1.) ...you've hyperventilated while breathing with a patient.
2.) ...you've told a patient "Don't worry, the Dr will be here in plenty of time." one minute before you deliver the head.
3.) ...you have done a vaginal exam and managed to keep a poker face as you try to figure out which small part of the baby you're touching.
4.) ...you"ve turned up the radio at the nurse's station to drown out a patient screaming.
5.) ...you assume every patient has stopped at Burger King prior to her 8am scheduled c-section.
6.) ...you have wondered how a patient ever got pregnant when she can't tolerate a vag exam.
7.) ...you've not noticed when a prospective dad has fainted and fallen into the bathroom.
8.) ...you have wished you were hanging liquid Valium instead of Ringer's Lactate.
9.) ...you assume that most patients have guessed at the date of their last period.
10.) ...you've mistaken the father of the baby for the father of the laboring patient.
11.) ...you have perfected your "vag exam stare".
12.) ...you have discussed vaginal lacerations and uterine prolapses during lunch without losing your appetite.
13.) ...and you wondered why everyone seated around you has left without finishing their meal.
14.) ...you have secretly wished that the legal age for tubal ligation was fourteen.
15.) ...you've stifled a laugh when a patient tells you "I'm going to have natural childbirth. Don't offer me any drugs."
16.) ...you assume this same patient will be screaming for an epidural at 2 cms.
17.) ...you have had to fish through the trash for a placenta you threw out by mistake.
18.)...You assume that however many centimeters you find your patient dilated, her Dr will tell her she's one less.
19.) ...you've gotten the c-section room ready when you see a patient coming through the door with a birth plan in her hand.
20.) ...you've done a vag exam and realized, when you go to chart, that you forgot to check effacement.
21.) ...you have calmly assured a patient, "Don't worry, your baby just needs a tad more oxygen." as the FHR goes down to 50.
22.) ...you have assured a new father, "Don't worry, his head will go back into a normal shape", as you've thought, "No matter what shape his head's in, this is a really homely baby!"
23.) ...you have hoped that the rude labor check you've just sent home will accidentally deliver there.
24.) ...you have suspected that someone slipped fertility drugs into the high school water supply.
25.) ...and considered slipping birth control pills into same.
26.) ...you have smiled and said, "That's OK", when your just-delivered patient tells you "I'm sorry I hit you, pulled your hair, screamed obscenities, and called you a fat, cruel, sadistic bitch. I was in labor and didn't mean it."
27.) ...you've answered a "Can sex hurt the baby" phone call.
28.) ...you have watched the clock and hoped your patient will deliver fifteen minutes after shift change.
29.) ...you've had to choose between going to the bathroom and eating, and eating won.
30.) ...you've hidden in the bathroom when you've seen a labor patient srriving with six pillows, a birthing ball, a CD case, a rolling pin, a poster of the Sierra Nevadas, and a birth plan in hand.
31.) ...you immediately check the patient's history after she tells you she has no medical problems.
32.) ...you haven't been surprised when a woman's pains that were every two minutes on the phone are every twenty-five minutes when she arrives at the hospital.
33.) ...you prefer your patients to arrive with the baby's head on the perineum so you won't have to chart much.
34.) ...you have dreamed of a world where labor coaches who sit in the lounge chair and watch ESPN while their wife is in labor must undergo immediate vasectomies.
35.) ... you have tripped over a small child during a "family birth experience".
36.) ...you immediately make sure you have plenty of drugs on hand when the primip you're admitting smiles and tells you she's a "10" on the pain scale.
37.) ...you've used an umbilical cord clamp to mend a tear in your scrub jacket.
38.) ...you have idly wondered how housekeeping is going to get that blood off the ceiling.
39.) ...you've considered applying to the E.R. for a job with less stress.
40.) ...you know the words "Don't push!" in five different languages.
41.) ...you actually, in your heart of hearts, agree with people who say, "You're a Labor and Delivery nurse? What a wonderful job!"
Friday, August 29, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Pink Paint
I was painting when I heard the news
of John Lennon's death;
Painting the bedroom of a friend's daughter,
(the mother secretly hoping that the benign pink paint
might mitigate the viiolence in her child).
I paused as I heard the radio broadcast,
pink paint dripping on my shoes,
like blood dripping on a cold Manhatten street
or tears shed at a place called
Strawberry Fields.
And I tried to make this knowledge
seem real, to make it my own.
Failing that,
I stored the moment in that same vault
where we keep the shooting of JFK,
and the explosion of the Challenger,
and that fateful day in September,
to take out at a later date
and examine on all sides
like a doomed relationship;
to play "Imagine"
and finally, to
mourn.
of John Lennon's death;
Painting the bedroom of a friend's daughter,
(the mother secretly hoping that the benign pink paint
might mitigate the viiolence in her child).
I paused as I heard the radio broadcast,
pink paint dripping on my shoes,
like blood dripping on a cold Manhatten street
or tears shed at a place called
Strawberry Fields.
And I tried to make this knowledge
seem real, to make it my own.
Failing that,
I stored the moment in that same vault
where we keep the shooting of JFK,
and the explosion of the Challenger,
and that fateful day in September,
to take out at a later date
and examine on all sides
like a doomed relationship;
to play "Imagine"
and finally, to
mourn.
Quote of the week
The mandatory three day wait and background check for firearms should be abolished - and replaced with an IQ test.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Quote of the week
Sometimes, in this life you have to choose between pleasing God and pleasing man. In the long run, it's better to please God - he's more apt to remember.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Queen
I've known many people who felt that they were meant to be born rich and many more who felt they were born to marry rich.I've known others who felt they were born to be treated like royalty or who were royal in the sense of being "a royal pain". I, however, am different. I, however, was born to be a Queen.
This first became evident at my birth when I presented myself, not in the usual face-down position, but with my nose in the air. My first experience at ruling, it is said, was when I came home from the hospital. My siblings tell me that the entire household revolved around my wants and needs. Of course.
My apparent misplacement in a middle class family became more obvious as I learned to sit on the "throne" at an early twelve months of age. Other children wanted dolls or BB guns. I craved a scepter. While kids in the neighborhood lined up their American army men to shoot at and annihilate the "Reds" or the "Japs" (This was back in those old, politically incorrect 50's), my soldiers snubbed the other kid's armies and refused to let them into the Red Cross Ball.
Yes, somewhere, a mistake had been made. Somewhere, a little middle class minded child was worrying my royal parents with her appalling lack of knowledge concerning the use of finger bowls and the management of servants. Somewhere, a little girl sat at her castle window yearning for backyard picnics and public schools.
I continued trying to assert my round-peg self into my parent's square-peg world. After all, who can ever forget the day I came running home with a perfect report card, declaiming to my mother that I had made the "A list"? This trend continued throughout my teenage years where peer approval had an entirely different meaning for me than it did for my classmates.
Undaunted by the distinct lack of obeisance from my subjects, I left school to travel throughout my realm. I held my head high and eventually married a prince of a man.While my neighbors were trying to keep up with the Joneses, I had my eye on the Windsors. I spent my days with a few dear friends, sipping Earl Grey tea and complaining about the servant problem (Regretably, our problem was the lack of them).
How did someone of my obvious royal qualifications end up living on the wrong side of the castle walls? Possibly, it could be traced back to my marriage - when my husband mentioned Riviera, I assumed he meant "French", not "Beach".
So here I wait, always with a queenly mein, a sense of noblesse oblige and an eye for good jewelry. I know in my heart that somewhere I have a long lost relative with royal blood. After all, on several occasions, I have been called a princess - which just goes to show, the truth will out.
This first became evident at my birth when I presented myself, not in the usual face-down position, but with my nose in the air. My first experience at ruling, it is said, was when I came home from the hospital. My siblings tell me that the entire household revolved around my wants and needs. Of course.
My apparent misplacement in a middle class family became more obvious as I learned to sit on the "throne" at an early twelve months of age. Other children wanted dolls or BB guns. I craved a scepter. While kids in the neighborhood lined up their American army men to shoot at and annihilate the "Reds" or the "Japs" (This was back in those old, politically incorrect 50's), my soldiers snubbed the other kid's armies and refused to let them into the Red Cross Ball.
Yes, somewhere, a mistake had been made. Somewhere, a little middle class minded child was worrying my royal parents with her appalling lack of knowledge concerning the use of finger bowls and the management of servants. Somewhere, a little girl sat at her castle window yearning for backyard picnics and public schools.
I continued trying to assert my round-peg self into my parent's square-peg world. After all, who can ever forget the day I came running home with a perfect report card, declaiming to my mother that I had made the "A list"? This trend continued throughout my teenage years where peer approval had an entirely different meaning for me than it did for my classmates.
Undaunted by the distinct lack of obeisance from my subjects, I left school to travel throughout my realm. I held my head high and eventually married a prince of a man.While my neighbors were trying to keep up with the Joneses, I had my eye on the Windsors. I spent my days with a few dear friends, sipping Earl Grey tea and complaining about the servant problem (Regretably, our problem was the lack of them).
How did someone of my obvious royal qualifications end up living on the wrong side of the castle walls? Possibly, it could be traced back to my marriage - when my husband mentioned Riviera, I assumed he meant "French", not "Beach".
So here I wait, always with a queenly mein, a sense of noblesse oblige and an eye for good jewelry. I know in my heart that somewhere I have a long lost relative with royal blood. After all, on several occasions, I have been called a princess - which just goes to show, the truth will out.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Computers Byte
I don't like computers. There - I've said it. Yes, I know computers are the wave of the future. I know they save time. I know every successful business and business person must have one, and I grudgingly grant you that persons who are not computer literate are probably dragging their feet and closing their eyes to the inevitable. Maybe we are stubborn, rigid and behind the times.
I don't like to think I possess those qualities, but, but --- I don't like computers.Correctly speaking, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that computers have never liked me and after years of them not liking me, I've simply reciprocated the emotion.
Don't try to tell me computers are incapable of feeling dislike. I know better. Not only have computers demonstrated that they can dislike a person, but they also seem to possess a spiteful, mean sort of sense of humor. How else does one explain phenomena such as the computer at work refusing to allow me to enter my name - this, in spite of the fact that it knows I'm the charge nurse? If it does let me enter my name, it often refuses to let me go any further.
For example: I will attempt to put in an order for a simple lab test, say, a CBC (complete blood count for those fortunate enough to have avoided the field of medicine). The computer adamantly refuses to execute this order. Our secretary, Janice (whom the computer loves) pushes the exact same sequence of buttons and the computer immediately, slavishly executes the order. I swear, if it had little computer arms and legs, it would have run and drawn the blood itself.
I have even taken a computer class - even though I felt that the computer needed counseling more than I did. Our teacher told us that computers will only do what one tells them to do. The computer operator is in charge at all times. The operator pushes a button, the computer responds. Simple. Then why do I feel that the computer is pushing my buttons rather than vice versa?
Last week, I attempted to order a diet for one of my patients. This, again, is a simple procedure. In order to get to the diet screen, you must type in your employee number and your personal secret code (mine is LBRN if anyone wants it). Next, you enter the patient's account number and then REG for regular diet. Easy, right?
I typed in my employee number and secret code LBRN. The computer replied, "Not a valid code. Please try again."
"Look", I reasoned with it, "you may not like my secret code, but it is valid. Take it!" I typed it in again.
"Please enter code." it said.
"I did." On the third try, the damned computer, as it is affectionately called, finally took my code, and with relief, I typed in my patient's account number. Quickly, a patient's screen came up. Unfortunately, although not unexpectedly, it was not my patient's screen. I tried again.
"This is not a valid account number. Please try again."
Not one to give up easily, I typed in the number again, being very careful to hit the correct keys. Another patient screen came up. Not my patient's, of course. "I will order this diet or die trying." I punched the keys furiously. I think I heard the computer chuckle. In went the 6 digit account number. The screen went blank.
"Janice," I asked the secretary, "Could you please order this diet for me?" Using the same 6 digits, it took Janice about 10 seconds to order the diet.
I sighed in defeat, just another casualty in the war between man and machine.
I don't like to think I possess those qualities, but, but --- I don't like computers.Correctly speaking, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that computers have never liked me and after years of them not liking me, I've simply reciprocated the emotion.
Don't try to tell me computers are incapable of feeling dislike. I know better. Not only have computers demonstrated that they can dislike a person, but they also seem to possess a spiteful, mean sort of sense of humor. How else does one explain phenomena such as the computer at work refusing to allow me to enter my name - this, in spite of the fact that it knows I'm the charge nurse? If it does let me enter my name, it often refuses to let me go any further.
For example: I will attempt to put in an order for a simple lab test, say, a CBC (complete blood count for those fortunate enough to have avoided the field of medicine). The computer adamantly refuses to execute this order. Our secretary, Janice (whom the computer loves) pushes the exact same sequence of buttons and the computer immediately, slavishly executes the order. I swear, if it had little computer arms and legs, it would have run and drawn the blood itself.
I have even taken a computer class - even though I felt that the computer needed counseling more than I did. Our teacher told us that computers will only do what one tells them to do. The computer operator is in charge at all times. The operator pushes a button, the computer responds. Simple. Then why do I feel that the computer is pushing my buttons rather than vice versa?
Last week, I attempted to order a diet for one of my patients. This, again, is a simple procedure. In order to get to the diet screen, you must type in your employee number and your personal secret code (mine is LBRN if anyone wants it). Next, you enter the patient's account number and then REG for regular diet. Easy, right?
I typed in my employee number and secret code LBRN. The computer replied, "Not a valid code. Please try again."
"Look", I reasoned with it, "you may not like my secret code, but it is valid. Take it!" I typed it in again.
"Please enter code." it said.
"I did." On the third try, the damned computer, as it is affectionately called, finally took my code, and with relief, I typed in my patient's account number. Quickly, a patient's screen came up. Unfortunately, although not unexpectedly, it was not my patient's screen. I tried again.
"This is not a valid account number. Please try again."
Not one to give up easily, I typed in the number again, being very careful to hit the correct keys. Another patient screen came up. Not my patient's, of course. "I will order this diet or die trying." I punched the keys furiously. I think I heard the computer chuckle. In went the 6 digit account number. The screen went blank.
"Janice," I asked the secretary, "Could you please order this diet for me?" Using the same 6 digits, it took Janice about 10 seconds to order the diet.
I sighed in defeat, just another casualty in the war between man and machine.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Waitress in a Donut Shop
(For all my waitress friends.)
I'm a waitress in a donut shop
I make the cofee. I stock, I mop.
They make me wear pink which
isn't my color.
"Is the coffee fresh?" they always say.
"Well when was it made, what time today?"
Sometimes I lie.
"This isn't fresh. I only ate half,
you'd better give my money back."
Oh, lady...
They wait in line, I guess they snooze,
when it's their turn they cannot choose
They're only donuts.
I'm just a cipher to you,
a purveyor of Boston Cremes
But I'm a woman too and
I have hopes and dreams.
So give a thought next time you stop,
to me - I'm just your waitress in a donut shop.
I'm a waitress in a donut shop
I make the cofee. I stock, I mop.
They make me wear pink which
isn't my color.
"Is the coffee fresh?" they always say.
"Well when was it made, what time today?"
Sometimes I lie.
"This isn't fresh. I only ate half,
you'd better give my money back."
Oh, lady...
They wait in line, I guess they snooze,
when it's their turn they cannot choose
They're only donuts.
I'm just a cipher to you,
a purveyor of Boston Cremes
But I'm a woman too and
I have hopes and dreams.
So give a thought next time you stop,
to me - I'm just your waitress in a donut shop.
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