nurse barnum

Not every nurse's report is reliable.

There's this night nurse, the Bulldog, that I respect immensely; he's been a nurse for something like five million years now. Unfortunately, he has a tendency to exaggerate. One time, he told me that a CABG patient's graft leg looked infected, and that it had dark, purulent ooze coming from the incision. I decided I didn't want to antagonize an infected wound by uncovering it, and called the MD in to take a look at it. So the MD made a special trip on a Sunday morning to take at a look at this imperiled leg...and found zip. Zilch. A normal fucking leg with normal, serous leakage. This Patient was black; it was his skin slough that gave it its dark appearance. I felt like a rube. Thanks, Bulldog.

The last time I took one of Bulldog's reports seriously was when I took a Patient with a history of gross pulmonary impairment from him. Report went something like this: "...anyway, we got Patient up to the chair last night. He just hopped right up, and doot-doot-doot doot! got in that chair." (Onomatopoeia was accompanied by a "walking fingers"  motion to further illustrate Patient's able-bodiedness.)
"Really?" I asked. "I had him yesterday, too. He could barely turn himself in bed. How'd you guys do that?"
"He really didn't  have any problems. Swear to God, he just got up like he'd been doing it all along."
"Huh. Okay, we'll try it again today. Maybe if we do it enough, we can wean him off that vent, finally."
"Sounds good to me. But, really...doot-doot-doot-doot!" Walking fingers again.

The day wore on. I did my thing with Patient all day. The more I was around Patient, the more I couldn't believe that he "just hopped up". But why would anyone say that if it wasn't true?

Around 1500, I decided to give Patient a chance.

I helped Patient sit up and dangle on the side of the bed, and...wow. He did really well. I started feeling a bit more optimistic. I explained to Patient how we were going to stand up. "I'm going to count, and we're going to rock forward to stand up on three. Okay?" Patient nodded. Not only could he not talk---he had a trach---but he also had a history of brain injury, so he had a few other impairments, including the inability to operate at an appropriate developmental status. He also suffered permanent short-term memory loss. It was like talking to a five-year old all the time. I was taking it slowly so that he could understand what we were trying to do. I slipped my arms under his arms to help support his weight while he used his scrawny, deconditioned legs to stand.

One.
Two.
Three!

Like a lump, he just sat there. Then he pointed vigorously to his mouth---his signal for a wet swab.
"No, not now, Patient. We're trying to get up, remember? Don't you want to get out of this awful, uncomfortable bed?"
Patient nodded. And kept pointing to his mouth.
Sigh. "Okay. Let's count to three. When you're in the chair, I'll bring you all the swabs you can stand."

One.
Two.
Three!

Lump. A sliding lump. Patient's butt had scooted forward with all the rocking; as a result, he was beginning to slide off the edge of the bed. He wasn't even attempting to use his legs. He was going to hit the floor at any moment.

I had a fleeting image of fractured hip x-rays, panicked, grabbed the patient under the arms, and swung him off the bed and around into the chair.

This was a tactical error.

Twenty minutes later, Patient wanted to go back to bed. Point, point, point. His lines and vent tubing were a horrific plastic tangle. I couldn't figure out how I even got him in the damn chair without ripping a line out, or tripping myself. I stuck my head out of the room, and like a big hairy angel, there stood Hippie. Before I could say a word, he asked, "Do you need help?"
Oh, do I, Hippie. Do I ever.
He came in, looked at Patient, and groaned, "Oh, God. Okay. How well does he stand?"
"Not well. Actually, not at all."
"How'd he get in the chair?"
"I panic-hoisted him. He's a total lift. Sorry, Hippie."

Hippie sighed again. We got on either side of Patient's chair, as Patient furiously kept pointing to his mouth. We locked wrists under and behind him. Then Hippie looked at me from across Patient's lap and posed what would normally have been a reasonable question: "So what's the plan here?"
I looked at the knots and webs of tubing.
"The plan is to get him back in bed any fucking way we can. Really. I don't care how it goes down, as long as we don't drop him."
"Are you kidding?"
"Dammit, just pick him up on three and we'll swing your way. I just want to get him on the bed."

One.
Two.
Three!

What transpired next was the sloppiest, most unprofessional moment of my career. We lifted him, swung his body in Hippie's direction and aimed for the bed. Patient landed with his body cattywhompus across the bed, legs dangling and his head at the foot, still frantically pointing at his mouth. Hippie and I were panting and laughing uncontrollably.
"Oh, Jesus. What if he tells his family?"
"Hippie, he's got a trach. Besided, it's always Groundhog's Day for him. Trust me, in five minutes, he's not even gonna remember this happened."
Patient pointed at his mouth. I handed him a swab. "Better?" I asked him. Patient nodded, sucking contentedly on the swab.