I was on vacation, early last year, and saw a t shirt, with the Warner Brother’s logo, and the script, above and below the shield, admonishing the reader, “If ya see da poleece, WARN-A-BRUTHA!”
(this will be relevant soon. Be patient.)
The other day, I was watching our grease board, where the registrars enter each patient’s name, and a summary of their complaint. I was (unpleasantly) surprised to note one fresh entry, asserting that the named patient, an infant, had “difficulty breathing”.
I directed my MA to go see that patient, and assess this complaint.
He promptly entered one of the exam rooms with this child, obtaining vital signs, and telling me, “Reltney, I think you want to see this kid, next!”
I entered to see an infant, with audible rhonchi (coarse breath sounds). The heartrate wasn’t awful, the respiratory rate was sort of elevated, and the oxygen was 94 %. Not perfect, but OK. This child was retracting wherein the skin beneath the lower margin of the ribs was being drawn in, a little, with each inspiration. We administered a breathing treatment, in hopes of resolution of the rhonchi, and less effort of breathing.
After the treatment, the rhonchi had improved, just a little, and the retractions might have maybe, sort of, kinda improved. I asked the parents to hold on a while, to see how the child progressed.
I rechecked in another ten minutes, and the retractions had definitely gotten worse. Vitals were still not awful, but one of the principles of treating children is that they generally tend to do OK when ill, until, abruptly, they do not. I was concerned that this child was running out of steam, and approaching a crash. So, I called ED, gave report, and sent the child over.
Subsequently, I was talking to the registrar supervisor, and told the story with which I started this story. I amended it to read, “If you or the mother think that the child is sick, warn a brotha!”
And, in this scenario, my pale ass is the “Brutha” in question.