Posts Tagged → Humor

Bubba

I was in my backyard the other day, and the neighbor’s dog, a big blockheaded yellow lab, starting barking at me.

He learned to bark from my dogs. Before the neighbors had a dog, my dogs would bark at them as they collected blackberries along the back fence. I’d hear the wife hiss, “Shush! Quiet! Go away! Git!”

Not particularly friendly, but then again, my dogs were barking at her.

Then one day they came home with a puppy. We’d hear them: “Bubba, no! Bubba, stop! Bubba, sit! Bubba, come!”

Bubba? Seriously, they named their dog Bubba?

My apologies to all you Bubbas out there – you  are all undoubtedly great, smart people – but why would anyone name their dog Bubba?

It just seems…  disrespectful to the dog, somehow.

No offense intended, of course.

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Poncho: That Kind of Dog

Poncho: <i>That Kind</i> of Dog

The chocolate labs, Poncho and Lefty, frisked about, splashing through puddles and skidding through mud. My friend Carol was walking her dogs along the river’s upper trail in the pouring rain.

That’s right. I said pouring rain.

She’s that kind of dog owner. Totally wacko committed. What other kind of friend would I have?

Both dogs are both more than a little ball-crazy (I’m looking at you, Lefty!), lightning-fast brown blurs when they run, and unreservedly sweet. But Poncho, handsome doe-eyed Poncho, is the trouble-maker of the two. At home, Poncho is the one to get into the trash, chew a shoe, steal a sandwich. At the river, Poncho is the one to eat the horse poop, roll in the fish guts, stumble over a rattlesnake.

He’s just that kind of dog.

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A Party for Jack

Jack was a big guy. He was big-boned, with a big belly and a big laugh.

He had come into the hospital with abdominal pain from badly inflamed intestines. So badly inflamed, in fact, that he’d had to have a bunch of his intestines removed. Like, half his colon. A hemi-colectomy is a big surgery. But he was going to be fine.

His wife and his brother sat at his bedside. “I don’t have a colon like you guys anymore,” he joked to them, eyes twinkling. “I have a semi-colon.”

“It’s okay to have a semi-colon, Jack,” his brother quipped back. “As long as you don’t have a period!”

That was Jack and his family. A bunch of jokesters.

Jack wasn’t laughing for long, though. He ended up with a complication, an ileus. His remaining intestines went to sleep, temporarily stopped functioning. His big belly swelled larger. We had to put a tube down his nose, into his stomach, and attach the tube to wall suction, to decompress his abdomen. And just wait helplessly for his intestines to wake back up.

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How To Give Tylenol Rectally

My patient had a fever. He needed Tylenol.

He was a confused little old man, bedbound. And he couldn’t swallow. He was NPO, meaning no food, no water, nothing by mouth. He would choke. Choking was not good. Even a new nurse like me knew that.

So I needed to give it rectally.

I asked the more experienced nurses: “How do you give Tylenol rectally? Just … ???” Wondering how you put a little pill up there.

“Yes!” they assured me cheerfully.  “Just give it rectally.”

I wanted to be clear. “Just put it in? Just … ??”

Their confirmation was unequivocal, unanimous. “Yes! Just stick it up there!”

Sounded easy enough. Unfortunately, the experienced nurses left out one small but vital detail: Tylenol comes as a suppository.

I was a new nurse. It would have been helpful to know that.

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How To Administer An Enema

I was a student nurse, and my preceptor was watching as I filled up an enema bag with warm water. “Just insert the tubing carefully into her rectum, up to this little black mark – see? – and then open the clamp,” he advised me. “The water will flow in. If she experiences any cramps, stop the flow for a minute.”

I nodded gravely. I was a serious student, learning how to administer an enema. I wanted to do things right. I went over it in my mind: Insert the tube. Stop at the black mark. Open the clamp. Pause if she cramps.

Got it.

We approached our patient, an alert and oriented, bright-eyed 82-year-old lady, slight, bird-like, cheerful. We explained what we needed to do. She nodded. No one much likes an enema, but she knew she needed one.

I lubricated the tip, then gently inserted the tubing up to the black mark. I opened the clamp. Warm water gushed and gurgled noisily into her. She didn’t report any cramps.

But perhaps I should have noticed her expression.

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How To Clean A Patient

I was taking care of the sweetest little lady. She had Alzheimer’s disease. She didn’t know who I was, who her daughter was, what her own name was.

But she beamed delightedly at everyone she saw. “Well hello!” she would exclaim joyously. “How very nice to meet you! How very nice of you to stop by! What a pleasure! Tea?”

She had been admitted to the hospital with constipation which had now resolved, as evidenced by the copious liquid stool that she was freely passing. She certainly hadn’t needed that stool softener I’d given her earlier that morning, I thought regretfully. Drat.

That afternoon, glancing in as I passed her door, I saw her standing uncertainly in the middle of the room. Uneasy, sensing something was amiss, I entered her room and cautiously looked around.

And I saw her hands were covered with stool.

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How To Set Up A PCA Pump

I was setting up a PCA (Patient Controlled Analgesia – a “pain pump”) for my new patient.

I didn’t really have time to be doing this. It was one of those busy days. Everyone was calling me. The pager in my pocket rang constantly: Pain meds! Anxiety meds! When will the doctor be here? I want to go home! Move my Kleenex box two inches to the right!

I would leave a room, and would get called right back in. I couldn’t make any forward progress.

My new patient had just had surgery, and was in pain. She called me every five minutes, telling me the pain medication wasn’t working. I was pouring morphine into her, and finally called the doctor for a PCA, so she could push a button and receive a dose of pain medication whenever she wanted.

Taking the time to set up a PCA would ultimately be better than being paged to her room every five minutes. I could get to my other patients, who were also calling constantly. And she’d have better pain control. Win-win! If I could just get it set up quickly!

Because I really didn’t have any time.

The pump already had batteries in it, located on its underside. As the pager rang in my pocket, I turned on the pump and programmed it with the settings given to me by the doctor. Hooked the tubing up to the patient. Explained that she could hit her button whenever she wanted, that the pump would prevent any overdoses. Stepped back to admire my handiwork, satisfied – Did it! Got it done! – ready to move on to the next room –

And pop went the battery door to the PCA.

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Poem: Teaching In Samoa

The Backstory

I was a 25-year-old Peace Corps volunteer, teaching human biology and general biology in Samoa, a coconut-tree-fringed, green dot-of-an-island in the middle of the gloriously blue South Pacific ocean.

I loved it there.

I loved the turquoise lagoons and lush vegetation and brilliantly colored flowers. I loved the papaya and mango and banana trees, laden with delicious fruit. I loved all the chickens and pigs wandering freely around, scratching and rooting through people’s yards. One resourceful hen took up happy residence in my bedroom, laid a clutch of eggs, and proudly hatched out ten fluffy chicks. I loved it.

I loved watching Samoan boys shimmy breathtakingly high into coconut trees to pluck its fruit. I loved watching Samoan girls skillfully and artfully weave baskets and placemats from coconut fronds. I loved the food. I loved the people. I loved the languid pace, the warm nights, the silvery-peachy color of the lagoon as the morning sun rose above the water.

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I’m Always Hot, Baby. (Or: Oh No, More Hot Flashes.)

I was trying to listen, I really was. But it’s nearly impossible when you’re on fire.

On. Fire.

I was in an important meeting to discuss my little sister Becky, who has Down Syndrome, and her future welfare. I’d been anticipating this meeting for months. The social worker was talking about finances and trusts and legalities.

But my attention was dragged away when I felt the sudden spreading heat. “Oh no,” I thought. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. The heat started, as usual, at my neck and spread like wildfire across my back and chest, through my core, over my whole body, radiating fire from my skin.

Fire!

Women: You know what I’m talking about.

Men: Hello! Keep up. We’re talking about hot flashes.

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Defective Dangling Dongles

I am sitting in a charge nurse meeting at work, listening to the Information Technology (I.T.) guy explain why our computers are so slow.

“It turns out,” he says, “the trouble is with their dongles, so  – ”

My eyes pop open.

“Dongles?”  I burst out involuntarily, incredulous. “Did you say dongles?”

The I.T. guy misunderstands my reaction. “Yes,” he says earnestly. “Little antennas that plug into – ”

I’m not listening anymore. A whole new continent has just been discovered, a brand new world has opened up before me, ripe for exploring.

Computers have dongles!

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Avoid Bad Bounces

“Maybe this isn’t a very good idea,” I thought as I lowered myself slowly into the poison oak.

I must hasten to say that I did not jump out of bed that morning, thinking, “Woo hoo! Today’s the day I get to immerse myself in poison oak! Finally!”

I’m not stupid.

Although…. That first sentence worries me, as it possibly argues  otherwise.

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Ding! Floral Department… 201…

I went to a mandatory fire training class at the hospital today.

At the beginning, the helper-lady-whoever-she-was was trying to turn down the lights, to dim the conference room enough to easily see the PowerPoint presentation, but not so much that we’d all fall asleep. She was trying to get it just right, and was jabbing at a bank of light-switches. So:

Down go the lights… too far.
Up come the lights… then…
Half the lights go off.
Up come the lights again, slowly, slowly…
And all the lights go off.

And I went from  mildly amused, to decidedly annoyed, to completely enraged in about 10 seconds.

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Poem: Ode to B.S. – I Mean, Dr. Stock

The Backstory

Dr. Stock is an excellent surgeon. If you are so unfortunate as to require the services of a surgeon, you want Dr. Stock. He’s highly skilled, very competent, and really smart. He’s a no-nonsense man: he tells you how it is in a brisk, business-like, and professional manner.  By patients he is well-respected and well-liked. By nurses he is well-respected … and somewhat feared. He wants things done right. And if they’re not done right, he lets you know about it. He’s been known to throw charts, raise his voice, huff off the floor.

You do not want Dr. Stock to be angry with you.

One day as I was charting nearby, his wife sneaked up behind him and kissed the top of his balding head. Unaware of who had committed such an outrageously inappropriate, utterly  unacceptable, and highly presumptuous act, Dr. Stock’s face suffused with a thunderous rage. His eyes bulged as he drew in a sharp breath.

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Three For the Price of One!

I’ve never been very good at clothes shopping.

I just don’t seem to have a sense as to which clothes are cute or stylish. I invariably find myself browsing happily through racks of coordinating polyester outfits, thinking, “These are cute!” – and then look up to find that I’m surrounded by blue-haired ladies, who think those coordinating polyester outfits look very fashionable, too.

It’s a little disturbing.

Martin tells me over and over: “When you enter a particular department, look around! If it’s full of blue-haired ladies, get out!” But I never seem to learn.

This isn’t even a recent problem, induced by hormone imbalance. It’s not that I’m nearing a certain age and my wacky hormones are urging me to go check out the Old Lady section. No, even when I was 20 years old, I was rushing to snatch the last pair of checkered pants with the elastic waistband away from the old lady with a cane.

She was hobbling as fast as she could, but I was young, and beat her to it.

I mean, come on. What’s wrong with me?

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The Crazy Lady

I’m 51 years old, but I feel 15. Actually, I feel worse than 15.

This wash of emotions is bewildering. I’ve never been like this before. I’ve always been so measured, so even-keeled … always perfectly in control of my emotions. Even when I was 15 years old! No outbursts, no meltdowns.

But now… I’m unpredictable.

Irrational, bizarre.

I can only blame it on crazy mixed-up perimenopausal hormones.

Last night I charged into the kitchen and started making dinner. And I could feel a flicker of agitation growing inside me. For what? Why?

Because I’m a crazy perimenopausal woman!

And I turned on burners and chopped up chicken, and felt the agitation gathering, swelling, and I started babbling to the dogs. “Oh my god, this is crazy!” I screeched to them. “What’s wrong with me? I’m crazy! Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!”

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Poem: A Wedding Toast

The Backstory

Sydnie Hess is one of our nurse’s aides.

She is playful. Silly. Child-like (I almost said childish). An often-loud, bursting-with-enthusiasm bubbly free spirit. She is also very responsible. Dependable. Committed to her work. She takes care of business.

She kind of reminds me of … well … of me.

Scott Hergerton is a mechanic, Sydnie’s boyfriend. He is quiet. Reserved. A little shy if you don’t know him. Great fun when you do. The type of long-suffering guy who patiently bides his time while his girlfriend teases him mercilessly, and then when she’s least expecting it – wham! – gets even in a big big way.

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