Going Solo

There I was, Fighting Disease And Saving Lives, one weekend day, and I was soloing. Generally, our agency’s practice is to have two providers on duty at a time. On this particular day, I was “It!”, with no partner. The floor staff was sympathetic. I was all “Meh?” about things.

I was reminded of an old joke. It seems this fellow had had his fill of driving a lengthy distance, and elected to stop for the night. He stopped at one hotel, and was told that there were no vacancies.

He stopped at another, and yet another, only to be told, again and again, that there were no vacancies.

Finally, in response, he asked, “If the president of The United States was standing here, telling you that he needed a room for the night, are you telling me that you would turn him away?”

The desk clerk declaimed, “Of course not! Of course, we would make accommodations for The President!”

The traveler squinted at the clerk. “Well, I just read in The Daily Tattler that The President is in Bagwanistan this week. Since he will not be arriving, I’ll take his room!”

The application to my situation was to ask administration if there was anybody else working with me on that day. Of course, as reflected in the fact that there was, you know, nobody else there with me to fight disease and save lives, they would tell me that, no, there was nobody else to work with me that day.

In this imaginary conversation, I would next ask, “Suppose I got hit by a bus on the way in to work today? What would you do, then?”

The reply likely would be that “In that event, we would do (xyz)!”

Which, of course, would elicit the response, “Surprise! I did NOT get hit by a bus! Hey, howzabout (do xyz), and get me some freaking help, eh?”

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THE PLAINTIFF AND THE HOUSE.

Long ago, and far, far away, I was sitting in a conference room with my attorney, The Plaintiff, as well as her attorney. We were discussing asset distribution. Her attorney announced that THEIR plan was that we sell the house, split the proceeds, and ride off into the sunset, separately.

Okay, that deserves some context. We had purchased that house something like 8 months prior to this conversation, it was in 2008 (remember those days? Housing values were plummeting like a drunken frat boy off a second floor porch), and we had obtained a “zero down” mortgage. I had kept an eye on housing values, and had noted that this house was worth less than considerably less than owed on the mortgage. We also had, between us, a camper trailer that had been paid off. I suggested, instead, that she take the house (simply so our boys would have their home, in a stable manner), and I would take the camper. I added that she could then, when she deemed it proper, she could sell that house, and keep all the proceeds. Alternately, as I observed, she could consider the market, and realize that the house was worth considerably less that what was owed. In that event, I would accept no responsibility for that shortfall. And, I’d take the camper.

Her attorney was aghast. “You cannot tell me that the house is worth as much as the camper!”

I said, “No, I am not telling you that the camper is worth as much as the house. In my appraisal the camper is worth considerably more than the house, but, it is about what your client wants, after all, isn’t it?”

To make a long story short(er), I kept the house, she got the camper, and no money changed hands in this matter.

KITTEN TAILS, PART V

We have a couple sets of cats that closely resemble each other. Momma Kitty, Max, and Oliver are all alike enough, that a second (or third) glance is required, sometimes, to discern which cat is (on the cat tree)(trying to excavate the bag of Cat Chow)(teasing Little One). Similarly, Olivia and her sister/littermate Henrietta are nearly identical. To remedy this IFF (Identify Freaking Feline) problem, TDW-Mark II thought that should Cat “A” be wearing a red collar, and Cat “B” be wearing a blue collar, the IFF problem would be eased.

One of the younger kittens was not altogether “down”, as the kids say, with the collar thing. Oh, he allowed TDW to place it upon him, but, he is but a kitten, and thought, it seemed, that it required adjustment, and indeed required adjustment BY HIM.

Good News: He did so during “sick call” one evening, and, since he had managed to get it entangled with his lower jaw, and, being a kitten, promptly freaked the frack out in his efforts to get his mouth clear of the collar (which, of course, constitutes The Bad News), well, I tackled him, TDW disentangled him, I soothed, and cooed, and settled him, and he appeared none the worse for the experience.

Subsequently, we concluded that more careful collar fitting would allow IFF without the risk of getting his jaw trapped by a partially removed collar, and therefore we assumed (yep, THAT word, again!) he would be safe wearing a collar.

Remember that thought.

So, TINS, TIW sleeping my ass off, when my alarm went off, on a day off. I awakened, turned off the alarm, and stumbled into the kitchen, to start the coffee.

I am not particularly bright, but I did recognize that the blood spread over an area of my kitchen floor approximately 2 feet x 3 feet, was not normal. Once I noted what appeared to be kitty foot prints therein, and saw bloody kitty pawprints on my counter, I assumed that one of the cats had cut his/her foot on Ghawd Alone knows what, and some further assessment was needful.

Since several cats sleep on the bed, in rotation, I started there. I saw a couple of bloody paw prints on the bed, and therefore determined that there was no dog injured since none of the dogs could get onto the counter, nor off/on the bed. None of the cats on the bed had injuries to their paws (remember THAT bit, as well!), and I enlisted TDW to assist in further cat triage.

Now, my Darling Wife is a lovely woman, kind and loving. She has NOT worked ER, has NOT worked Da City as a medic, and otherwise has led a rather sheltered life. So, when she entered the kitchen in search of un triaged cats, well, the blood on the floor caught her attention.

Indeed, it immobilized her. Her words were, and I quote, “Oh My God! Oh! My! God!”

Being accustomed to seeing large quantities of blood in my workplaces, I was less distracted, and so suggested, “Honey? Perhaps it would be helpful if we identified which cat is the source of this blood, and then assessed that cat for nature and depth of injuries? Please?”

She found Oliver, and identified the lacerations on his mouth. Fortunately, they were not bleeding on our assessment, and he appeared un freaked out (good on him!). We removed (and discarded) the collar in question, and started to assess his lacerations progress at every med pass.

He has healed up nicely, and appears unfazed by his adventure.

KITTEN TAILS, PART IV

As it develops, when you have a herd (or, is it “a flock of cats”? I am not sure…) of cats, when one develops conjunctivitis, well, EVERYBODY goes along for the ride. Therefore, should your Mark I, Mod Ø Stretcher Ape attempt to medicate the sick cats, well, THAT leaves a reservoir of untreated, and, it seems, soon-to-be-infected cats. Reminiscent of a circle jerk, of sorts.

So, TDW-Mark II came to the realization that, should sick call include all the cats, there would remain no susceptible population to serve as a next stop for the Train O’ Pink Eye that appeared to be making the rounds.

Loyal Readers likely have already recalled the “sick call” nature of such an adventure. She and I would corral a couple of kittens, medicate them, provide canned cat food as a treat, and then open the bathroom door, planning to hunt down, corral, and carry away to the bathroom, the next contestants. There, to medicate and treat (in both senses of the word) those cats, and then repeat until no unmedicated cats remained.

Well, we would open the door, and the most recent contestants would ease their way out, and, par miracle!, two more would saunter in, as if to say, “I say, old fellow: I had heard that there were treats to be had? Could you help a fellow out?”

With this as a backdrop, we had assumed that Reluctant Cat would be cool with his turn at antibiotic-ointment-in-the-cat’s-eyes. You all do remember how to spell “Assumed”, amirite?

Yep. Reluctant Cat abruptly forgot the entire “cooly saunter into the bathroom/clinic” thing, and decided that what I really, really needed, was a venotomy on my dominant wrist. (since he did not have either a IV catheter, nor thumbs with which to manipulate it, he couldn’t have been thinking that I needed an IV, anyway.)

BAD NEWS: I am on blood thinners.

GOOD NEWS: He really had a crappy angle on my radial vein. Plus, in a display of reflexes that I have not demonstrated since I was in my twenties, I snatched my hand away just prior to the letting of blood could really get into full swing. As it happened, I only sustained a couple of fairly superficial scratches, which stopped bleeding after, oh, maybe a half an hour or so.

As for Reluctant Cat, well, HE went into the bag, head exposed, got his med, got his treat, and got shown the (bathroom) door.