Friday, September 1, 2017

Consequences, SLCPD


I've got all day to do this, Officer Jackboots.
See if I know how to leave a mark.

Dear Jackbooted Thugs: You're Officially Dead To Me

How about this one from Salt Lake City:
ER nurse refuses (per policy agreed upon by hospital and SLC PD) that she's not allowed to draw blood from an unconscious patient unless he gives consent (impossible), or the officer arrests him, or they get a warrant for the draw.

So, instead of making the arrest, or obtaining the requisite warrant, Officer Jackboots arrests the nurse in the ER!
For refusing to break the law, violate hospital policy, do something unethical, and commit both a civil rights violation and an act of battery on the patient.

Story link

God help you jackbooted thugs if you get shot or injured.
I won't. You're why.

I'll relent on one condition, and it's a package deal:

Drop all charges against this nurse.

Fire the officer(s) who arrested her, for cause, without benefits or pension.

Refer them for prosecution for false arrest, kidnapping, and violation of civil rights.

Demote his/her/their supervisors.

Make your entire department go through mandatory re-training on why this is recockulous.

Revoke all sovereign immunity, so the nurse, hospital, and all patients affected can sue the officer(s) in question, the city, and the SLPD, for whatever exorbitant civil damages multiple juries think are justified and fair. Something in the mid nine figure range looks appropriate based on the video.

Require your mayor, your police chief, the watch commander, and the supervising sergeant(s) of the officer(s) in question make a full, forthright, rapid, and public apology, on air and in writing, to that nurse, her co-workers, the patients, hospital, staff, and citizens of SLC for this egregious violation and badge-happy horseshit.

Otherwise, you're worse than the criminals you claim to protect us against.

And never, ever, ever, ever, EVER let this happen again.

Barring that response, PDQ, let me be the first to say that when someone shoots you, I'm giving out candy.
When you die, I'll send a note saying I heartily approve.
And I hope you suffer on the way.

You maybe think you have a big team? Wait until you see what a wall of scrubs looks like.
There are 2,000,000 nurses in this country, and that's before we get to doctors, PAs, techs, etc. You're not even in the same league.
You're about to be shat upon, from a great height.

UPDATE: From Comments:
"officer A$$H*le can be contacted @ 801-799-3100
and his supervisor can be contacted at 801-799-6397 "

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Shameless Product Plug Alert

One of the reasons I love travelling is because I get to see how different places do things.

Today's case in point:
the Purewick External Female Catheter, pictured above.
Which Shoestring General is using (and of which the last umpteen places hadn't yet heard).

In a nutshell:
1) Grandma (or any female patient) is incontinent, or non-ambulatory, a frequent pee-er, or any combination of the three.
2) She's gotta pee, which means sliding a bedpan in under her 400# backside, or broken hip, or moving her bony, cachectic bones, or needs 15 minutes per potty trip to bedside commode or bathroom, twice every hour, or any one of 27 other reasons.
3) Indwelling catheters are on the hospital sh*t list, because they provide UTIs with some regularity, which the hospital now gets to eat the cost for treating.

Enter the Purewick EFC.

As you can see above, it's 10" or so by 1" diameter soft plastic hot dog, with a central wicking tampon-ish core.
You put the white cotton side on your female pt.'s outgoing waste evacuation region, as seen below,
inside a diaper or underpants if possible, hook the other end of the magic peesucker to wall (or portable) suction tubing, set it and forget it, and you're done. When it works as advertised (which, anecdotally from me is about 95% of cases), it does exactly what is promised. And even when it's only partially successful it cuts way down on catheters, bedpans, diaper changes, and stinky undies.

It collects the urine in a standard suction canister.
Which can be counted for I+O purposes, sent/withdrawn for standard lab and POCT UA, urine Hcg and drug screens, as necessary. (Urine Cx, not so much).

My no-BS rating: Farking GENIUS! Twenty stars!!!

Eliminates 90% of your female caths as wholly unnecessary.
Which cuts way down on UTIs, and skin breakdown.
And keeps patient and bed less wet and stinky.
Which keeps pt. (and family) happier.

You've just made the day for all CNAs, clinical nurses, risk management, infection control, administration, Press-Ganey, and the CFO, all of whom will wet their pants with joy because 50% of your patients no longer will.

I wish I'd thought of this. I could retire on the royalties.
For that matter, I wish anyone had thought of this 25 years ago, just to save me a few hundred catheterizations. (Plus the ones I missed.)

Seriously, this thing is fantastic. If your hospital isn't using it, clamor for it yesterday, and don't take no for an answer.

Full disclosure: I'm getting zero bucks, nor any other consideration for saying it.
If you're the company marketing it, and you want a testimonial from an experienced clinical practitioner, I'm your pigeon - in return for one steak dinner. Really.
And if you're the Real American Genius who invented it, your steak dinner is one me.

The first shift you don't have to change 7 diapers, or help tiny frail grandma to the bathroom 10 times, and she can sleep peacefully all night long and stay dry as a bone while you get the ordered UA, and strict I+O tally, you'll want to buy that inventor a steak dinner too.

But if I had invented it, it would have rolled out as the Purewick External Elimination Device, and abbreviated as the P.E.E. Device.
Because I'd totally have gone there.

If your hospital doesn't adopt these, you're living in the 19th century.
Neener neener.

Monday, July 24, 2017

Clipboard Commandos

                                 Almost actual size, but it's not this new and shiny here.

New gig at Shoestring Hospital, in Teeny Weeny ER.

Small, hella-busy, still same old fun.

Except for (wait for it) all the ancillary BS hoops to jump through to start.
Wait, it gets better.

So busy and short-handed, your contract started yesterday. (What's that? You never signed one? Don't worry, we'll get around to a coupla months. Maybe.)
But here's your log-in to complete the same 42 online modules (on my time and nickel, apparently) before you start.
Because the ones you just did for our sister hospital in the same system don't count, because the left hand and the right hand in this fucktarded corporate lash-up don't talk to each other.


So, after pounding my head against the monitor for three weeks trying to follow their instructions, it turns out they assigned me no account, so couldn't log-in to the education site, which helpdesk line is so secret, no one in the entire hospital knows it or has ever heard of it, until we reach the threats-of-suspension stage, and it will suddenly leave them exactly as short-staffed as they were before I started, and suddenly shit gets real for them.

Whereupon they "suddenly" discover the secret helpdesk number, and I then find out all the courses they assigned to me in the first place three weeks ago were the wrong ones, and not the ones they've been telling me that I haven't completed, because I couldn't log in, and they never assigned the right ones in the first place.

Because they're all a bunch of chronically and blisteringly incompetent fuckups.

This is my shocked face. I didn't name this place Shoestring Hospital and Teeny Weeny ER for nothing, and Incompetence is one of the core values here.

If I did nursing like they do administration, the dead bodies would be piled up around here like firewood. (And, in all likelihood, they soon will be anyways. But that's another ten stories.)

This will be a short contract. If they ever give me one to sign before I finish it.

And they wonder why they can't find anyone besides brand new grads desperate for a job to become full-time staff? And why they all leave after 366 days?

Monday, July 17, 2017

$#!^ Happens. And You Brought...?

Summer in SoCal is everything you've heard about. Really.
I'm off for the weekend. Cruising down the street listening to my own song mix. The birds are singing. Not a cloud in the sky. And over there is a white haired woman face down in the street. Not a care in...

WTF? Why is grandma doing the dead fish impression off the edge of the curb?

So I pull over smartly, hop out with my first aid kit from behind the seat, and step over to where she lies.
She is, happily for both of us, conscious and breathing, so we chat.

Turns out moments ago (Why in front of me? Just lucky like that...) she negotiated a tall curb badly coming out of the jewelry store, tripped, with both feet on the curb, and fell to the street. As she's telling me this, and giving the okay for help, I tenderly pull her out of the traffic lane in which she was laying, noting her bilateral ankle pain and tenderness.

(And nota bene, total number of helpful bystanders who come over to assist, in front of three open, start to finish. Plan on that and you'll never be disappointed.)

I'm in town, and can call 9-1-1 while simultaneously cracking a couple of ice packs, after assuring myself that her feet have good pulses, are warm, and she can wiggle her toes. While also noticing she's probably broken both her ankles, at the tender age of 70-something.

So rather than having to splint both of her lower legs, I can wait the 110 seconds it takes for the city's red-engine pride to arrive, while I gather a quick history and baseline vitals, less BP, because I can hear the truck coming before I could deploy the cuff.

She is gently loaded on a gurney, to be whisked to the local ER, in little more than the time it took to write this, and other than handing the lead paramedic all the meat and potatoes of his run report, I'm done, and ready to depart. It also helps that he and the captain both recognize me from multiple contacts in that same ER, even though I'm not in scrubs at the moment.

The point, gentle reader, is that $#!^ happens anywhere. Are you prepared for that? You'll use a first aid kit in your lifetime one helluva lot more often than a gun, so whether or not you have a CCW and a weapon, where's your aid kits?
D'ya know what to do after you grab it?
Note I said kits, not kit. If you have a weapon, you should have an IFAK/blow-out kit on your body, as well as a mini-kit, and a disasterpiece theatre SHTF kit in the car, 24/7/365.
Mayhem doesn't send warning notices. He just shows up.

Can you quickly assess, evaluate, and treat someone you come across who needs medical attention? How about when you go shooting? (Of course, we know you'll never have an accident, because infallibility, but what about all those other jackasses waving guns around? Haven't you seen the bullet holes everywhere but downrange??)

Everybody carries one of these:
Okay, nice, provided you've got contact bars.
Some of you carry one of these:
Cool. Now, use it to stop bleeding. Can't do that?
Maybe it's time for one of these:
And one of these is even better.
For some problems, there's no other work around. You simply must have the proper tool, or you can't do the job. And waving your gun, or your arms, (or some other worthless anatomy) at the problem won't fix things.

Please, don't be that guy.
Naked and Afraid isn't even much good as a reality show, but it's orders of magnitude worse as a plan for coping with emergencies.

As a wiser man teaching field medical care once pithily explained,
"If you ain't got a kit, you ain't got $#!^."

Not the happiest ending in this case, but better than it could have ended.
Life happens. Tag, you're it...

Friday, April 14, 2017

Free At Last, Free At Last

Triple contract is over!
Loved the people. Loved the days. HATED the drive time.

I'll probably go back in a few months, if they need me.
(But definitely asking for the housing deal next time.)

39 weeks. 110 or so shifts.
So about 1000 to 1500 more hands-on patients.
And they trusted me enough to put me in triage for three weeks straight at the end.
Helluva ride there, and I'll miss all the familiar faces. It's going to be interesting to see how many of them are still there, if and when I go back down the road.

But eight whole days in a row off work??


Later, taters. Happy Easter.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Expecto Patronum

It sucks coming in to the shift after the Christmas weekend, with the ER jammed, and the overflowing lobby looking like the tiger cage at the circus, at feeding time, and the triage nurse feeling like a staked lamb. It's even worse when every time you get a critical patient out of the ER, you get rewarded with another sick patient, even before you get back from passing along the last admit.

It starts getting better when you get everyone out, either discharged home or admitted, and it's really turned the corner when all your beds are empty, and the lobby has been cleaned out too.

Even when it doesn't happen until 6 AM.

Now all you have to do is make that last hour, hoping that nothing will go sidewa

"TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...Medic Six...three minutes out...witnessed full arrest...CPR in progress...intubating..."

Leaving just enough time to clear the decks for action stations and grab the crash cart, because as the one with no patients, guess who's getting the run...?

And everyone shows up, just ahead of The Guy, the purpose of the exercise.
Including the uninvited party crasher.

I really hate that guy.

He tries his best, too. We get a pulse back, lose it, get it back, lose it, get it back, lose it.
The ET tube gets dislodged; the doc re-places it. We go through code drugs like Charlie Sheen at a cocaine lab. Everyone is on their game though. The guy comes in a deathly shade of purple, and we manage to turn him pink and warm with compressions and bagging. Lines go in like clockwork, IV, IO, central line, NG tube, foley cath. A pile of debris and detritus forms around the perimeter of the room, in inverse proportion to how our guy is doing. Apparently you need to fill a garbage bag to save a life, and we're doing our bit in spades on both counts.

Finally, the efforts start paying off, the pulse comes back for good, blood pressure and oxygen sats stabilize, and we start thinning out the garbage piles just ahead of the arrival of the family that last saw their husband/father/brother/uncle being loaded into an ambulance in the dark half an hour ago.

Sometimes, with some patients, the end is a welcome release from terminal pathology, but not this time.

And with an extra little push from timing, a short transport time, and rockstars on arrival, this guy got the A-Team.
And I love it when a plan comes together.

Oh, and f**k you, Death.
Not on my shift.
Not this time.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Thought For The Day

If you come to the ER and you remember me, you've been here two times.
If you come to the ER and I remember you, you've been here too many times.

Nurses Eat Their Young - Busted

Pretty much calling bullsh*t on that one.

Do all of us, as nurses, run into people that try to pee on our heads and make life hell?
Hell yes!
Do some nurses wimp out and quit?
Does that mean everyone everywhere is there to jump you into the gang?
Hell no!

How do I know this? Because when I started out, it was at a great teaching hospital, unfortunately cursed with some of the most godawful bitter rotten bitches and bastards on the planet, stewing in their own little toxic cesspool. I got tough, and then I got out. And having seen it once, I can spot it in about 0.2 seconds, and don't put up with it.

Everybody, in every job or experience, has probably been hazed a bit (mostly in good fun, and just as a momentary prank). Some people get it far harsher, because you're working with a bunch of bitter, twisted douchenozzles. If your work environment is pissing you off after a month, it's Option B, every time, whether you're new, or you've been doing this for years. If so, GTFO.

I bring this up, because I'm currently somewhere they have a constant stream of new staff, between registry, travelers, new grads, residents, etc. ad infinitum. That was true at the first place I broke in too. What's different is that here, what's missing are the bitter old hags who think they were beknighted by Florence Nightengale personally (and honestly, some of them were old enough to credibly make that claim, but I digress), and they're metaphysically certain that their feces produces no odor. The only reason they wished nursing caps would come back was so that they could wear a tiara to work.

There's none of that here, nor most places. In fact, there's seldom more than a couple of nurses who try it nowadays, and they're usually the petty supervisors who substitute attitude for actual bedside skills. The ones who should retire, to save their own lives, and their patients'.

The reason it doesn't thrive so much anymore is that everyone knows we need the fresh blood, because we need the help period, and secondly, the days of the supervisor who can't help at the bedside are blissfully numbered as I speak. Anybody still pulling their weight knows that can't-hack-it supervisors are dead weight, and that includes their bosses, and their administrators. And much like the military, a constant stream of non-returning new hires points rather inevitably to crappy leaders and preceptors, and that metric comes up at annual raise and retention bonus time, in a big way.

Here, I'm seeing experienced nurses precept the hell out of new grads, and getting double-checked on it, so that once the training wheels are off, the new grads cruise, instead of crash. Better for them, better for us, better for patients, better for the hospital, better for the hospital's bottom line.

If you're one of the perennially bitchy nurses that can't stand new grads, don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way to retirement. In fact, why wait? Quit right now, and save even more lives than if you stayed. And if you're a new nurse, feeling like a cat toy for the experienced nurses, you either need to change you profession, or even more likely, change your work address. The nursing shortage is going nowhere, and all you'll get for trying a greener pasture somewhere else is a better night's sleep, and lower blood pressure. And the Queen Snottypants nurses at Jacked Up Hospital will be stuck where they were without you, doing the work themselves, because they suck.

Anybody can have a rough shift.
If you're having a rough trimester, on the other hand, either do some serious soul-searching, or update your resume, and start web-surfing.
Don't be afraid to ask for help, but if it isn't forthcoming when you ask, start making plans to bloom elsewhere. There are no reward points for being a workplace martyr.
You may be a victim, but you don't have to be a volunteer.

Monday, October 3, 2016

Car 54, Where Are You?

Drunk is not a medical emergency.

Note I am not referring to drug ODs, nor to intoxication to the point of cessation of breathing.
It is solely in reference to plain old intoxication. Something which used to occasion a visit to the local constabulary's drunk tank. Which, long and short of it, is where the problem reared its ugly head.

Because, gentle reader, despite a multiplicity of job skills, police officers, sheriff's deputies, and whatnot are many things, and jacks of a host of trades. But "licensed medical practitioner" is not any of them (and I'm okay with that, and about to tell you why).

Y'see, back in the day, Ofcrs. Reed and Malloy used to load drunks in the back of the squad car, and tote them to the drunk tank. Which was fine for drunks. The problem arose because people with head injuries after car crashes, and people having strokes, and people with diabetic-induced blood sugars of 20 all look exactly like drunks when apprehended. But unlike garden variety drunkaholics, they unhelpfully tend to die a lot overnight when placed in a large drunk tank holding cell. This causes consternation for the officers, annoyance for their families, runaway profits for said families' personal injury attorneys, and great aggravation and heartburn at the offices of the legally responsible municipalities concerned.

So the word has gone out, from city council to city attorney to chief of police to watch commander to desk sergeant to every Ofcr. Reed and Malloy and Deputy Fife:

Take all drunks to the E.R.

And I get that, boys and girls, I truly do. You don't have a CT scanner in your car, nor any medical training but the barest state minimums, so to preclude killing people by mistake, you bring them to those of us qualified to tell a drunk from a guy who took too much insulin and not enough dinner before he plowed into 3 cars and staggered into your arms.

Well and good it is, dulce et decorum.

But where all of you ministers of street justice screw the pooch, is that once you leave the few medical emergencies, and the overwhelming vastness of public wastrels, in our hands, or handed off to us by way of the local fire guys, whom you also had to wake up and drag into this mess, is that you, having happily washed your hands legally of them, don't return and take them to jail, nor even issue a summons for public intoxication, once it's medically certain they're simply drunken @$$holes in desperate need of a stay in the Greybar Motel.

Let me make it clear, lest I put it too mildly, that in every ED I've worked in, and on every night of every year of this century, that amounts to between 2 and 20 m*****f*****s every shift, in perpetuity. I'm sure you don't miss dealing with them, having happily palmed their vomiting, urinating, diarrhea, abusive and obnoxious behavior, and even their assaultive escapades, onto mainly a bunch of overworked nurses, techs, and doctors in scrubs. I'm sure your desk sergeants and watch commanders think that's a splendid thing. I'm sure your city minders don't miss the wrongful death lawsuits. And I know for goddamned certain (ask me how, I triple dog dare you) that the sonofabitches in the city attorney's office have never criminally prosecuted so much as one intoxicated drunk for any of the literal dozens to hundreds of techs, nurses, or doctors that are assaulted and battered daily and nightly in any place hereabouts, just like they don't statewide, or probably in any state.

And as another monumental douchebag opined in a similar vein, "What difference, at this point, does it make?"

Well Sparky, it means that sooner or later, you or yours is going to come in the door with your wife, or kid, or parent, having a heart attack or stroke (or, if God is just, it'll be you yourself, and better yet, your chief), and I'll just be too busy to get to you right away, because I and ten or twelve of my colleagues, without bulletproof vests, batons, tasers, or pepper spray, are doing the wild hog rodeo with some out-of-control 300-visit-a-year @$$hole that should have been doing six months in county for multiple arrests for intoxication that you never bothered to make, because policy; or because the loss of $500K per offender, year in and year out for this happy horseshit caused staff members to burn out and leave, and budget cuts due to those ongoing financial losses have left filling the job impossible.

And then your kid, your wife, your parent, or you, are going to sit in the waiting room, and maybe even die. Sucks to be you on that day, huh?

Or, long before it gets to that point, some one of you with two wits to rub together, could be proactive, and start taking the repeat offenders off the menu, and let some judge set them to filling potholes in the summer, and shoveling snow in the winter, for six months at a stretch, and while we might see them once in six months, after a couple such bed-and-breakfast arrangements with the county, either they'd decide on another life trajectory, or we'd have the best-maintained roads in decades.

Maybe think about that the next time you're sure we'll have time for you when you crash your unit, or take a bullet fighting crime. It'd be a real shame to find out the last bed in the ED was filled by Roscoe the Sterno Bum, for the 200th time this year so far, a half an hour before you rolled in on a stretcher, wouldn't it?

Think it over, and do the right thing.