive this kid is going straight into a Bubble like John Travolta and not getting out until he's eighteen. Public School? No way. I hope she likes Swiss Boarding School on the highest mountain in the Alps. I'll pay for the therapy when he's older and tearfully confesses her mother never let her eat a hot dog, it's fine. I'm preserving my child's airway, damn it!
Of course, the discussion came up, as it always does, about drunk kids. Ah, the Drunk Kids. We've had everything from drunk Cinderella to Drunk Naked Girl in the Pit. I've dealt with the lovey, happy drunks in their pretty prom dresses and a fifteen year old, ninety-pound cheerleader that kicked my ass even though I outweigh her by. . .well, by enough not to endure the humiliation of her beating me up. I've been called the worst of things by the worst of brats. But what kills me is that when most of the parents (most, definitely not all) show up for these kids, there's no death. The parents coo and coddle and smooth the hair of their precious intoxicated little hellion and apologize for her spitting in the nurse's face.
I don't get it. Maybe I will when I'm a parent, but I was of the impression growing up that if I showed up drunk in an ER, I'd be leaving it in a hearse. Then again, when I was a teenager I didn't know people went to an Emergency Room for being drunk. My mother wasn't even violent or mean or even strict (sorry Mom, you know it's true). I'd at least be grounded, if not on a ventilator. But most of these parents come in, tears shining, and they just tell their kid how much they love them and what a great kid they are for pissing on the gurney.
Is it a positive reinforcement thing? Is it trying not to make a scene? I always remember the parents that come in furious - one mother made her sobered-up fourteen year old apologize to the staff for wasting time on him when they were leaving. While that's a little on the harsh side, I can see and understand that slightly more than the child who faces no repercussions for being so utterly out of control. Can some parents help me out on this one, because I'd really like to understand; a lot of these parents seem like genuinely good people who care for their kids, but are these kids learning anything by the gentle hand? No, because when I say I see the drunk kids, I see the same kids. I'm watching these teenagers grow up one blood-alcohol-level at a time, and it's a disturbing trend I think needs to be seriously addressed in this country.
This weekend (my weekend off, of course) I was stuck in a class called ENPC - Emergency Nursing Pediatric Course. I say "stuck" because I hate this marathon, 10-hour-a-day classes where you spend the whole weekend in a strange hospital's basement with other ER nurses. In case you don't know, we ER nurses are not really a tribal community. We are territorial. I'd wager that the reason they don't use live patients in the classes is because each hospital-tribe would fight over it. "This patient belongs to the she-tribe of Community Memorial!" "Guess again, bitches! We claim this sickly one for the warrior-women of County General!" And so on. It'd be ugly.
Anyway, so here I am in a class that, put bluntly, is twenty hours of all the ways kids can die and what we're supposed to do about it. Now, we ER folk can all agree on one thing - there's nothing worse than the death of a child. Ever. Nothing. I don't think I really need to argue this point, because even people without kids can agree on it. If you know a really, really sick kid is coming in to the Pit, everyone sort of breaks out in a cold sweat; we breathe in a paper bag or busy ourselves getting the room ready, or whatever we have to do to keep that nauseating fear at bay.
But let's stop talking about that. That's not really a lighthearted blog discussion and I don't want to bring anyone down. The point is, this is the LAST class that I, Geriann "Please Sedate Me So I Can Stop Worrying" Bartz, needed to be taking while pregnant. I think my right hand was permanently attached to my little belly. By Saturday afternoon, I was entirely positive this kid is going straight into a Bubble like John Travolta and not getting out until he's eighteen. Public School? No way. I hope she likes Swiss Boarding School on the highest mountain in the Alps. I'll pay for the therapy when he's older and tearfully confesses her mother never let her eat a hot dog, it's fine. I'm preserving my child's airway, damn it!
Of course, the discussion came up, as it always does, about drunk kids. Ah, the Drunk Kids. We've had everything from drunk Cinderella to Drunk Naked Girl in the Pit. I've dealt with the lovey, happy drunks in their pretty prom dresses and a fifteen year old, ninety-pound cheerleader that kicked my ass even though I outweigh her by. . .well, by enough not to endure the humiliation of her beating me up. I've been called the worst of things by the worst of brats. But what kills me is that when most of the parents (most, definitely not all) show up for these kids, there's no death. The parents coo and coddle and smooth the hair of their precious intoxicated little hellion and apologize for her spitting in the nurse's face.
I don't get it. Maybe I will when I'm a parent, but I was of the impression growing up that if I showed up drunk in an ER, I'd be leaving it in a hearse. Then again, when I was a teenager I didn't know people went to an Emergency Room for being drunk. My mother wasn't even violent or mean or even strict (sorry Mom, you know it's true). I'd at least be grounded, if not on a ventilator. But most of these parents come in, tears shining, and they just tell their kid how much they love them and what a great kid they are for pissing on the gurney.
Is it a positive reinforcement thing? Is it trying not to make a scene? I always remember the parents that come in furious - one mother made her sobered-up fourteen year old apologize to the staff for wasting time on him when they were leaving. While that's a little on the harsh side, I can see and understand that slightly more than the child who faces no repercussions for being so utterly out of control. Can some parents help me out on this one, because I'd really like to understand; a lot of these parents seem like genuinely good people who care for their kids, but are these kids learning anything by the gentle hand? No, because when I say I see the drunk kids, I see the same kids. I'm watching these teenagers grow up one blood-alcohol-level at a time, and it's a disturbing trend I think needs to be seriously addressed in this country.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Lesson Learned, Tables Turned
I have a somewhat shameful confession.
I was never all that understanding of pregnant women coming in to the ER for abdominal pain. My response always used to be, "What do they expect us to do this early? They're pregnant! They need to suck it up!"
I definitely learned my lesson today.
My shift started out like any other; lately I've been having low back pain on the left side that was really bugging me, but I put it to baby-growing and stuck to tylenol. But today, the pain got progressively worse, and then it started to radiate around to my belly, where it would cramp up. I've been having the regular old cramps since I got pregnant, but today was different. And truth be told, it freaked me out.
Now, I have to admit I wrestled with saying anything for a good two hours while I was at work. But the doctors and nurses there know me way too well, and they know that you can tell a lot about what's up with me just by looking at my face. So after three nurses and at least one doctor asked if I was okay, I figured maybe I should speak up.
Well, that led to me being promptly checked in to see one of the docs. All of a sudden, I was one of those expecting women that's doing exactly what drove me nuts!
It was at that point that I realized that the little spark inside of me mattered a lot more than what anyone thought of me at work. I didn't care if the cramps ripped me in half and left me puking like the kid from the Exorcist; I wanted to know if my baby was okay. It was all I cared about. So I was poked and prodded and peed in a cup, and had an ultrasound, and thank goodness, everything was perfect. Everyone at work babied me (I'm spoiled rotten there) and the doctor gently told me to get the hell out when I asked if I could finish my shift.
I'm really thankful for the people I work with. They're like a family away from my family most days; they all genuinely care and are as excited about this baby as probably anyone in my family. It's nice, and I definitely learned a good lesson not to judge why anyone would come rushing in. Maybe it was a lesson I needed to learn.
Funny story of the day: Girl came in and even after two urine tests, a blood test, and an ultrasound solemnly swore to us that she'd never had sex, even though there was a fetus in her womb. Ariele and I were talking about this "phenomena" when I said, "Well, she could be right. I mean, I've only heard of one other case like that. Granted, it was pretty famous. They even wrote a book about it."
I was never all that understanding of pregnant women coming in to the ER for abdominal pain. My response always used to be, "What do they expect us to do this early? They're pregnant! They need to suck it up!"
I definitely learned my lesson today.
My shift started out like any other; lately I've been having low back pain on the left side that was really bugging me, but I put it to baby-growing and stuck to tylenol. But today, the pain got progressively worse, and then it started to radiate around to my belly, where it would cramp up. I've been having the regular old cramps since I got pregnant, but today was different. And truth be told, it freaked me out.
Now, I have to admit I wrestled with saying anything for a good two hours while I was at work. But the doctors and nurses there know me way too well, and they know that you can tell a lot about what's up with me just by looking at my face. So after three nurses and at least one doctor asked if I was okay, I figured maybe I should speak up.
Well, that led to me being promptly checked in to see one of the docs. All of a sudden, I was one of those expecting women that's doing exactly what drove me nuts!
It was at that point that I realized that the little spark inside of me mattered a lot more than what anyone thought of me at work. I didn't care if the cramps ripped me in half and left me puking like the kid from the Exorcist; I wanted to know if my baby was okay. It was all I cared about. So I was poked and prodded and peed in a cup, and had an ultrasound, and thank goodness, everything was perfect. Everyone at work babied me (I'm spoiled rotten there) and the doctor gently told me to get the hell out when I asked if I could finish my shift.
I'm really thankful for the people I work with. They're like a family away from my family most days; they all genuinely care and are as excited about this baby as probably anyone in my family. It's nice, and I definitely learned a good lesson not to judge why anyone would come rushing in. Maybe it was a lesson I needed to learn.
Funny story of the day: Girl came in and even after two urine tests, a blood test, and an ultrasound solemnly swore to us that she'd never had sex, even though there was a fetus in her womb. Ariele and I were talking about this "phenomena" when I said, "Well, she could be right. I mean, I've only heard of one other case like that. Granted, it was pretty famous. They even wrote a book about it."
Friday, April 11, 2008
Ways to piss off your ER nurse, Lesson 1
I didn't have much to post today, since all I did was play video games and paint miniatures and I didn't foresee doing anything more constructive. So, I thought I'd make a post on a combination of my soon-to-be activities: Parents and the Emergency Room.
Now, I get it. Kids get sick and parents freak. Nobody wants to see their baby sick. I get it! But some people really have to push my buttons. And for the record, I have a lot of buttons and they're very sensitive and they lead to a very sarcastic, acidic response that few can tolerate. I never mind the parents that come in with a sick or injured child and act a bit panicky or hysterical. This, I can understand. But the following examples - which I see on a regular basis - I have very, very little tolerance for.
Example #1 - The Psychic
This parent is always a fun arrival. Always. I say "fun" in the way I mean having a root canal is fun. These parents bring in their child with a panicky air because the kid's running a fever. Okay, fair enough. I've had the conversation below at least four times a month.
"Joanie (or whatever the kid's name is) is running a raging fever! I checked her all through the night and she's not getting better, and I don't know what to do!"
"Okay. What was her temperature when you checked it?"
"I don't know."
"Uh. . .pardon?"
"I don't know. We don't have a thermometer."
"But. . .okay, how did you 'know' she had a fever?"
"She felt hot."
". . .Okay. Did you give her any Tylenol or Motrin?"
"We can do that?"
YES. YES YOU CAN. YOU CAN GIVE YOUR CHILD MEDICATION TO REDUCE THEIR FEVER. I KNOW IT'S CRAZY. I KNOW I'M BEING A REVOLUTIONARY HERE. Also, YOU CANNOT RECORD A TEMPERATURE WITH YOUR HAND. Nine times out of ten, we take a temp on this kid and it's normal. Completely normal. The other one time, the kid has a fever of 105 and looks like death warmed over. Even so, BUY A THERMOMETER AND USE IT. I get the excuse a lot that "oh, little Bobby doesn't like the thermometer". Well, I don't like doing a lot of things, but guess what? He's going to hate the shot of antibiotics even more. Buy. A. Thermometer.
Example #2 - The Freeloader
Some parents, people or patients like to come to the Emergency Room and think it's a free-for-all. Free food, free blankets, free beverages. It's like flying first class! Never mind the fact that walking in, it sounds like a bomb going off and people are dying.
These people probably make me the most irritated out of the entire bunch of Parents who Piss Us Off. These people - usually the mothers, sorry - are the ones that bring in a child, usually a very small infant, because there's nothing wrong with it. The complaint is usually "He won't stop crying". Invariably, when we meet this child they are sleeping peacefully in their carseat. I'm sure crying is annoying, but crying is not an emergency. Ever. Not breathing? Emergency. Fussy? Not an emergency. Still with me? Okay, moving on.
It's not even that they bring their infant in for a bogus complaint. It's the real reason they bring him in. These people like to see how much they can get for free. They never have a diaper bag with them. For some reason, they don't have pacifiers, blankets, bottles, anything at home, they claim. They can't afford "all that stuff". (And we can tell the parents that are scraping together the cash for their kid, and we typically send them home with anything and everything we can.)
Basically, these (usually) women bring their babies in to see how much they can get from us. Diapers, formula, pacifiers, I've had a few even ask for baby clothes, a diaper bag, and a car seat. (The lady supposedly without a carseat learned quickly she'd outdone herself - I called CPS. It's illegal in the State of California for us to send home a new baby without making sure they have a carseat - why should it be any different if they're a few months old? And also, every hospital in this area GIVES YOU A DIAPER BAG WHEN YOU DELIVER.)
And it never fails, NEVER FAILS, that once they're done begging for baby needs, you notice. . . she's wearing expensive jewelry. She's got acrylic nails with fancy airbrush crap and little jewels on them. Her clothing is more expensive than anything you wear. And you sigh and give them a couple diapers and a pacifier, because even though you want to beat the shit out of her, it's not really fair to make the kid suffer.
Example #3 - The Enemy
And last but not least, the parents that bring so much happiness and joy to my life.
Let's be clear here. Kids hate me. Kids are smart and they recognize nurses and doctors, and those little boogers hate us. We are the enemy. We are needle-slinging, pain-causing, unsmiling jerks who act nice just so we can stab them. Kids that I've given shots to have seen me in the grocery store and ran screaming from the aisle. No joke.
That being said, a lot of this fear we can handle and process, and even do away with. I'd like to think we're pretty nice at my hospital. We have coloring books and movies and all of us nurses pretty much love kids, so we go the extra mile to be sure the experience is least traumatic as possible for kiddo and parent.
And then we get these parents. These parents are the one that, when the kid gets a little teary or even starts crying when he's dragged into the emergency room for whatever reason, the parent says, "Knock it off, or the nurse will give you a shot."
THANKS. THANKS FOR THAT. Now, not only is the child crying, his worst fears have been confirmed; I have an enormous needle at the ready to jab him whenever I feel like it, because I'm a sick, twisted adult that spends all day torturing kids just like him. So now, the kid is screaming, the parent is screaming at him to stop or the medical staff will do horrible things, and I'm sitting there just. . .staring.
Do these threats work? Ever? Seriously. I should know for when Peanut is born. Should I be taking notes here? My guess is a big, fat flaming NO.
I've started correcting parents on this little episode lately. I just can't stand it. It's not fair to the child OR to the staff that want to help that they're using us to threaten their child into submission. It never works anyway! And we KNOW the kid is going to cry around us. It's going to happen. We're prepared for it, it doesn't make the child a bad kid. I'd rather have the kid grow up and realize that when he was in the ER, yeah, some things hurt but the nurse was honest about it. Instead of "I cried in the ER and Mommy said if I didn't stop they'd give me a shot, AND THEY DID. I HATE THE WORLD."
So let's recap:
1. Keep a thermometer in your house. Yes, you can give Tylenol or Motrin for fever.
2. We are not a free Babies R' Us. We're here for when your kid really needs us.
3. Don't threaten your kid with what we may or may not do to them. It's only going to make their experience in the ER worse.
I'm sure I'll get some mother or father that stumbles across this and tries to make me feel bad for being so hard on poor, stressed, overworked parents, but I'm not ripping on those parents. I see plenty of poor, stressed, overworked parents that don't do ANY of these things.
Now, I get it. Kids get sick and parents freak. Nobody wants to see their baby sick. I get it! But some people really have to push my buttons. And for the record, I have a lot of buttons and they're very sensitive and they lead to a very sarcastic, acidic response that few can tolerate. I never mind the parents that come in with a sick or injured child and act a bit panicky or hysterical. This, I can understand. But the following examples - which I see on a regular basis - I have very, very little tolerance for.
Example #1 - The Psychic
This parent is always a fun arrival. Always. I say "fun" in the way I mean having a root canal is fun. These parents bring in their child with a panicky air because the kid's running a fever. Okay, fair enough. I've had the conversation below at least four times a month.
"Joanie (or whatever the kid's name is) is running a raging fever! I checked her all through the night and she's not getting better, and I don't know what to do!"
"Okay. What was her temperature when you checked it?"
"I don't know."
"Uh. . .pardon?"
"I don't know. We don't have a thermometer."
"But. . .okay, how did you 'know' she had a fever?"
"She felt hot."
". . .Okay. Did you give her any Tylenol or Motrin?"
"We can do that?"
YES. YES YOU CAN. YOU CAN GIVE YOUR CHILD MEDICATION TO REDUCE THEIR FEVER. I KNOW IT'S CRAZY. I KNOW I'M BEING A REVOLUTIONARY HERE. Also, YOU CANNOT RECORD A TEMPERATURE WITH YOUR HAND. Nine times out of ten, we take a temp on this kid and it's normal. Completely normal. The other one time, the kid has a fever of 105 and looks like death warmed over. Even so, BUY A THERMOMETER AND USE IT. I get the excuse a lot that "oh, little Bobby doesn't like the thermometer". Well, I don't like doing a lot of things, but guess what? He's going to hate the shot of antibiotics even more. Buy. A. Thermometer.
Example #2 - The Freeloader
Some parents, people or patients like to come to the Emergency Room and think it's a free-for-all. Free food, free blankets, free beverages. It's like flying first class! Never mind the fact that walking in, it sounds like a bomb going off and people are dying.
These people probably make me the most irritated out of the entire bunch of Parents who Piss Us Off. These people - usually the mothers, sorry - are the ones that bring in a child, usually a very small infant, because there's nothing wrong with it. The complaint is usually "He won't stop crying". Invariably, when we meet this child they are sleeping peacefully in their carseat. I'm sure crying is annoying, but crying is not an emergency. Ever. Not breathing? Emergency. Fussy? Not an emergency. Still with me? Okay, moving on.
It's not even that they bring their infant in for a bogus complaint. It's the real reason they bring him in. These people like to see how much they can get for free. They never have a diaper bag with them. For some reason, they don't have pacifiers, blankets, bottles, anything at home, they claim. They can't afford "all that stuff". (And we can tell the parents that are scraping together the cash for their kid, and we typically send them home with anything and everything we can.)
Basically, these (usually) women bring their babies in to see how much they can get from us. Diapers, formula, pacifiers, I've had a few even ask for baby clothes, a diaper bag, and a car seat. (The lady supposedly without a carseat learned quickly she'd outdone herself - I called CPS. It's illegal in the State of California for us to send home a new baby without making sure they have a carseat - why should it be any different if they're a few months old? And also, every hospital in this area GIVES YOU A DIAPER BAG WHEN YOU DELIVER.)
And it never fails, NEVER FAILS, that once they're done begging for baby needs, you notice. . . she's wearing expensive jewelry. She's got acrylic nails with fancy airbrush crap and little jewels on them. Her clothing is more expensive than anything you wear. And you sigh and give them a couple diapers and a pacifier, because even though you want to beat the shit out of her, it's not really fair to make the kid suffer.
Example #3 - The Enemy
And last but not least, the parents that bring so much happiness and joy to my life.
Let's be clear here. Kids hate me. Kids are smart and they recognize nurses and doctors, and those little boogers hate us. We are the enemy. We are needle-slinging, pain-causing, unsmiling jerks who act nice just so we can stab them. Kids that I've given shots to have seen me in the grocery store and ran screaming from the aisle. No joke.
That being said, a lot of this fear we can handle and process, and even do away with. I'd like to think we're pretty nice at my hospital. We have coloring books and movies and all of us nurses pretty much love kids, so we go the extra mile to be sure the experience is least traumatic as possible for kiddo and parent.
And then we get these parents. These parents are the one that, when the kid gets a little teary or even starts crying when he's dragged into the emergency room for whatever reason, the parent says, "Knock it off, or the nurse will give you a shot."
THANKS. THANKS FOR THAT. Now, not only is the child crying, his worst fears have been confirmed; I have an enormous needle at the ready to jab him whenever I feel like it, because I'm a sick, twisted adult that spends all day torturing kids just like him. So now, the kid is screaming, the parent is screaming at him to stop or the medical staff will do horrible things, and I'm sitting there just. . .staring.
Do these threats work? Ever? Seriously. I should know for when Peanut is born. Should I be taking notes here? My guess is a big, fat flaming NO.
I've started correcting parents on this little episode lately. I just can't stand it. It's not fair to the child OR to the staff that want to help that they're using us to threaten their child into submission. It never works anyway! And we KNOW the kid is going to cry around us. It's going to happen. We're prepared for it, it doesn't make the child a bad kid. I'd rather have the kid grow up and realize that when he was in the ER, yeah, some things hurt but the nurse was honest about it. Instead of "I cried in the ER and Mommy said if I didn't stop they'd give me a shot, AND THEY DID. I HATE THE WORLD."
So let's recap:
1. Keep a thermometer in your house. Yes, you can give Tylenol or Motrin for fever.
2. We are not a free Babies R' Us. We're here for when your kid really needs us.
3. Don't threaten your kid with what we may or may not do to them. It's only going to make their experience in the ER worse.
I'm sure I'll get some mother or father that stumbles across this and tries to make me feel bad for being so hard on poor, stressed, overworked parents, but I'm not ripping on those parents. I see plenty of poor, stressed, overworked parents that don't do ANY of these things.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Q&A and the Adventure with Taxes
Well, to answer some questions to my faithful fanbase...
I'm three months/14 weeks roughly right now. My due date is October 18th, but we're hoping for the 15th since that's Jim Santoro's birthday as well as our good buddy Jeff's. As a matter of fact, because I work at the hospital it pays 100% of our delivery and aftercare. Hahahahaha. I guess there's some perks, besides getting to tie people down.
In case I haven't made it clear yet, California is weird. Not just because of the drivers and the food and the snobs, but because of this thing called State Income Tax. "Hi, you're a nurse and we want you to move here, so we're going to pay you and make you feel rich. But then we're going to tax the hell out of that paycheck so we can pay for things like wine and cheese and happy cows and more prisons and better highways for you to crash on. Enjoy the sunshine!"
Whatever.
So instead of letting Matt do the taxes on the H&R Block website this year, I said I'd go to this financial place that specializes in helping EMS workers with their taxes and such. Since I technically count as an Emergency Medical worker, I went to see them. Prepare for a shocking tale of horror.
When I show up, the lady immediately yells at me because I didn't bring my "homework". Homework? What? Lady, I didn't even do my homework in school. I'm a grown woman now and if my dog didn't feed herself, the ASPCA would be all over this apartment. I'm not what you'd call prepared. I wore a Marvel comics t-shirt and brown pants to this thing, and she's looking at me like I'm a Rhodes Scholar that forgot her dissertation. What she expected, I have no idea.
Once she realized that all I brought with me was our W-2s and a sheepish smile, she lightened up a little bit. We went through the fact that Matt and I are paying out the nose in taxes, basically, and that she couldn't save us any money but she could give us advice on how to save money for next year's rebate! I was really grateful for this, because her wisdom contained such gems as:
1. Have a baby
2. Buy a house
3. File a higher witholding
Okay, so one of those is in the works, but it's not like I can speed that up and drop the kid before April 16th. As for buying a house, I'd love to! You make some of these "starter homes" less than half a million dollars and I'll be all over it, Tax-Lady! Of course, a lot of homes here have been foreclosed because the people that owned them couldn't pay the ridiculous mortgages they have here, so there's some good deals. But looking at them, you almost have to wonder who died or was killed in the house to get that price.
Anyway, long story short: I still owe California and the Feds money. At least she told me how to enact a payment plan for this crap.
The irony of all of this is that basically, today I paid a woman who yelled at me for not bringing in the paperwork I was supposed to telepathically know to bring, who then told me she couldn't save me any money than if we'd just filed on the internet with H&R Block, and then said if I put down non-existent cash flow on a house and have my baby ASAP, I'll break even.
Thanks, Uncle Sam. You're a douche.
I'm three months/14 weeks roughly right now. My due date is October 18th, but we're hoping for the 15th since that's Jim Santoro's birthday as well as our good buddy Jeff's. As a matter of fact, because I work at the hospital it pays 100% of our delivery and aftercare. Hahahahaha. I guess there's some perks, besides getting to tie people down.
In case I haven't made it clear yet, California is weird. Not just because of the drivers and the food and the snobs, but because of this thing called State Income Tax. "Hi, you're a nurse and we want you to move here, so we're going to pay you and make you feel rich. But then we're going to tax the hell out of that paycheck so we can pay for things like wine and cheese and happy cows and more prisons and better highways for you to crash on. Enjoy the sunshine!"
Whatever.
So instead of letting Matt do the taxes on the H&R Block website this year, I said I'd go to this financial place that specializes in helping EMS workers with their taxes and such. Since I technically count as an Emergency Medical worker, I went to see them. Prepare for a shocking tale of horror.
When I show up, the lady immediately yells at me because I didn't bring my "homework". Homework? What? Lady, I didn't even do my homework in school. I'm a grown woman now and if my dog didn't feed herself, the ASPCA would be all over this apartment. I'm not what you'd call prepared. I wore a Marvel comics t-shirt and brown pants to this thing, and she's looking at me like I'm a Rhodes Scholar that forgot her dissertation. What she expected, I have no idea.
Once she realized that all I brought with me was our W-2s and a sheepish smile, she lightened up a little bit. We went through the fact that Matt and I are paying out the nose in taxes, basically, and that she couldn't save us any money but she could give us advice on how to save money for next year's rebate! I was really grateful for this, because her wisdom contained such gems as:
1. Have a baby
2. Buy a house
3. File a higher witholding
Okay, so one of those is in the works, but it's not like I can speed that up and drop the kid before April 16th. As for buying a house, I'd love to! You make some of these "starter homes" less than half a million dollars and I'll be all over it, Tax-Lady! Of course, a lot of homes here have been foreclosed because the people that owned them couldn't pay the ridiculous mortgages they have here, so there's some good deals. But looking at them, you almost have to wonder who died or was killed in the house to get that price.
Anyway, long story short: I still owe California and the Feds money. At least she told me how to enact a payment plan for this crap.
The irony of all of this is that basically, today I paid a woman who yelled at me for not bringing in the paperwork I was supposed to telepathically know to bring, who then told me she couldn't save me any money than if we'd just filed on the internet with H&R Block, and then said if I put down non-existent cash flow on a house and have my baby ASAP, I'll break even.
Thanks, Uncle Sam. You're a douche.
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