Workin' it at lunch

I went out with some coworkers for lunch today at the Cheesecake Factory (side note: I don’t understand the Cheesecake Factory hype...I’ve eaten there three times now, and it’s just aight for me.) There were ten of us who happened to be off on Thursday with nothing better to do, so why not get drunk and pig out at an expensive restaurant?

We were appropriately seated in the bar area. As we consumed our beverages, we got louder and louder, and I realized the real reason I love the ER. It’s not the adrenaline or the technical procedures, and it’s certainly not the patients. It’s the people I work with--the loud, cussing bunch of people sitting at my table. Everything was “fuck that” and “you gotta try this shit” and “damn!” I began to notice that people at nearby tables were scooting away from us.

Then came the inevitable discussion of disgusting incidents and gory traumas. We honestly forget that these topics aren’t appropriate for meal conversations. Somewhere in between the explanation of how someone got a corn kernel out of a kid’s nose and the description of how much blood was in the vomit of a seizure patient who had bitten his tongue, the last lunch patron in our area stood up and left. We had completely cleared the area.

“Damn, if only this worked in the waiting room at work.”

New York

To celebrate Christmas being over (I have an extensive Christmas jinx which includes the incarcerations and near-death experiences of various family members and most recently, being dumped), I took a trip to New York City with my boyfriend, who decided to un-dump me a couple days before the trip. We stayed in a sketchy hotel right smack in the middle of Manhattan which boasted bed sheets with “Hong Kong” embroidered all over them and a night-long serenade by random street musicians.

We engaged in typical New York tourist behavior: we people-watched from a bench in Central Park. We attended a Broadway musical. We ate roasted nuts while gawking at the giant tree in Rockefeller Center. We got coffee at Dean & Deluca’s. We snuck into a ritzy hotel lobby and pretended to be guests while consuming said coffee.

I also had the privilege of engaging in typical New York resident behavior: I actually drove through the city. Right through Times Square. Since starting my job in Dallas, I have considered myself a veteran of bad traffic navigation, but Dallas has nothing on New York. I have never feared for my life while driving in Dallas.

Ironically, there are signs posted up and down the streets that read “DO NOT HONK. $350 PENALTY.” This is ironic because there is so very much of the honking. Even the policemen are honking. I am generally opposed to honking because I believe it is usually due to impatience or unmedicated rage. However, on the way out of the city, I was forced to honk. It was an I’m-going-to-be-stuck-in-the-middle-of-an-intersection-and-annihilated-by-scary-cabbies-if-I-don’t-honk situation, so I honked.

I broke my honking seal.

Now I feel urges to honk all the time. The palm of my hand caresses the gentle curvature of the center of the steering wheel, yearning to apply pressure. During my commute to work on Thursday, I did honk. A car cut me off by swerving into my lane--with his blinker indicating that he would be swerving the other direction--and I couldn’t help myself. I had to express that I disapproved of that sort of behavior.

I’m so ashamed, because I have become what I loathe--that asshole honking driver. I heart New York indeed.

Further proof that I work in a freak show

I was assigned to triage today, the tedious task of sorting through patients as they arrive to determine who needs attention right away and who can afford to sit their asses out in the waiting room. Another task I consider a priority at triage is to determine which patients are actively psychotic and which are basically normal. The sooner the psych patients are marked as such, the better...and the safer for the staff.

I assume all patients to be psych until proven otherwise and pride myself on my uncanny ability to spot psych patients from twenty feet away. Imagine my disappointment today when I almost missed one completely from two feet away.

I was assessing a girl about my own age with a chief complaint of “dizziness and funny vision.” This was either very serious (brain injury symptoms) or bullshit/attention-seeking. During my assessment, the triage registrar Dana nudged my shoulder each time she walked behind my chair. Then she poked the back of my head twice.

“Dana, am I in your way?!” I finally exploded. She merely cleared her throat. I continued my assessment.

Finally, I was finished, just needed to make a copy and walk the patient to a stretcher. As I made to stand up, I suddenly noticed the big-ass bottle of vodka sitting on the floor under the patient’s seat. The big-ass bottle that was nearly empty.

Well, that explained the nudges.

Hell, I’d be dizzy and having funny vision if I’d drunk a liter of vodka in under an hour, too. Irritated, I informed the patient that alcoholic beverages were not allowed in the hospital. She nodded, agreeing with me, and kindly volunteered to finish the rest of it off right then, you know, to get rid of it.

I smiled at her, then snatched the bottle up and poured the vodka down the sink. That drain probably needed to be cleaned anyway. I then clearly marked the presence of the alcohol on the chart and walked her to a stretcher, fuming.

To be honest, I wasn’t that upset that she broke the rules and smuggled in alcohol. I was angry with myself for nearly letting a psych patient slip through to the back with no warning to my colleagues. I was also sad for that vodka, which could have been put to better use after my shift was over.

Apartment Life

I pay way more than anyone should ever pay to live in a one-bedroom apartment because the community is very safe and quiet. I live by myself with no one I know nearby, and I come home from work at 4:00 am. Safety’s important. Also, working nights equals sleeping days, so the quiet factor is important, too. I don’t mind shelling out the bucks because I’ve always felt safe here, and I rarely hear my neighbors.

Until my next door neighbor got a drumset.

I love music, so on the rare occasion when I’ve heard his stereo through the wall we share, I haven’t minded. I was cool with it because he was playing stuff I like--I might’ve responded differently if he was a country music fan, but he usually plays Radiohead*, which is fine by me.

So the first time I was awakened to the distant boom-boom-boom of an amateur drumset, I actually took the time to listen and see if I enjoyed the music before I formed a negative opinion. It only took a couple painful measures for me to realize that this guy has absolutely no sense of rhythm. I then felt annoyance with the situation, but I also felt genuinely sorry for him, a guy who was born without the ability to make good music. Or really, any music with a discernible beat.

Fortunately for me, he only attempts to play occasionally. I’ve lately become overcome with the urge to go knock on his door and try to tutor him. He’s just so pitiful. Plus, if you’re going to wake me up early before I go work a twelve-hour shift, it damn well better be with nice music.

Ah, the joys of apartment living. It’s really not the great improvement over dorm life like I imagined it would be. One day I’ll have to bite the bullet and learn how to use a lawn mower so I’ll be able to buy a house.

*Did anyone else notice Radiohead in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire*?!

*It should be noted that I have already seen the movie* twice, one of those times on IMAX.

*It should also be noted* that Harry takes off his shirt in the movie, and you can just shut up calling me pervy because he looks nearly legal now.

*It should also be noted that I now hold the record for most footnotes ever on Plan C.

Hi, I'm your intoxicated nurse who's having a stroke.

I don’t know why, but I have a terrible predisposition for getting aphthous ulcers (also known as canker sores, for all the non-medical peeps) in my mouth. I have always had them, and I probably always will.

Right now, I have a giant one on the side of my freaking tongue. This is pretty much the worst spot ever to have a canker sore, I have decided. It hurts to swallow, it hurts to eat, and most annoying of all, it hurts to talk. I have adapted to having the sore there by not moving my tongue when I talk. Result: I sound like a drunk.

This was a little problematic today at work. I was the triage nurse, the first nurse you see in an ER. People were eyeing me suspiciously as I painfully stumbled through my words, my jaw stiff as though I had lockjaw. I wanted to assure them that I was completely sober and substance-free, but that somehow didn’t seem appropriate.

Me: “Ah you preh-nuh?”

Patient: “Huh?”

Me: “AH YOU PREH-NUH?”

Patient: “No, I don’t take that medication.”

Me, pointing at patient’s belly and miming rocking a baby: “Preh-nuh??”

Patient: “Oh. Um. No.”

Still, I managed to get my assessments done. Until I had to do them in Spanish. I usually manage to triage a Spanish-speaking patient just fine, without any difficulty, but apparently my slurred Spanish doesn’t sound like a language at all. I used lots of hand gestures, pointing, and at one point, drew a picture of the chest cavity.

As the night wore on, I couldn’t take it anymore. It finally dawned on me, I’m in an emergency room. And I’m a nurse. I can fix this! I went to the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of Cetacaine (numbing spray), and numbed up the right side of my mouth. Ah, sweet relief.

Thirty seconds later, the right side of my mouth was drooping open and I had a small trickle of saliva making its way toward my chin. First I appeared drunk, then I appeared to be having a stroke. Nice.

At least no one will be there to see me this afternoon when I wake up with my face glued to my pillow in a saliva slick.

Funky Funk

I thought about writing a happy post to cheer up Plan C, but in the end I’ve decided to stick to the sad theme and write about my latest depression.

I’m in a funk this week. I hate funks because I don’t know what they are. What causes them? One day I’m doing great, then bam, everything in the world is mediocre at best and mostly depressing, and I find myself identifying with angsty Kelly Clarkson songs. Oh man, I've hit a new low.

This is the difference between my post and the two preceding mine. The two previous writers have very good reasons to be sad. Me? Not so much. I’ve got the chronic depressing factors--the insane divorced parents, the jailbird sister, the archenemy at work--but I deal with those issues every day. They’re hardly acute. Everyone’s got those.

The weird thing about funks is how I feel unwilling to pull myself out of them. You’d think I’d engage in something fun, try to cheer myself up. Instead, I’m brooding over old journals, regretting various things from the past that can’t be changed, and listening to music that makes a good soundtrack to sadness.

For example, this Get Up Kids song reminds me of someone I want to talk to but apparently will never have the balls to do so. Oh, and here’s that Something Corporate song that reminds me of how I acted like an ass something like four years ago. And Eisley, hell, it’s just a sad song.

I should turn it off. But it’s like a watching a train wreck; I keep doing it, fascinated by the gruesome details of my sadness.

This is pretty pathetic--sounds like I’m in the throes of a full-on pity party over nothing when other contributors to this website are dealing with very real grief. I shouldn’t even have written this, right?

The thing is, I’m hoping this pitiful display is the rock bottom of this funk, which means I have to feel better tomorrow.

I will feel better tomorrow. Or else I'll give myself a reason to feel sad! (said in the same tone of voice my mother used back when I was six and crying for no good reason)

My Own Personal Draco Malfoy

I am easy to get along with. I have a good sense of humor and feel at ease with just about everyone. I’m not the type to have an archenemy.

That being said, I absolutely despise one of my coworkers. We’ll call her Brenda--that’s not her real name, but it’s a name I’ve had an unnatural bias against my whole life, so it fits her.

On my very first day of work, I was a scared twenty-one-year-old intern starting a career filled mostly with people twice my age. I remember walking into the auditorium for orientation, not knowing a soul, and faltering, having to master the impulse to run away.

Then Brenda turned in her seat and smiled at me. A friendly face! I immediately moved toward her and took the seat at her side. We commenced conversation, finding out that we were both new grads beginning the internship for the Emergency Department. I relaxed, believing I had found my best friend at work right from the get-go.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Almost immediately, Brenda took a controlling air with me, sort of steering me. It was always “We’re going to lunch here tomorrow and I’m going to drive” instead of “What do you think about this place to eat? Do you want to drive or should I?” At first, that was fine by me. I was the baby of the ER interns and didn’t really care where we went--I just wanted to fit in smoothly.

As we started the classroom part of the internship, it became apparent that Brenda’s critical care knowledge fell quite a bit below everyone else’s. She was struggling in class and attempted to cover this up by causing other diversions--namely, creating situations in which she could get the ER educator fired. She succeeded, by the way, at the end of the internship.

I thrived in the classroom setting as I always have (because I am a big-time school nerd) and was offended by her attempts to overthrow our educator. Then I watched as Brenda prodded a failing marriage into complete demise for no other reason than enjoying the drama. I started to withdraw, befriending the interns from the other hospital that Brenda looked down upon, but not yet moving from my coveted seat beside Brenda.

The final straw came as we reached the halfway mark through our classes. We had a thirty minute lunch break, as we always did, and Brenda decided she wanted to go to the Black-Eyed Pea instead of eating at one of the hospital cafeterias. I feebly pointed out that this was a bad idea. It’d take ten minutes to drive over there, ten minutes to get seated and order, and then we’d have ten minutes to drive back and walk to the classroom.

Stupidly, I went along with her and the other interns from our hospital anyway. When it was discovered that the Black-Eyed Pea would in fact not be able to serve us in under three minutes, Brenda threw a full-out tantrum and demanded to speak to the manager to have our waitress fired. I was horrified. Why would someone in the service industry turn on someone else in the service industry? Didn’t she realize we might be in similar situations as that waitress in just two short months?

I hastily scribbled a note apologizing to the waitress for the scene and stuck it under my plate as we left. However, Brenda had not been appeased by the manager’s apologies and would not be satisfied until all our money had been refunded. She went back to our table to retrieve receipts and found my unfortunate note.

She was livid. She screamed and yelled and didn’t even look like a person. Her rage transformed her into a scary demon-monster. Completely taken aback, I just stared at her, unable to speak.

(Incidentally, the only other time I have ever eaten at the Black-Eyed Pea was a couple weeks ago, right before I went to the TCU-SMU game in which TCU performed so appallingly. Never eating there again.)

We arrived back at class (twenty minutes late) and I sat on the opposite side of the class, among the “enemy”--the interns from the other hospital. Every now and then, that hospital calls my hospital about transfers they are sending to us, and they always ask to speak to me, to ask me if The Bitch has been fired yet. It always puts a smile on my face.

From that day on, Brenda and I have been archenemies. She has made so many shifts miserable for me, and more than once, I have considered leaving. Right before she was fired, the educator from my internship told me to hang in there, that eventually people at my hospital would realize what a horrible conniving bitch Brenda was. Over the course of my first year, I thought she was wrong, because no one else seemed to notice.

Until now. Rumors are currently flying through the ER about the alleged affair between Brenda and another employee. Other nurses have noticed her complete lack of knowledge and inability to deal with complex patients. Hell, she can’t even start her own IVs. A group of nurses has spoken with our manager on more than one occasion about Brenda’s ineptitude--and I had nothing to do with it. I have just been sitting back and biding my time through all of this.

So, joke’s on you, Brenda. Unless I’m much mistaken, you won’t be around for much longer.

Ah, victory is sweet.