don't drive angry!

"Hey, did you know Michael Jackson died?"

Patient had been in this room for about a day and a half so far during this admission. He had left against medical advice (AMA) not that long ago, had a massive cardiac event, and came back with a vent and a sore chest.

"Yeah, I did know that," I replied, setting down the sundry items I'd brought in for him. "As a matter of fact, I gave you the same drug that killed him. It's called propofol. Though, to be clear, I wasn't trying to kill you." He laughed and asked when it had happened. "Michael died...um, about four days ago. You probably don't remember because it's not that unusual for your brain to end up with some minor damage during a big heart attack. Lots of people lose some time along the way." We chatted a bit more, and then he asked for a soda. "Sure, hang on a minute. I'll be right back."

I was right back, soda in hand.

"Hey, did you know that Michael Jackson died?"
"....?...."
"Yeah! They just said so on the news! Wow, I loved his music as a kid."
Uh oh.
"Dude,"---I tend to get familiar with my patients quickly---"he died four days ago. We just talked about this, remember?"
"NO," he laughed, "this just happened. I just found out from the news."
"NO," I didn't laugh back, "we just talked about it. Seriously. Before I got you this soda."
Which I held up.
"Hey, Sierra Mist? I was just thinking I wanted one of those. Thanks."

I mentally facepalmed, told him I'd be back in about an hour, and went to see my other patient.

I was greeted back with:
"Hey, did you know that Michael Jackson died?"
I sighed. "I'd heard. Hey, you haven't said anything about pain today. Are you hurting at all?" He frowned, and rubbed his chest a little. "Well, now that you mention it, I'm sore as hell. Sorta like I got punched really fucking hard, or kicked in the ribs. It's weird."
"You got CPR," I reminded him. "You're gonna be sore for a while. You're lucky it didn't break your ribs."
"CPR?"

I related the events of the last two days---how he almost died at home, that he had a tube put in his throat to help him breathe, the flight from his hometown to our facility. Our many, many conversations about Michael Jackson. He was a tough old redneck; but he welled up with the grief that comes with sudden, irreparable disaster.

I sat with Patient for a while; I patted his hand, and answered his questions about the things that can occur with cardiac events, including brain injury. I was honest with him, and he had a lot of good questions. At home, he was normally the one that watched his small grandson while everyone else in the family was at work. He could see how dangerous this was, not having any short term memory. I left when his wife and one of his kids came up to keep him company, with a promise to come back around dinnertime.

Evening descended.

"Hey, did you hear Michael Jackson died?"