Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

DUTY IN EVERYDAY LIFE

I have spent a lot of time talking, directly or indirectly, about duty. I am by no means any sort of authority on the subject. I have, however, spent some time contemplating what it means to recognize DUTY, to attempt to measure up to one’s duty, to accomplish Duty, and consider what my Duty might be in this or that circumstance.

Let me tell you about a man, who went above and beyond. This is not tale of derring do, of valiant action in combat, or hazardous duty, rather it is the story of a MAN who stood up in circumstances where I could not, and went way, way out of his way to do a good deed for a stranger.

A couple of years ago, in The Maternal State, they had a sizable blizzard. Now, being in or near the northern tier of states, this should be no big deal: winter, Up North, snow, so whucking fhat, amirite?

Yeah, that is generally my go-to response. Well, lemme tell you, this was somewhat more snow, and more wind, and more nastiness than is the baseline for this part of The Maternal State. Power lines iced up, and, swaying in the wind, well, they snapped, in multiple locations. Oops, power outage.

So, my mother is in her 90’s. At this time, pretty independent, but, still, 90 plus, and on the order of 800 miles from her nearest family.

My brother had anticipated the weather, and done some internet reconnaissance. He had identified a hotel in the next town, and, calling the reservation number (remember THAT thought!), had been told that the hotel in question did have an auxiliary generator, and would be in service. He therefore had made a reservation for our mother, securing, he thought, a heated safe place for her.

He filled me in on his plan, but had no idea of how to get her from her, now unheated, house to the hotel. As you might have considered, there was NO FREAKING WAY we wanted Mom driving in this mess. I called the taxicab companies local to my mother, only to find that none of them were answering their dispatch telephones. Shit.

I phoned the local police department, and spoke with the sergeant on duty. He pointed out that while he, and the officers on duty, were certainly willing to make sure my mother made it to the hotel, well, they were kind of busy (read, “extremely”) doing, ya know, POLICE stuff occasioned by the storm, the basic level of idiocy amongst the population in general and The Maternal State in particular, and the way poor weather exacerbates the foregoing. He did not see this happening in any clinically significant time frame. Shit. Again.

I let my fingers do the walking among the internet search results for “transportation services” in The Maternal State, and the Maternal County. I recalled my brother, The World Traveler (not the hotel finder) had spoken of hiring a car service to travel from The Maternal Manse to the airport, or vice versa. I called several car services, and, finally, reached one who answered his phone.

We had a lovely conversation about the weather, and how and why it seemed unlikely that I would find a taxi company who would answer their phone. He, himself, answered his own phone, only because he took this opportunity to come into the office to complete some sort of paperwork.

I told him my tale of woe, featuring my elderly mother, distant children, and so forth. He asked me for her address, and where the arrangements had been made for her accommodation. He told me that he’d swing by, check up on my mother, and give me a call with his appraisal of things. I thanked him, effusively, and awaited his call.

Something around an hour later, I received a phone call. Mom was fine. My new friend, calling me on his personal cell phone, provided me the opportunity to speak with my mother. She asked me who this guy was, and I recounted the story of my brother’s hotel efforts, and how this fellow answered his phone, which, by itself, set him apart from everybody else in her corner of the state. I told her that he could/would transport her to the hotel for heated accommodations. She thought that was a great idea, and handed to phone back to the Car Guy. Shortly, I received a call from him reporting that he had Mom, and her little dog, were on the way to The Hotel. Again, with effusive thanks, I awaited the next situation report.

I received it, and it was infuriating. It appears that the national reservation folks for The Cretin Hotel Chain (by the way, I apologize to cretins, everywhere, for maligning their good name!), (a) did not know a goddamned thing about the power status, or lack thereof, in the subject property, (b) could not possibly care less about said power status, unless somehow The Creator elected to Personally and directly intervene, in a biblical display of His power, to motivate these gormless fuckwads to pretend that they might appear to give a shit (not that they might actually do anything effective to support that pretense. Even The Creator Of All has some limitations upon His power!), (c) would happily spin any line of bullshit that might result in their establishing a reservation, and (d) if kharma actually was a thing, would spend eternity sleeping outdoors, on some forsaken ice floe, adrift on a freezing gale swept ocean of sewage, with a solitary hospital “blanket” to protect themselves from a shivering, frozen, blue demise. If Crom was merciful. Which I hoped He would not be.

You might not be surprised, at this point, to learn that the hotel had no power and no heat.

I just might, one day, tell y’all how I REALLY feel. Assholes. (and I mean no slight to assholes).

My new friend, and Mom’s chauffeur, reported his plan to personally reconnoiter other hotels in the vicinity and report back to me. He did so, and he called me: no joy. None had power, so none had heat. Shit. Again. Again.

So, my new friend drove Mom home, and, arriving and ushering her inside, put her on his phone. Mom felt OK, the house was only around 50 something which, while chilly, was only unpleasant, not life threatening. She had canned food, a Sterno stove, the food in the fridge seemed in no danger of thawing (unsurprisingly, right?), and she had several blankets for cozy sleeping.

I thanked my new friend, again, and again, and bade everybody goodbye.

I spoke to Mom later that night, when one of her neighbors, charged cell phone in hand, stopped by with a hot meal (they had a camp-stove, it seems). Mom was doing OK, the neighbor (PBUH!) came on to reassure me that his appraisal was that Mom was managing OK, and he, the neighbor, would check in on her in the morning.

The next morning, the Car Service Guy called me. He had stopped by Mom’s house, and reported that he found her reading, swathed in a blanket, drinking a cup of (Sterno stove) coffee, eating a cold bagel. He put her on the phone, and she concurred in his report. He came back on, reported that the news was predicting power would be restored in a day or two. We chatted a bit, I thanked him, again. Again. Again. And he slogged back home, driving through the ass deep snow.

I received a call the next morning. Mom was chirpily informing me that the power was on, she had had a lovely, lengthy, hot shower, was cooking a casserole to have, hot, for dinner, and presently was enjoying a hot cup of coffee, and hot muffin. Her second of the day.

So, all is well that ends well, right?

Let me tell you MY take away. God has blessed us with angels. Some we cannot see as they are spirits. Other walk among us.

One exemplar is this guy, warm and dry in his office, piddling around, grateful that he did not have to be out in the butt ugly weather afflicting his hometown. He received a phone call from Sumdood, who he had never met, from Ghawd Only knows where, spinning this tale of his mama who allegedly lived nearby, had no power, and needed somebody, NOT the caller, to chauffeur her tail to refuge. Oh, and her little dog, too!

So, did he tell me to FOAD? Did he tell me it would be a profound pain in his ass? Did he tell me it was not his job? No, no, and no. He gathered the information that would be required to conduct an in person reconnaissance of her circumstances, and promised to report back to me. He did so.

He helped Mom gather her crap for her voyage, and drove her, her luggage, and her dog, to the local property of The Cretin Hotel Chain. Finding that my brother had been bullshitted by the dickless, hapless, shitheads at the Cretin Hotel Chain’s national reservation operation, he called me with this insight, and attempted to find alternate accommodations for my mother. Failing in this quest, he drove her home (through the awful roads associated with an awful storm in winter in the northern tier of states, mind you!), schlepped her stuff inside, attempted to assure her safety, and comfort, and called me. Again. On his personal cell phone.

Then, the next day, with the same (or worse) shitty roads, he got out of his nice warm bed, and drove to my mother’s house, again, to check on her safety. And called me with a progress report. She was chilly, but fine.

Thus far, only mentioned in passing, are the Blessed Souls that are her neighbors. She’s not their mother. They did not grow up in her neighborhood. Simply, they are NEIGHBORS, in the finest traditions of small town America. God Bless Them. They visited, in turns, several times each day the power was out, bringing hot food, visiting, offering to charge her phone (and, just so you know, it works way, way better with a charge on the battery!), and generally being guardian angels for her.

She could not have lived there alone, for as long as she in fact did, without their oversight and backup.

TL/DR summary? Somebody is setting me a good example. I resolve to try to imitate it.

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Fun With Suits! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

Hospice Nurse Midnight Shift Call Off

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy not so far from here….

No, wait, that is not quite right. Well, anyway, after I had departed Da City’s EMS, and started working as an RN, my father took ill. Years previously, he and my mother had moved back to The Megalopolis, and resided in The Maternal State, nearly half way across the country from me. My brother the contractor did not seem well suited to the demands of helping care for a sick elderly man, so I volunteered.

As it happened, while I was helping Mom take care of my Dad, I was working 12 hour night shifts in various EDs around The Maternal State, receiving my assignments from this or that temporary staffing agency. The money was OK, and I was able to keep up with my house payment, my car payments, and all that stuff.

Things progressed. My father was dying, and there was no stopping it. I was glad that I could take some of the burden off of my mother, who was nearly overwhelmed in any event by the looming demise of her husband of decades. You do that which you can do, correct? Around this point in the process, my father had been admitted to hospice, and his care needs had escalated to the point where Hospice supplied a nurse to care for my dad around the clock.

So one morning around 0900, I arrived home from work, and went to bed. I was awakened for a phone call around 11 am, to find that the agency was informing me that my shift that night had been canceled. I mumbled affirmation, and stumbled back to bed.

Around 1400, I was again awakened to learn from the Hospice case manager that they were unable to find a nurse to care for my dad overnight that night. “I don’t know what we are going to do!” she apologized.

I wasn’t all that wound up over it. “So, it looks as if you have a nurse, then.”

No, I don’t. I have called, and called, and I cannot find a nurse to care for your father tonight!”

Yeah, you did. Me.”

You cannot care for your father overnight!”

How come? You need a nurse. I’m a nurse. You need somebody who will be reliable. I flatter myself, that I am reliable. You need somebody here. I’m gonna be here, nurse or no nurse. Looks like I know what I’m gonna be doing, instead of watching late night TV!”

Are you going to be able to do this? Can you handle that responsibility?”

Do you have a better idea?”

She admitted that no, she did not.

Well, then, it certainly looks as if I have to do it, and have no alternative to handling it, doesn’t it?”

We agreed, and I returned to bed.

This time, around 1500, I was awakened for another phone call (this appeared to be developing into A Thing!, and I was not liking it!). My agency was calling, and the staffing coordinator perkily informed me that she had found me an assignment for that very night! “Gosh, thanks, but, after you called me to cancel me, I made other plans.”

She was aghast. “What? Are you refusing an assignment?”

Nope. I had an assignment as of 0730 this morning, when I left duty. I was sleeping, in preparation for reporting for that assignment, when you called me, to cancel it. Once you had canceled me, I had no obligations to anyone, and I have made other arrangements since then. Now, you are calling me and asking, at the eleventh hour, may I remind you, if I can take a last minute assignment. No, I cannot. I am busy tonight, with obligations that I cannot ignore. I’m not refusing an assignment, I am simply not able to accommodate your last minute brainstorms.”

We ended the call at that point, and I resigned myself to my (sleep deprived) fate.

Mom and I had supper, I made some calls, and wrote checks for some of my bills. Once 2300 arrived, the afternoon nurse gave me report, and oriented me to the overnight routine.

We changed my father’s bedding, and bathed him. As we turned him to his left, I held him for her part of the cleaning and linen change, and he sighed once, long and loud. I looked into his eyes, and watched them dilate. I felt for a carotid pulse, and found none. “I think he’s gone”, I told the nurse. She and I tidied up the bed, tucked him in, and she went for my mother.

The next couple of hours were not etched in my memory. Eventually, Mom and I were alone in the house. We cried, we hugged, and we went to our beds.

Monday I had an assignment. I showed up, happy, in a sort of left handed way, to be doing SOMETHING that did not involve constant reminders of my dad’s death. The charge nurse for St. Elsewhere greeted me with, “We heard about your dad. We’re sorry to hear it. How are you doing?”

I was surprised. She was a lovely soul, cute, smart, professional, and capable (all things that I admire in a woman). She was friendly, and I was very open to that. However, I hadn’t told anyone about my dad’s demise. I was touched that she would make the effort to offer consolation to me, a relative stranger. I had been hoping that I could immerse myself in ED nursing, and not think about my dad for a while.

I offered my response, thanked her for her concern, and asked what pod was mine for the night.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I received another call from the agency, and another assignment offer. I had made plans to take my mother out for dinner, and therefore I declined the assignment. (Yeah, THIS one I straight up declined.). The coordinator took me to task. “I’m getting really tired of covering for you all the time!”

What the fuck? My query was edited before being spoken. “Huh?”

I said I’m getting tired of covering for you!”

Uh, what are you talking about? Covering for me? When?”

Remember two weeks ago? That Friday night, when you had made other plans? That’s what I’m talking about!”

I was almost speechless. Fortunately, this was a telephone conversation, not one taken across a desk. That fact alone kept me from big trouble. I put as much ice into my voice as I could, and clarified: “Oh, wait! Do you mean the night my father died? Do you mean to tell me that you are irritated that I could not work on the night my father died, in my arms, and you are really, no shit, taking me to task for not working that night? Did you really, actually, just say that to me, not two weeks after he died? It sure sounds as if you did, and I cannot think, off hand, of any other way to take that. What did your supervisor say when you told her you were inconvenienced by my not working that night? Say, how about I call her, right fucking now, and ask her? Gimme her goddamned phone number, please. I feel the need for a heartfelt chat!”

For some reason, she was, well, “reluctant” probably does not fully capture her lack of enthusiasm for me chatting with the manager of the office on a Saturday night.

I continue to be surprised. By humanity in general. And, in particular, that she was such a jackwagon, and that she did not provide me that number.

Although, not giving me the number might have been a good thing.

Fun With Suits! · School Fun And Games · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

How Adults Roll

Many years after I was FDASL© in Da City, I was a Dad. (In my opinion, my most important job). I had four children with my wife, She Who Would Become The Plaintiff. Our daughter, referred to herein as Brenda, was a lovely girl, but, unsurprisingly, was a typical pre-adolescent.

One fine day, The Wife received a phone call from the school, relating that Brenda was failing Science class. We interviewed Brenda, attempting to understand what might be preventing this child from comprehending the material in her class that, to be honest, was not all that complicated. I mean, it was fifth grade science, in a podunk little school district.

We learned, after The Wife had detail-searched Brenda’s book-bag, that she, Brenda, had not been turning in her homework assignments. Oh, Hell Naw! That simply would not do! The Wife and I decided that, since I worked midnights, I would be the nominated for the role of Science Class Homework Monitor.

I phoned the school and learned that Mrs. Science Class was in her classroom yet, and would be happy to discuss Brenda’s failing with me. Off Brenda and I went.

I asked Mrs. Science Class if our appraisal was on target.

“Well, yes. Brenda has not been handing in her homework assignments.”

“Do you have these assignments? I mean, in a form that I, her father, could use to have Brenda perform this homework?”

“Well, yes I do. You do realize, Brenda is not going to receive credit for this work, do you not?”

“Yep. I don’t care about credit. Brenda, here, is going to perform these assignments, and I will check them for accuracy, and completeness. Then, I will check her spelling and grammar.”

Mrs. Science Class informed me, gently, “I do not check spelling, or grammar.”

I smiled. “How interesting. I do. Once I have corrected those items, Brenda, here, will do the assignment over again, until she gets all that correct. Then I will grade for neatness.”

Mrs. Science again offered, “I do not grade on neatness.”

Again, I replied. “How nice. I, however, do, and Brenda will repeat the assignment until she meets my standards of neatness. Then, she will do the next assignment, meeting all those standards, until she had completed every one, in it’s entirety, to my thorough satisfaction. Then she will deliver them to you for final grading.”

Mrs. Science Class looked at me, her head sort of half-cocked to one side, as if she were a beagle watching me cook something in the kitchen, and she repeated herself. “You know, Mr. Stretcher Ape, Brenda is not going to receive credit for all this work, don’t you?”

“Yep, you told me that, and I really do not care.”

“You do not care?”

“Nope. So, Mrs. Science Class, do you assign homework simply for your own entertainment?”

“Oh, no!”

“You have a plan of instruction, and homework is a part of that plan? Homework is part of the process by which children acquire an education, correct?”

She nodded. “Correct.”

I leaned forward, intensity in my speech. “Mrs. Science class, my daughter may or may not get the credit: I really do not care. What I care very much about, and what her mother agrees with me completely on, is the fact that our child is going to get the education. Full stop.”

She leaned back. “You know, I do not have this sort of conversation with parents, very often at all!”

I showed her my wolf grin. “That, Mrs. Science Class, is not Brenda’s problem. If she ever, again, so long as she breathes, fails to turn in her homework, in full, on time, and satisfactorily neat and legible, then every single assignment that she may have, I will correct. For completeness. For accuracy. For correctness. For neatness. For spelling. For grammar and syntax. And, she will do those assignments that I find unsatisfactory, over, and over, and over again, until I am satisfied with them.

Or, she could simply turn in her work, to you, on time and complete, to be graded as you see fit.

You see, I am willing to be Brenda’s problem, for so long as she desires it. She will let me know she desires it, by not doing her damned work.”

For those of you who care, my daughter finished high school, and then worked her way through her baccalaureate degree, working full time, with a child, as a single mother. And worked her way through her MBA degree, working full time, with three children, as a single mother. I take some, small pride in her accomplishments.

But, SHE did all the work. In full. On time. And completely. Because she is an Adult Woman.

Fun And Games Off Duty · Fun With Suits! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

Sometimes, You Just Gotta Talk So That They Can Understand You!

After I left Da City, I worked as a ED nurse. Eventually, I took a job up north, at Erewhon Memorial Hospital. (“Both Nowhere, and Backwards!”) In due course at work I met The Woman Who Would Become The Plaintiff, after she had been She Who Must Be Obeyed. (another story, for another time).

This woman, let us call her Annie (because “The Woman Who Would Become The Plaintiff” is simply too complex to type repeatedly!), and I began to see each other, dating and, eventually, moving in together. Annie had two children already, Brenda (age 3) and her older brother Adam (age 7). Unsurprisingly, they accompanied her.

Well. Love bloomed, and Annie and I got married. I worked, she went to school, the kids attended school, and all seemed well.

One night Annie and I were asleep. I awakened to hear wheezing from down the hall, in the direction of Brenda’s room. Being the inquisitive sort, I followed the sounds, arriving in Brenda’s room, where she was sitting upright in bed, wheezing and terrified. Annie had awakened when I left the bed, and soon joined us. I listened to Brenda’s lungs with my stethoscope, hearing wheezes. I noted her rate of respirations (42 breaths per minute. Yes, 30 some years later, I remember it), and her pulse rate (162. Yep, I remember.) I got dressed, and Annie stayed home to watch over Adam. Off we went to the ED where I was employed as an Emergency Department RN.

Once we entered the door, well, I was not alone in my assessment that This Was Not Good. Brenda was whisked into a bed, gowned, x rayed, breathing treatment-ed, had blood drawn, and an IV started, and generally auscultated/poked/prodded/imaged very thoroughly.

A couple of hours later, Brenda’s breathing MUCH improved, we were discharged with antibiotics and an inhaler, and instructions to return IMMEDIATELY if her breathing worsened. It did not.

So, several weeks later I received a letter from Erewhon Memorial Hospital, informing me that our insurance company had determined that this was not an emergency, and that therefore the insurance company would not be paying anything on the emergency department visit we recently had.

I called Erewhon’s billing department, and asked them what was up? They informed me that I had to speak to the insurance company, in order to determine what they were thinking.

I did so. It develops that our insurance company hires people who are, in short, stupid. I (finally) spoke to a representative who told me that the claim was not going to be paid, “because that visit was not an emergency.”

I asked her on what basis she had made that determination.

“It simply was not an emergency”.

I observed that, where I came from, answering a question seeking an explanation, was not adequately answered by repeating the previous, unsatisfactory, answer. Then, I asked her, “Ma’am? In which corner of the resuscitation room were you standing? I work there, I know everybody-EVERYBODY!- who works there, and I do not recall you standing there, taking notes on the non emergency nature of my child’s acute respiratory distress.”

“Oh, I wasn’t there!”

“Then, how did you determine that my child, in respiratory distress, was not emergent? The leading etiology of cardiac arrest in the pediatric population is respiratory distress, and my child was in respiratory distress, wheezing, tachypneic, tachycardic. Being just older than a toddler, she does not have much in the way of respiratory reserves, and that which she did have, was being expended rapidly. Please, explain that to me, and show your work!”

After a spell of stuttering, she told me that the charting did not support the insurance company’s criteria for an emergency, and I would have to have further conversations with the hospital.

I did so. I walked my happy ass into the billing department, and asked about my daughter’s bill.

The charming soul I spoke with told me that “It wasn’t an emergency, the insurance company would not pay for it, so the entire bill was my responsibility!”

I told her, “Uh, no. My child was an emergency. She was in respiratory distress, wheezing at a rate of 40 times a minute, and tachycardic at a rate of 160 a minute. The leading etiology of cardiac arrest in the pediatric population is respiratory distress, and my child was in respiratory distress, wheezing, tachypneic, tachycardic. Being just older than a toddler, she does not have much in the way of respiratory reserves, and that which she did have, was being expended rapidly. So, I will pay the co-pay, and the deductible, for which I am liable, but you can collect the rest of the bill from the insurance company, which owes you that money, not me.”

She puffed up. “Well, if you do not pay that bill, we will have to send you to collections!”

She saw all of my teeth, in the grin that was my response. “Ma’am, if you do that, you will libel me, and slander me, and impugn my character and reputation. You will get the opportunity to explain yourself, under oath, at trial, when I sue for damages occasioned by the torts I just enumerated that you will have performed.”

She puffed up, more. “You can’t sue me!”

I chuckled. “Ma’am, I can sue you for damages because you are ugly, and your ugliness causes me harm. Count on it. If you send me to collections, I will sue you, personally, and do everything I can to impoverish you. After I am done with you, I will sue your supervisor, personally, for failing to supervise you, and allowing you to perpetrate these offenses. Once I am done with her, I’ll sue HER supervisor, personally, and so on up the chain of command, until I’ve sued every son of a bitch here, and then I’ll go after the hospital as a corporation, and individual members of the board of directors, for breaching their duty to ensure that the hospital is not run in a fraudulent manner, which your plan is. Fraudulent, that is.”

She huffed, and puffed for a while, and then deliver what she evidently thought was her clincher. “You cannot sue me! You simply cannot!”

More wolf grin on my part. “Oh, really? Is that what your attorney told you?”

“I do not have an attorney!”

I smiled, a smile that in no way reached my eyes. “Really? You know, I will fix that. I’m pretty sure that, once you get served by my attorney, you will find an attorney of your own, right damned quick!”

She gaped at me for a moment. “You know, you are an asshole!”

“Yep! Sure am! For most folks I try very hard to conceal the fact that I am an asshole. For you, and everybody working at this shithole hospital, well, I will make an exception! I’ll be in touch! Have a nice day!”

So time passed, Annie and our children moved a couple of times (she is part Gypsy).

A couple of years later, around the middle of December, I received an Explanation of Benefits from the insurance company. I found this odd, since I hadn’t been insured by this company for a couple of years. It appeared that they had paid a claim for emergency services at Erewhon Memorial Hospital, the very claim that I had shown my ass to the billing department about.

It was as if it was our own little Christmas Miracle!

Fun With Suits! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact · School Fun And Games · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

Again, with not fitting the mold!

Remember my fun filled interview for Nursing school? So, nearly 30 years later I applied for PA school. Among the requirements was 500 hours of patient contact experience. So, I had worked as an RN for (shockingly enough) 30 years at that point, and had accrued, with overtime, something on the order of 63,000 hours of patient care.

So, I went to interview for the incoming class, and they asked me if I had 500 hours of patient care experience. I had included my resume detailing my schooling and work experience as part of my application, so I assumed that my work history was not a surprise.

I asked, “Do you mean, in the past 3 months? or overall?”

“How about, overall?”

“Well, something like 60,000 plus hours, I guess.”

The reply? “Well, alright then! Let’s move along!”

I succeeded, and so got to deal with the financial aid office.

I filled out the form, complete with the birthdate revealing that I had been born some 50 + years previously. I ignored the part where they sought my parent’s tax forms.

When I turned in my application, the gosling behind the counter reviewed my papers,  and looked my elderly ass right in the eye, saying, “You don’t have your father’s tax form in here!”

She sure was quick! “No, ma’am, I do not.”

She was, albeit, persistent. “You have to include your father’s tax forms.”

“Ma’am, I am not going to submit my father’s tax forms. For one thing, he has not filed in 13 years. ”

“He hasn’t filed in 13 years? He has to!”

“Ma’am, perhaps you could call him up, and let him know that. But, it’s going to be kind of a long distance call. And, when you reach him, please tell him that I love him, and miss him every day.”

Perhaps, she was not so quick. “Huh?”

“Ma’am, my father died over a dozen years ago. You will not be receiving his tax forms.”

Undeterred, she demanded, “Well, we will need your mother’s tax forms!”

I was over this. “Ma’am, you are not going to receive my mother’s tax forms, either. She is pushing 80 years old, I have lived on my own for 30 years, and the only tax forms you will receive are those belonging to my wife and me. Perhaps I should talk to your supervisor?”

After several minutes, an adult appeared. I reviewed my position. “Ma’am, this young lady insists on my providing my parents’ tax forms. That is not going to happen. I have supported my own family for nearly a dozen years. I am not about to provide my parents’ forms, nor have they supported me for longer than this nice young lady has been alive.”

The adult looked at me for a moment. “And, you are Mr. McFee, correct? And, you are the student? Not one of your children?”

“Ma’am, if you look at the applicant’s birthday on the application, you will see that it matches my apparent age.”

This soul indeed perused the applicant’s birthday, and regarded me. “Uh, sir? I think we have everything we need here. You will not be asked again to provide your mother’s tax forms. Thank you, and have a nice day!”

Fun With Suits! · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

Teamwork!

This one time, after departing Da City’s employ, I worked for a hospital in Da City. After several adventures as a staff nurse, I was promoted to supervisor.

The way things worked, was the staff nurses attempted to untangle the problems that developed,and then punted the resistant ones to me. So, one evening I received a phone call from one of the floor nurses, relating that Mr. Man was due some coumadin (a blood thinner, used post blood clot, among other indications), and she had none in her medication drawer to administer to him.

Thinking, “This is why I get the big buck!”, I asked her, “Have you looked on the counter, and checked the medication record?”

Yes to both, no accounting for the coumadin either place.

“Did you call pharmacy, and request that they run some up to you?”

Again, yes, she had. Her explanation of why Our Friends In Pharmacy had not delivered the medication, was intriguing. “They said that it had been in the drawer when they swapped them out this morning, and they were not going to send any more up, until tomorrow.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Did they explain how your patient was going to get his medication in that circumstance?”

“Nope, simply said that they would not deliver any more.”

“Let me look around. I’ll be right up!”

I arrived on the floor, and, sure enough, no lonely coumadin on the counter in the med room, nor on the counter in the nursing station.

I called Our Friends in Pharmacy, and asked the pharmacist about the missing coumadin.

“It was there this morning, I’m not gonna send any more. Everybody knows that the nurses take meds from the drawer, I’m tired of it!”

It had been a kind of grueling night for me, and I was not in the mood. “So, let me see if I’m hearing you correctly: you are telling me that you have personal knowledge of nurses diverting medication from patients for personal use, did I hear that right?”

His reply? “Yeah, everybody knows it. It goes on all the time!”

I set my trap. “So, what have you done about this information?”

“Nothing. Everybody knows about it, nobody’s gonna do anything!”

“So, you are telling me that you have personal knowledge of medication diversions, and you have done nothing about this knowledge, did I get that right?”

“Yeah, nobody’s gonna do anything about it, so, yeah, right.”

“What do you suppose the Board of Pharmacy would think of this revelation? Tell you what, why don’t I write them a letter, documenting this conversation, and you can find out, in person, what they think of a pharmacist who has personal knowledge of medication diversion, and takes no action to end it. That ought to be very educational, don’t you think? In fact, if you are here, with the needed coumadin, before I finish that letter, perhaps I will not have to send it at all! Maybe, I could write a letter telling the hospital administrator how wonderful it is to work with pharmacists who are so very, very collegial. Bye-bye, now!”

I asked the nurse, standing next to me, if I could borrow her pen and have a sheet of paper. “What for?”

“Got a letter to write!”

“What sort of letter?”

I told her, “That depends on whether or not we see your favorite pharmacist up here with your coumadin in the next few minutes, or not!”

I heard the pounding of footsteps on the stairs, and heard his wheezing before he even reached the stairway door.

I love it when we all work together to help our patients!

Fun And Games Off Duty · guns · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Pre Planning Your Scene · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

I Hate Late Night Phone Calls

Many years ago, I was working midnights in a small ER in northern Michigan. One night, around 0300, the phone rang. I answered it to find my wife on the other end. Her opening conversational gambit certainly caught my attention.

“Honey, it’s me. Don’t panic.”

Sounded like good advice to me. “OK, I’m not panicking. What might make me consider panicking?”

“Well, when you hear on the scanner that the sheriff is sending a car out here, I thought you’d get worried.”

Hmmm, the hospital still has coffee. Why would the sheriff send a car out to my home, populated by my wife and (presumably) sleeping children? I asked, “Why is the sheriff on the way out there?”

She responded, as if telling me about the dog getting into the trash, “There is a guy on the porch.”

Remember the guy-on-the-porch story I told y’all recently? Yeah, I certainly did. I was beginning to very much NOT like the direction this conversation was taking, so I asked her, “What gun do you have?”

“I don’t.”

This required remedy. “I’ll wait while you fix that.”

My normally clear thinking bride seemed somewhat slow this morning. “Huh?”

“Go get a gun, right now. I’ll wait.”

“What? Why would I get a gun?”

“Because I think it would be a good thing if you had something more compelling than your girlish good looks and winning personality should Mr. Porch decide that now was the time to enter, and lay hands on you and the children. Go. Now.”

Evidently Mr. Porch had decided that he did not, really, need to enter THIS house on THIS night, because this porch guy had elected to wander off before the sheriff’s deputy arrived, and before The Darling Wife felt the need for a little show-and-tell. No loud noises, nobody got hurt, Score! Score, and SCORE!