So, my daughter, Brenda, had injured her knee in gym class at middle school. We lived about a mile from the school, and, once she had told the teacher about her knee injury, did that teacher, or any other official of h the school, call her mother, the nurse? To quote Eddie Murphy, in his persona of The Ganga Teacher, "No, no, noooo, no!" Did they phone her father, the nurse? Again, "No, no, noooo, no!" Did they have a teacher drive her home, so that she would not have to walk home on her injured knee? As you might have anticipated at thisw point in my rant, "No, no, noooo, no!" Did they put her on a bus, again, to prevent her walking home on her demonstrably injured knee? If you have read this far, sing along with me: "No, no, noooo, no!" Instead, of course, they sent her home, walking, on her injured knee, around a mile from school to her home. As you may have guessed at this point, I was not favorably impressed. Nay, I was pissed. I wrapped her knee, applied ice, elevated it, after identifying no marked instability. It did hurt her with walking (which, of course, the idiots at the school had required her to do to get home, since they had NOT called her father, or her mother. But, perhaps, I had already told you that little detail) I dosed her with ibuprofen, and put her to bed. I wrote her a no physical education note, and retained a copy for myself. I signed it, "Reltney McFee, RN, BSN". In the morning she appeared improved enough to return to school. Therefore, in consultation with She Who Must Be Obeyed, we decided to send her to school. We drove her. Ourselves. To make sure that she s did not have to walk. So, that afternoon I was surprised to receive a phone call from the phys ed teacher. This worthy told me that he required a note FROM A DOCTOR, in order to keep her out of class. I pointed out that he had, in his hand, a suitable note, that I had written, directing him to keep my child out of gym class until further notice. He replied that, absent a note from a physician, he would require my child to participate in gym class. I gave this a second's thought, and brought him up to speed. "So, let me see if I am understanding you. You have a note, in hard copy, in your physical possession, written by me, her father and a Registered Nurse, directing you to keep my child out of gym class due to an injury she suffered on school property, and notifying you that, should shegrounds participate in gym class she could sustain additional injury. You, in your medical judgment, have determined that you know more of this sort of thing than I, and will contravene my explicit instruction, in my capacity as her father and a registered nurse of 20 years experience. Cool story. I'm certain that the jury at your lawsuit will be very impressed. Perhaps impressed to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars." He sputtered, "You cannot sue me!" "Really? Is that what your attorney told you?" "I do not have a lawyer." "Well, what do you know? I DO have a lawyer, and you can, too! Once my lawyer serves you with the papers he will prepare to hold you personally responsible for my daughters crippling injury, suffered through your willful and wanton negligence, ignoring the specific instruction that I, her father and a registered nurse, have provided you. In writing. Right about that point, I wager you will find yourself a lawyer!" He sputtered a while longer, and noted that he would, sooner or later, require a note from a physician. I told him that I would obtain one, at my earliest convenience. And, I'd provide him a copy. The call terminated. Once I had my daughter in my vehicle, outside the school, I asked her how gym class had gone. "Fine, Dad. They sent me to study hall, and for some reason, the teacher seemed pissed about something." I smiled, and replied, "Well, it might have been something about sending you, and our attorney's kid, and his attorney's kid, as well, to a very nice college!" She looked puzzled at that, but, what the hell, I wasn't going to be able to put things over on her for very much longer, and I ought to savor the few remaining opportunities.
Month: November 2018
‘Snow Joke!
A couple of years ago, I was working in Vermont on a winter locum tenens contract. (that’s kind of like travel nursing, for doctors, PAs, NPs, CRNAs and such) Since Mother Stretcher Ape resided a state or two over, I finagled a long weekend, and drove off to visit her.
Now, perhaps you had realized that Vermont, and all the states around it, are northern tier states. So, in the winter they get some snow. Nay, they receive abundant snow. With my formative years spent in Michigan, snow is no big deal. Still, even we hardened northerners need to pay attention, so as to avoid turning into corpsicles.
When I was first driving up there, the administration spoke of their concern that I understand the snow situation in their neighborhood. “So, you know, here in Vermont we get a lot of snow.”
“Yeah, I had heard that was so.”
“You *do* know how to drive in snow, don’t you?”
“You looked at my resume, right? You did notice the part about working all over Michigan, for years at a time, right? Including in the winter. My children were born in Michigan, and have grown up in Michigan. I think I know what snow looks like, and that I have driven in snow, a few times.”
(mumbling on the other end of the phone) “Oh, yeah. Right. You probably know how to drive in snow.”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
So, one wintry weekend, I set off to visit The Maternal Unit. Now, I say “One wintry weekend”, but that was by the calendar only. This particular January weekend, the temperature was in the 40-s to 50-s, low overcast, drizzle filling the air. Nice. I took off across Vermont, into The Neighboring State, and then southerly toward The Maternal State.
Once I crossed over into The Maternal State, it began to flurry, with the temperature dropping below freezing. As I continued, entering into The Megalopolis, it began to snow. Big surprise, right? January, northern states, snow. Who knew?
As I stop-and-go-ed my way across The Megalopolis, on the parking lots laughingly called expressways, the snow picked up. By the time I was on my way out of The Megalopolis, with only another hour of stop and go before me, it was snowing it’s ass off (Yes, that is a northern Michigan meteorological term). While the street department of The Maternal State in general, and The Megalopolis in particular, are no slouches in snow handling (having abundant experience), this specific storm was more muscular than the norm. Indeed, snow was collecting at such a pace that both it outpaced the highway department’s ability to plow it away, as well as limiting visibility. When you consider the fact that snowy roads lengthen your stopping distance considerably, couple that with, say, 50 yards of visibility, and you really start to feel the need to slow down. Waaayyyy down. Personally, I was going around 30 mph, and feeling daring at doing so. More high spirited souls than I were passing me, and more power to ’em. I had resolved that, should they wind up in the ditch, I was gonna drive my happy fuzzy electrician ass right on past ’em.
So, driving in the snow, transformed a three hour drive into something on the order of 6 hours. When I wasn’t wondering just what sort of fiery hell would send me to my judgment, I gradually formulated the Stretcher Ape Four Stages of Snow Emergency Scale. I share it with you, now.
Level 4: wear your damn boots
Level 3: bring a coat, bring a shovel and a scraper
Level 2: do the s#!t you have to do and go the hell home
Level 1: Ermagerd! French toast by candlelight!
I figured that I was driving at that time though a “Level Two Snow Emergency”, and resolved to arrive at The Maternal Manse, and consider myself the hell home. I really was pretty happy with that insight, and strong in my resolve in accomplishing it.
Then, roughly 30 minutes (I hoped!) from my destination, I saw flashing lights ahead. I slowed down even more. Approaching the scene, I observed flashing lights as of several police cars. Several fire trucks appeared to be in the gaggle, if their lights were as I figured them to be. Closing the distance, I noticed lights as from a highway department plow truck, although they seemed strangely out of position.
I crept past the scene, and realized why the lights appeared out of position, on the plow truck.
When a plow truck is on it’s side in the ditch, that would be a clue. Almost as if it was a Sign From Ghawd. A Sign, as if Ghawd were telling me, “slow your dumb ass down, go the hell home, and set your ass in a chair and stir not from that chair, until I tell you otherwise!”
My reply? “Sir, Yes Sir!”
My car slithered into Mother Stretcher Ape’s driveway, and settled several inches once I stopped. Looked as if the driving part of Ghawd’s admonition, would be easy to comply with.
I clumped into Mom’s house, trying not to track too much snow inside. We spent a couple of pleasant days watching the snow fall, shoveling snow (well, *I* shoveled snow!), and shoveling snow, and shoveling snow, and shoveling snow yet again. On the plus side, there was the home cooked meal part of things to enjoy, and the visit with your mother part, as well.
In summary, I leave you with two insights:
Insight The First: The Stretcher Ape Four Stages of Snow Emergency Scale.
Level 4: wear your damn boots
Level 3: bring a coat, bring a shovel and a scraper
Level 2: do the s#!t you have to do and go the hell home
Level 1: Ermagerd! French toast by candlelight!
Insight The Second:
When a plow truck is in the ditch, that would be a clue. A clue that you do NOT belong on the damned road.
Are We Ever, Really, Off Duty?
Are you ever off duty?
I had spent some time praying at The Altar of The Overtime Fairy, and with the proceeds had decided to take The Long Suffering Wife on a cruise. Now, one of her idiosyncrasies is that she is allergic–VIOLENTLY, anaphylaxis, throat swelling, red faced allergic, to tree nuts. Remember that. It will return to feature prominently in this “war story”.
The cruise line we selected had gotten our business previously. The personnel are unfailingly pleasant, professional, attentive, and on their game. The food is excellent, the accommodations are pleasant, the cabin stewards are magicians who ghost in and make the beds and change the linen without our seeing them. There are reasons that we are repeat customers.
We select the formal dining room each time. There are large tables, so we get acquainted with fellow cruisers, the food is outstanding: as good as, and generally superior to our own home cooking. On this cruise we joined two folks from Minnesota, a contractor and his girlfriend, and two other couples, the men both volunteer firefighters from a small town in Canada.
Firefighters are part storyteller, as am I (surprising, no?). It develops that our other two companions were storytellers, as well. So, mealtimes were fun, great food, round robins of telling tales, and no workaday cares.
Now, it seems that, for some reason, we had failed to make clear to the serving staff my wife’s allergy to nuts. (likely, because we had failed to, ya know, TELL THEM!, or something.) So, one evening, when my wife took her first bite of the chicken that she had ordered, she chewed it for a moment, then spat it out, turning to me with a peculiar look on her face.
I asked her what was the matter, and she told me, “I don’t know, but my mouth is burning as if I had just eaten a nut.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed our firefighter companions in still life, forks immobile in mid air, as Mrs. Stretcher Ape and I had our conversation. I asked her how her breathing was, and she told me that was fine, but that the burning was concerning. I agreed.
She keeps an epi pen in her purse, which, of course, presently was in our cabin. She did have benadryl on her person, and I directed her to take two, right now. She did so, and we all watched her for a moment. I then directed her to give me a third capsule of benadryl, which I opened, and poured onto her palm, directing her to “lick that up, now!”
One of the firefighters shuffled his chair back a bit, as if clearing for lift off, and asked me if I needed any help. Our contractor friend, with whom we had gone on shore excursions, observed that I was an ex medic, ex ED nurse, and presently a Physician’s Assistant. I looked at the firefighter, perched on the literal edge of his seat, and his partner, similarly (not so very) relaxed, and said, “It looks like things are OK for now, but I’m anticipating the possibility of that changing. Let’s give it 20 minutes to see how things develop. Thanks for the back up.”
I turned my attention back to my wife, and pasted a fake, but encouraging, smile on my face. “How you doing, Honey?”
She thought for a second, and answered, “OK so far.”
The waiter had noticed our diorama like table, and the absence of conversation, and walked over to see if he could assist us. I briefed him on the foregoing, and our suspicion that the chicken may have been cross contaminated with some sort of nut in some manner. Alarmed, he told us he’d look into it and be right back.
He was. Along with the Maitre D’. Both assured us that there were no nuts whatsoever in the recipe for my wife’s selection, although it was possible that there were some nut oils remaining on the surface upon which the chicken had been prepared. Effusively, they both asked after my wife’s well being, and apologized for this occurrence.
By this point, she reported that the burning was receding, and no swelling nor shortness of breath, as well as no itching was present.
I noticed that everybody else at the table, finally, resumed their meals.
Once I was convinced that her symptoms were, in fact, receding, and appeared likely to continue doing so, we retired to our cabin for the night. She, and I, thanked our companions for their vigilance, and reassured everyone that it appeared that her reaction was on the way to being resolved.
So, the question: are we ever REALLY off duty?
Patient Care Is Everywhere!
I had the opportunity, a couple of years ago, to speak with an police officer who personified the “Protect and Serve” mindset. An elderly, very confused gentleman, with a baseline mentation deficit, was brought in to the hospital at the instigation of the officer. Having been dispatched for a "welfare check", he found this soul confused, and in the officer's estimation, "looked sick." We evaluated the patient, and tried to (start to) fix his medical issues. While waiting for the lab results, the officer and I chatted. The officer related to me that he was an officer, “not for the attorney with a 150,000 dollar car and a nice house: he doesn’t need me. That guy, over there: he depends on me to do the right thing. He is why I took that oath.” Once we had finished caring for the gentleman, and were ready to discharge him, another officer from this same (yeah, rural) department came and took him home, seeing him safely into his apartment. Another occasion, same rural police department, same officer. This time he accompanied an EMS transport. This soul was in custody, so the officer parked himself outside the room, to keep an eye on his charge. During their stay, in the room across the hallway, was a child, who was very dubious about the entire "going to the hospital" thing. This officer was approached by the fearful child, who momentarily had his fears overcome with curiosity about a live-and-in-person police officer. This officer was very engaged with the child, producing wide eyed interest as the boy lectured the officer on the ins and outs of frogs, and minutiae of their lives in the wild. He (the officer) offered a few frog insights of his own, and the two of them had an animated conversation there in my ED hallway. The rest of my encounter with the boy was made considerably smoother, when the officer asked the boy, "Are you behaving for my friend Reltney? Yeah, he may be a doctor (well, a PA at this point, but, ya know...), but he's pretty nice. Give him a chance, wontcha?" My point? There has been come conversation of “Officer as social worker” becoming part of the police toolbox. This theme is not new, although it used to be called "walking the beat, and knowing your beat". Some officers, who are each a credit to their profession, have been employing that tool for a long time. And, in some regards, to steal a phrase from the American Nurses' Association, "Patient Care is Everywhere!" Some of the practitioners are not formally licensed in health professions. And, some of us simply see it as being a good neighbor.
Musings of A Stretcher Ape 