you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

The night had been a long one for the outgoing shift, especially Shane. His Patient---soon to be my Patient---had been yelling all night.

"DADDY! KILL ME! WHY WON'T YOU HELP ME? KILL ME! HELP!"

It was incessant. Patient hadn't slept a wink. And he was deaf. One had to shout at him to be heard.

Shane gave me report, head in hands. He refused to look up, to avoid accidental eye contact. Patient had come from an assisted living facility for an altered mental status workup. His family insisted that he only became disoriented whenever he was hospitalized. He was otherwise stable. I was quiet for a moment, and then asked the question that you, Dear Reader, have already thought of: "If hospitalization creates delirium in Patient, how are we supposed to observe him for a return to baseline?" Shane just moaned, kept holding his head, and half-whispered, "I don't know. See if you can get him sent back. This is the wrong place for him. Obviously."

"HELP! HELP! DADDY!" added Patient.

I went to Patient's room to introduce myself. "Hi, there," I shouted, "I'm your nurse today, and I'm going to take care of you until this evening. How are you?"
"I WANNA GO HOME, DADDY! WHY WON'T YOU TAKE ME HOME?"
"Can you tell me your name?"
"DADDY! KILL ME! HEEEEELLLP!"

That was my neurologic assessment. I did the rest of my physical assessment while the patient alternately stripped out of his gown, yelled for help (or to be killed), and swung his scrawny, totally non-functional legs over the railing of the bed. In an effort to be a half-decent nurse, I opened the blinds to let the sun in, and turned on the daily news. If he could be alert and oriented outside the hospital, it was my responsibility to attempt reorienting him---to stop him from being coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.

I tried to feed him.
"HELP!" Well, okay. It was meatloaf. I could understand that.
I tried to wash him a little bit.
"DADDY! TAKE ME HOME! DADDY!"
I tried to not be extremely angry when he ripped his only IV out of his arm, leaving spatters of blood on his new gown (which he stripped out of) and his fresh sheets (which he also promptly pissed on).
"KILL ME, DADDY! HELP! TAKE ME HOME!"

I gave up, and opted to just turn the bed alarm on, so I would know when he decided to jump ship; hopefully, I thought to myself, I'd hear the bed before I'd hear Patient landing on the floor. It went off every few minutes, like klaxons in a nuclear holocaust.

Sometime in the afternoon, the resident following Patient told me that an ambulance from the home was coming to retrieve him. I went into Patient's room to let him know.

"Hey, Patient...good news! You're going home, just like you've been asking for all day. I've already let your daughter know. She'll be waiting for you there when you arrive, so you won't be alone. Isn't that great?"
Patient shook his head no, and unbuttoned the left shoulder of his gown.
"What do you mean, 'no'? You've been asking all day to go home."
Patient shook his head no, and unbuttoned the right shoulder of his gown.
I had reached a point of dark desperation. "Patient, you have to go home! Your family is there! You know everybody there! And nobody likes it here. I don't like it here."

Patient looked at me thoughtfully, and was blissfully quiet for just a moment. Finally:
"HELP! HELP! HELP!"
His gown hit the floor.

I left the room, closed the door behind me, and put my head down on my desk.