Fun And Games · Fun With Suits!

The Boiling City Ballet, and Gaps In My Classical Arts Education.

This one time, I was nursing on nights in a Rural ED. TDW-Mark I and our little family were living “Up North” in a small town, outside of a little town outside of a middling sized town that served as the commercial center for that corner of the state. Our small town, let’s call it “Boiling City”, had a bar, a short distance from our no-stop-light town center, and their claim to fame was serving as the region’s titty bar. We locals called it “The Boiling City Ballet”, as a snide reference to the exotic dancers that were it’s main draw.

At this point, I had something like a 15 years of nursing experience, as an ED nurse, ICU nurse, nursing supervisor, all on top of my years on EMS in Da City. I was kind of proud of my “been there- done that” self image.

Remember that thought. As well as the ancient aphorism that “pride goeth before a fall”.

So, TINS©, TIWFDASL©, and registration let me know that there was a patient with a knee injury. I meandered up front, collected the chart, summoned the patient, and invited her to join me in the back. I asked her what had prompted her visit to ER.

“Well, I was doing a pole trick, and landed wrong, and fucked up my knee.”

I goggled at her. “Uh, what?”

She giggled. “I was dancing, I did a pole trick, I landed wrong, and my knee gave out on me!”

BTDT fail on my part. “Uh, what is a ‘pole trick’?”

She filled that gap in my life experience. “I dance at the Roadhouse, out side of Boiling City.”

Ahhh! The formal name for the “Boiling City Ballet”!

“And?” I prompted.

“So, a pole trick is where I do something on the pole, like spin around, and this time I just landed with my foot placed wrong, and my knee started to hurt!”

“Uh, OK. Here, here’s a gown, and I’d get the doc so we can get you examined and x-rayed and everything.”

She was having fun with my norminess. “So, you **DO** know what I do for a living, right?”

“Uh, kind of…”

“So, why do I need a gown? I’ll just whip my pants off, right here and now, just like this…”

I backed out of the room, and shut the door. “No, that’s alright! Just put on the gown, and I’ll get the doc…”

Fun And Games Off Duty

Things You See on Road Trips!

In late 1989, I had applied for a job as a nursing supervisor in a little hospital Up North. As is customary in such conversations, they wanted me to meet for an in person interview. The drive from Da City, to the new place was on the order of three hours, and I did not see how arising at around oh-dark-thirty, bathing etcetera, dressing in my interview clothes, and then driving for three hours, all so I could be on time for an 0900 interview, was calculated for success.

So, I drove up the preceding evening, and secured a motel room for the night. On my happy way there, I drove, fat, dumb, and happy, casually listening to my CB radio. (for, these were the fabled Eighties, when CB radio was A Thing!)

As I motored along the interstate, somewhere kinda north of Bay City, I heard, briefly, the declamation invoking The Patron Saint of Regularity: “Holy Shit!”

That successfully snapped me out of my reverie. I slowed, moved into the right lane, and picked up the microphone and invited my corespondent to elaborate. “Station calling, what is happening?”

Several similar entreaties elicited no more information, I resolved to Pay More Attention.

Doing so, paid off shortly, as I beheld headlights of southbound traffic. This was unsurprising, as that interstate is kind of a major north-south artery.

What became surprising, was the insight that this particular southbound car, WAS IN THE FREAKING NORTHBOUND LANE!

That was startling, right there! Fortunately, after a manner of speaking, this vehicle was staying to his right, traveling southbound in the high speed lane of the northbound highway. He flashed past me, and I continued my deliberate, frazzled, way north.

Fun And Games Off Duty · Fun With Suits! · School Fun And Games

Hazards of Immobility







So, TINS©, TIWFDASL©, working full time and going to Nursing school full time when not in the firehouse. Oh, and sleeping. When I could.

As you may have surmised from the foregoing, I was acutely-on-chronically sleep deprived pretty much entirely through school. I have previously revealed what the director of the program thought of my first pass resolution of that problem, wherein I skipped lectures and slept in, however briefly. (Review: NOT MUCH!)

Therefore, I showed my happy academic ass up for every lecture, and attempted to take notes and generally avid snoring and/or drooling. In order to assist with my camouflage, I typically sat around 2/3 of the way back in the lecture hall, and about 40 degrees off axis from the lecturer’s line of sight. One particular failure of my strategy still stands out in my mind.

The subject was “Hazards of Immobility”. Unfortunately, one of the hazards of immobility, that the instructor did not enumerate and then explain in PAINFULLY elaborate detail, is somnolence. For those sleep deprived, as I was very much so in those days, sitting still was nearly a death sentence. I was wedged into my seat, and getting more comfortable, and more comfortable, and finally felt my pen slip from my fingers. I woke up at that, and retrieved my pen, again settling myself into my wedged-upright position.

I shook myself kinda sorta more awake, and resumed taking notes. Sleep crept up on me, again, until I heard our instructor asking, “Perhaps Mr. McFee can tell us about calcium and immobility. Mr. McFee? Won’t you join us?”

Without opening my eyes, without moving, I responded, “Well, patients who are immobile long enough, began to mobilize calcium from their bones, and excrete it via their kidneys. This places them at risk of both renal lithiasis, as well as pathological fractures.”

I heard the pause. She sounded surprised. “Mr. McFee, I was convinced that you were completely asleep!”

Still eyes closed, still unmoving, I cleared things up for her. “Ma’am, I understand how you might think so. In contrast, I find myself in an advanced state of relaxed alertness. Ma’am.”

I managed to stay awake enough to take notes for the balance of that hour.


Fun And Games · Life in Da City!

If You Are Taking Medical Advice From The Voices In Your Head, You Are Doing It Wrong!

So, TINS©, TIWFDASL©, when we caught a run for a “sick person”. My tales of adventure notwithstanding, the overwhelming majority of EMS runs in Da City were what the personnel called “sickies”. This tale is about one such soul.

We arrived, and things progressed in the usual fashion. Six questions, one command.

  1. “Who’s sick?” (show of hands).
  2. “What kind of sick are you?” (the response generally ran along the lines of “I’m really sick”, or “I’m just sick, that’s all!”) (so much for “History of Present Illness”)
  3. “How long have you been sick, Sir/Madam?” (typical response was some variation of “A good little while.”)
  4. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” (A surprising number of people did NOT want to go to the hospital. Some wanted to be told that they were alright, others wanted to go to some place in West Bumfuck, way, way, way outside of Da City’s service area, or wanted a ride to the doctor’s appointment that they, surprisingly, had made. We did not take folks to their doctor appointments or to BFE Community Hospital. Fire department rules.)
  5. “Can you walk?” (the correct answer is always, “YES!”. Occasionally “No”, but the number of trivially ill/injured folks traveling to ER via EMS was both surprising and disappointing.)
  6. “Where are your shoes?” (Again, a surprising number of folks who presumably had lived in Da City all their lives, and had noted snowfall and freezing ass temperatures arrive each and every winter, did not think to have their shoes staged, oh, I don’t know, NEAR THE DAMNED DOOR, once they had determined that they required ambulance transport to the hospital emergency department for their sniffles or whatnot.)
  7. (Command) Follow Me!”

So, one such soul, seated in the back of the ambulance with me late one night/early one morning, was being interviewed by me. I asked him his allergies. “No, none, not really.”

I asked him his medications. “Well, no, none, I guess.”

That did not sound right. I asked, again, differently. “Does you doctor think that you are taking any medication regularly?”

“I suppose so.”

“What might that medication be, that you suppose that your doctor thinks you ought to be taking?”

“Oh, some nerve pill.”

“Oh? ‘Some nerve pill?’ Why aren’t you taking your nerve pill?”

“Well, the voices in my head told me I didn’t need them any longer!”

“The voices told you that, did they?”

“Oh, yes! They were very clear about that!”

“I bet that they were!”

Life in Da City!

Things you learn in your early jobs….

Before I was a medic, full of derring do and beating back the scourge of death and disease, I was an orderly at Da City General Hospital. There, I shuffled bedpans, obtained vital signs and generally attempted to do all the routine stuff that did not require the skills nor education of a nurse. I learned a lot, particularly among those things that I learned, was that I did NOT desire to become a floor nurse on a med surg floor.

One day, I was gathering the vitals on our guests, working my way through the wards. One particular gentleman had recovered, sort of, from a stratospherically elevated fever. In most regards, he was on track to recuperation, although the fever had done malign things to his brain. He appeared to have a rudimentary understanding of his surroundings, and did not engage in conversation. We were feeding him each of his meals, although he had (re)mastered chewing and swallowing.

So, bright and early, before my coffee had had the opportunity to effect therapeutic caffeine levels (in my bloodstream, that is), I was bent over at his bedside, both siderails up and secured. For some reason, I was having difficulty establishing his BP, and went through several retries.

On one of them, I had failed to note that he had scooted himself over to the rail, rolled onto his right side, and introduced his penis through the slats of the siderail. That, of course, placed me downrange of the volley of urine he was about to produce.

It is never good to be downrange when that range is hot. I received quite the baptism, and reacted smoothly, suavely, and effectively: I cursed, and attempted to leap, from a standing start, over the bed. Didn’t work, but the other patients in the ward certainly found it amusing.

Later on, on a night shift, I was working on the orthopedic floor, and the nurse requested that I provide a suppository of one sort of medication or another, to one of our male patients. Sure, no prob. She bade me pause, before I left the nurse’s station to administer this to the patient, and asked me, “So, Mr. McFee, how are you going to do this?”

I recited, “I’ll inform the patient that this is the suppository of (whatever it was) that your doctor ordered, and the nurse handed to me, so if you would be so kind as lay on your left side, I will lubricate it, and, with my gloved finger, insert it into your rectum.”

She paused. “You missed a step.”

Huh? “Uh, what step would that be, ma’am?”

“You did not include removing the suppository from it’s foil wrapping.”

Huh? “Uh, OK, ma’am, I’ll be sure to remove the foil from the suppository, before I administer it.”

Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pre Planning Your Scene

“Hey, look! I’m fine!”

Winter in Da City is a special time. The snow, late enough in the season, covers up the litter in the gutters, the layabouts tend to lay about indoors, and generally you can almost convince yourself, if you squint just so, that there is hope for, and in, Da City.

And, then you meet people. Kind of an occupational hazard of being a medic for Da City’ fire department. Most of us held to the TRUTH! Of the aphorism that “sick people suck”. Daily (or nightly- kinda depends on your shift, amirite?) we encountered folks who, well, sucked. Both as people, and at life. Because, after all, the lottery winners infrequently phoned 911 to regale our dispatchers with tales of wonderfulness. Face it: nobody calls the fire department, to gush about he/she just now met The Love Of Their Life, and how this soul brought sunshine into their every day.

So, with that thought in mind, TINS©, TIWFDASL© one lovely wintry afternoon and we (Doug and I) caught a run for a man with a broken leg. Arriving on the scene, we noted the usual choreography of the “He’s In Here!” dance, oh so very popular in Da City.

We entered to find a gentleman on the sofa, ethanol fumes emanating from his every pore. One of the (more) sober bystanders informed us that our guest had fallen while shoveling snow, and broken his leg. I turned to the named patient, and he obligingly illustrated the point by waving his (no shit, notable from across the room, articulated in an unnatural spot between his knee and ankle) leg in the air, declaiming, “Hey! Look! I’m fine! There’s nothing wrong!”

As you may have already surmised, he likely had already been well anesthetized. Then, there was the question: if he broke the shit out of his leg, as he manifestly had, how, and why, had he made his way into the house? And, what parts of this tale remained untold?

I attempted to orient him to current events. “Uh, sir? It sure appears like you have broken your leg. We would very much like to take you to the hospital, to get that fixed up for you!”

“Naw, I’m fine!” was the reply, accompanied by more broke-the-shit-out-of-it leg waggling.

The citizens on the scene were ever so helpful. Or, not so much. They contributed, “He broke his laig! Y’all cain’t leab him here!”

Thank you, Dr. Schweitzer, for your orthopedic consultation. Certainly gonna have to factor that into our clinical decision making!

I looked at Doug, and he looked at me. He handed me the handie talkie, and went to the ambulance to retrieve the cot and assorted helpful goodies. I attempted to elicit something along the lines of allergies, medication and medical history information, figuring that sort of information would be kind of mission critical to our friends in anesthesia. I was certain that a tour of the OR in the presence of the orthopedist was in his future. Oh, and vitals. Vitals would be nice.

Once Doug returned, and I noticed that he had preplanned the upcoming goat rope, including a long backboard, backboard straps, and plenty of roller gauze.

We approached out new friend, and pinned him to the sofa. Doug bandaged his arms…yeah, THAT’S the ticket! Bandaged, not restrained! Once he was hindered from “lending a hand” to the festivities, well, we rolled him onto the spine board, secured him with straps, and, laying a nice wide rigid splint between his legs, secured bandaged them as well.

The foregoing accomplished a couple of things. First, he quit flapping that grotesquely fractured leg around. Secondly, he was a considerably more stable package to carry out to the rig. Finally, all the citizenry was placated by how thoroughly their friend had been splinted. Everybody won!

Once we arrived at TSBTCIDC, and debussed Mr. Leg Fracture, well, the nursing staff couldn’t help but unsecure him, since they simply HAD to evaluate the fracture. That set off an entirely new round of protestations that he, the patient, “was just fine!”, accompanied, again, with the semaphore wig-wagging of the demonstrably unfine fractured leg.

Cool story. I finished my trip sheet, and completed and signed a “Petition for Involuntary Hospitalization”, citing my new friend’s manifest unconcern for a clearly broken leg, documenting his inability to comprehend his need for hospitalization.

All in a day’s work!

Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Pre Planning Your Scene · Protect and Serve

The Leviathian Comes Alive!

So, one time we got dispatched to an unconscious person run on the east side. We arrived to see a number of police officers from DBCPD standing around. One of them pointed out a large slumped soul, leaning up on the steps on a rear stairway of some house.

He was not entirely flaccid, and he WAS breathing on his own, both desirable attributes from my point of view. Even so, leaving him to metabolize towards mobility appeared to be a bad plan, so Porthos and I attempted a hold-him-under-his-arms walking assist. It worked, sort of. Well, it appeared to be working well enough that we could maneuver him to the truck, and thence to TBTCIDC, where he could indeed metabolize to freedom, under the loving and watchful eyes of the TBTCIDC Emergency Department nursing staff. For bonus points, he would then not be our problem.

Porthos and I were making progress, of a sort, toward the ambulance, and the police were doing their police type stuff, when I got the bright idea that perhaps a whiff of an ammonia capsule might energize our guest.

Now, with the wisdom that comes with hindsight, THAT might have a good idea to, ya know, DISCUSS with my partner. That discussion might have elicited several beneficial outcomes, like problem solving IN ADVANCE, and anticipation of ways in which this brainstorm of mine might have turned horribly wrong, for example.

As might have become evident, I did NOT discuss this little plan of mine with my partner, and simply retrieved an ammonia cap from my pocket, snapped it, and allowed Mr. Leviathan to breathe deeply of the healing aroma.

He abruptly, and I mean RIGHT FUCKING NOW! Became considerably less stumbling, and way, way more energetic, shaking loose of my grasp on his arm, and turning on my partner.

This might be a good point in my tale to note that our guest was tall, and big, and outweighed me, as well as Porthos, by a considerable margin. If he should commence to some wrasslin’, well, whichever one of us was the object of his affections, would not enjoy being so objectified.

Porthos had noticed our guest’s reanimation, although he was a fraction of a second slower than I in so noticing, and so King King, our newly energized patient, was advancing upon my partner, hands outstretched, and backing Porthos rapidly into a corner.

I realize that things happen quickly, and it appears that time stands still, nevertheless those officers sure appeared to be statues, while this shambling wreck of a man-mountain was advancing, cornering my partner, presenting a clear and present danger of laying hands on him.

I found my Mag Light in my hand, and advanced, on my toes, behind him. My flash plan was, once he had indeed grabbed Porthos, well, I was going to go for that line drive, featuring his head as the baseball.

So, Ninja like, I was advancing upon Leviathan, Leviathan was advancing on Porthos, the cops were unmoving, and I, catlike, managed to step on his foot.

Good news: he forgot about Porthos.

Bad news: he figured that I was oh, so very much more deserving of his attention than my partner. He began to turn on me, so as to show me some love. Of some sort.

Good news: whatever was the source of his previous lethargy, it slowed his synapses, and so the insight that he would rather be thumping on me, rather than Porthos, took him a not inconsequential amount of time to process, and then to act upon.

Good news: Porthos took that opportunity to zig to Mr. Leviathan’s zag, and begin to beat feet to the truck.

Good news: I accelerated to warp speed promptly, and so managed to arrive at the ambulance about the same time as Porthos.

Good news: our officer friends were, themselves, in motion, and they converged on Mr Leviathan, and dissuaded him from pursuing any further laying-on-of-hands ceremonies.

Indeed, they were so persuasive, that they elected to transport our new friend to TBTCIDC, themselves.

Porthos and I had, well, I suppose you might consider it “a teaching moment” once we were back in service. My ears stopped burning after a couple of hours.