So the new registration clerk at in my department declared (after she was employed) that she had 'multiple chemical sensitivity' and demanded a scent free workplace.
Well firstly, if you knew you were sensitive, why the hell did you try to land a job as an ER reg clerk? And secondly, did you not realize that if you are working with doctors, someone might have actually heard of your condition before?
Well I will admit I had only heard about it peripherally before, and had you not targeted me with your unrealistic demands I would still know little about it. However when you demanded through your direct supervisor that I cease using the body products that I use which caused you so much distress because you have MCS, I did a little research. I found out that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the American Medical Association and the American Academy of Allergy, Asthma and Immunology all do not consider MCS as a distinct physical disorder but rather as a mental health problem. I also discovered that the research that had been done showed that sufferers of MCS do no better than chance at identifying the offending chemicals when they are exposed to chemicals versus placebo and the scent is not apparent to them (say placing one's hand in a box which will either be exposed to the chemical or placebo.)
So I had a talk with your supervisor, and mine, and the CEO of the hospital. I let them know in no uncertain terms that I would not be changing the body products that I use to accommodate your hysteria. Moreover any further challenges to my use of the body products that I use to control my eczema would be met with my own complaint and ADA challenge. Except that my illness can be demonstrated objectively in a court of law while yours isn't even recognized as real by the AMA, CDC and AAAAI.
Though the real win in all of this for me was watching you squirm when you didn't get your way. Your long-suffering martyr shtick is really entertaining. Hmmm. Maybe I need to go buy me some really cheap perfume and bathe in it before I go to work tomorrow.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
OK, I was creeped out. I am pretty proud to admit that very little creeps me out. But this did. Oh. My. God. I feel like I have been slimed.
So a seemingly otherwise relatively nice college kid who is a cutter comes to the ER because she did poorly on a test, so her solution was to cut a few nasty gashes into her forearm. (Whatever slays your dragon as long as you don't hit something important. Cutting not a particularly good coping mechanism, but it is a coping mechanism. Far be it from me to deprive people of the dangerous crutch that gets them through the day.)
So I'm busy and have the nurses put a topical solution (LET) on it, which if left for an hour usually gives full anesthesia. When I finally get to her, I am not sure how long its been on, so I take a needle and poke her a few times around the cut and ask does she feel it. When the answer is no, I start cleaning and sewing.
Everything goes fine till the end. After I tie the last knot, she looks over at me and says: “I just want you to know that I felt every second of that. But I wanted to feel it.”
Somewhere deep inside I hear a little voice that says “Don't react! That's what she wants.” And I smile and say, 'well happy to have been of service' and walk away.... directly into the med room, where I have the biggest creeptastic freakout. Eeeeeeew!
Just eeeeeeeew.
So a seemingly otherwise relatively nice college kid who is a cutter comes to the ER because she did poorly on a test, so her solution was to cut a few nasty gashes into her forearm. (Whatever slays your dragon as long as you don't hit something important. Cutting not a particularly good coping mechanism, but it is a coping mechanism. Far be it from me to deprive people of the dangerous crutch that gets them through the day.)
So I'm busy and have the nurses put a topical solution (LET) on it, which if left for an hour usually gives full anesthesia. When I finally get to her, I am not sure how long its been on, so I take a needle and poke her a few times around the cut and ask does she feel it. When the answer is no, I start cleaning and sewing.
Everything goes fine till the end. After I tie the last knot, she looks over at me and says: “I just want you to know that I felt every second of that. But I wanted to feel it.”
Somewhere deep inside I hear a little voice that says “Don't react! That's what she wants.” And I smile and say, 'well happy to have been of service' and walk away.... directly into the med room, where I have the biggest creeptastic freakout. Eeeeeeew!
Just eeeeeeeew.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
I'm not homophobic. I just don't like you.
ER residency training should have an entire one month rotation in alcohol intoxication. After nights like last night I am convinced that without ethyl hydroxide, we'd need only about half of the ER physicians we currently have in the US. However, although they may be a source of job security for me (up there with smokers, people who don't wear helmets/seatbelts, and the trampoline industry) I really loathe drunks. A. Whole. Lot.
Last night one of the drunks that was brought in by EMS from the dorms was particularly annoying. He was a very intoxicated, underage sophomore who is so flaming gay that he makes Carson Kressley look like Chuck Norris. (Though the supercute outfit and perfectly coiffed to give that tousled look hair were slightly less awesome once drenched in vomit. I believe the vintage was Taco Bell and Jose Curevo.) Attached at the hip was his slightly less intoxicated but equally flaming boyfriend - who insisted on coming with him in the ambulance because he was a pre med! Because you never know when balancing a redox reaction or labeling the organelles in a eukaryotic cell diagram will be a lifesaver.
So I bit my tongue, gave Drunky McDrunkerton a once over to make sure this was all just from alcohol (and not a head injury, etc), wrote MTF* on his white board, and left him in the skilled clinical hands of his BF.
It could have been so easy. They could have just hung out for a few hours, Drunky would have demonstrated his mad skillz at drinking water without vomiting and ambulating without collisions, and they would have been out of the ER in time for Starbucks to open up.
But nooooo. Easy is not for them.
Within 10 minutes the average sound level from room 4 was reaching 60 dB with peaks in the 90-100s. Even worse, we were treated to a varied selection of colorful expletives screeched for the entire ER (including the toddler in room 6.) I gently reminded Drunky and BF that they were in an ER, there were children present, and they needed to use their inside voices.
They did try.... but being drunk as shit, their concentration was probably a bit off, so they lasted all of 10 minutes. I went in a second time and told them that if I had to come in a third time, BF would be banished to the dreaded waiting area (since largely he was the instigator and definitely the louder of the two.)
Then the inevitable happened and security escorted BF to the waiting area. My hope was at this point young Mr Drunkerton would fall asleep for a few hours, but it was not to be. Replacing the colorful expletives was a weeping and wailing that would have been appropriate if, say... BF had just died. With my ears now bleeding, and 600mg of ibuprofen in my stomach I entered room 4 to see a (theoretically adult) male crying like a toddler. I mean, this was an impressive performance... tears, snot running down his face, flailing of arms. Really this was worthy of the Academy. Perhaps I am a masochist, but I asked:
Perhaps I am a masochist, but I asked:
Me: “what's wrong?”
Drunky: “You.... you made him leave... you're ho... ho... homophobic!”
Me (looking shocked... not really, but I do a good shocked look): “Really? What makes you think that?”
Drunky: “You made my boyfriend le-he-heave! If he was my girlfriend, you would have let him stay!”
Me: “No, actually the reason he was asked to leave was because after two warnings you insisted on screaming obscenities so that the little girl two doors down could hear you. I won't have that in the ER. This isn't a bar or your dorm.”
Drunky: “That's bu-bu-bullshit! Its because we're queer and you know it! You fu- fuck- fucking Christian piece of shit! Fuck you!” (Maybe 90 dB and at the end.... he huffed... and literally pouted. If he could stand I would have expected to see a foot stomp. Were it not for my headache, I might have even seen the humor at that point. But the ibuprofen hadn't worked yet.)
Me: “Well for one, I'm not Christian. Two, thanks for proving my point. And three if I bear you any ill will its not that I'm homophobic, I just really don't like you. The only problem I have with you being queer is that I'm embarrassed since I'm gay too. And the fact that you are playing the gay card because you're angry that you've been treated like a spoiled brat just annoys the living snot out of me.”
Drunky: moves his lips, eyes bug out a bit, and a little squeak comes out.
Me: “I grew up in the 80s in the south and had the shit beaten out of me (numerous times with startling regularity) by fag-hatin' rednecks. So I know what homophobia is, and this isn't it, son. This is just the natural consequences of your actions. My advice to you would be to shut up, start acting like a grown-up, and maybe if you can demonstrate that you can, I'll let BF back in.”
Drunky: "Bwa-ha-haaaaaa." Snivel. Cough. Flounces over on his side (and won't look at me as he blubbers because I am such a mean man.)
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Though fortunately perhaps he had a few functioning axons somewhere in his poorly developed frontal lobe and after I left, we had blessed silence as he fell asleep.
-- Your friendly neighborhood ER doctor
*MTF = Metabolize To Freedom (the process of letting one's liver gradually decrease one's blood alcohol level to the point that you are safe to be released into the wild.)
Last night one of the drunks that was brought in by EMS from the dorms was particularly annoying. He was a very intoxicated, underage sophomore who is so flaming gay that he makes Carson Kressley look like Chuck Norris. (Though the supercute outfit and perfectly coiffed to give that tousled look hair were slightly less awesome once drenched in vomit. I believe the vintage was Taco Bell and Jose Curevo.) Attached at the hip was his slightly less intoxicated but equally flaming boyfriend - who insisted on coming with him in the ambulance because he was a pre med! Because you never know when balancing a redox reaction or labeling the organelles in a eukaryotic cell diagram will be a lifesaver.
So I bit my tongue, gave Drunky McDrunkerton a once over to make sure this was all just from alcohol (and not a head injury, etc), wrote MTF* on his white board, and left him in the skilled clinical hands of his BF.
It could have been so easy. They could have just hung out for a few hours, Drunky would have demonstrated his mad skillz at drinking water without vomiting and ambulating without collisions, and they would have been out of the ER in time for Starbucks to open up.
But nooooo. Easy is not for them.
Within 10 minutes the average sound level from room 4 was reaching 60 dB with peaks in the 90-100s. Even worse, we were treated to a varied selection of colorful expletives screeched for the entire ER (including the toddler in room 6.) I gently reminded Drunky and BF that they were in an ER, there were children present, and they needed to use their inside voices.
They did try.... but being drunk as shit, their concentration was probably a bit off, so they lasted all of 10 minutes. I went in a second time and told them that if I had to come in a third time, BF would be banished to the dreaded waiting area (since largely he was the instigator and definitely the louder of the two.)
Then the inevitable happened and security escorted BF to the waiting area. My hope was at this point young Mr Drunkerton would fall asleep for a few hours, but it was not to be. Replacing the colorful expletives was a weeping and wailing that would have been appropriate if, say... BF had just died. With my ears now bleeding, and 600mg of ibuprofen in my stomach I entered room 4 to see a (theoretically adult) male crying like a toddler. I mean, this was an impressive performance... tears, snot running down his face, flailing of arms. Really this was worthy of the Academy. Perhaps I am a masochist, but I asked:
Perhaps I am a masochist, but I asked:
Me: “what's wrong?”
Drunky: “You.... you made him leave...
Me (looking shocked... not really, but I do a good shocked look): “Really? What makes you think that?”
Drunky: “You made my boyfriend le-he-heave!
Me: “No, actually the reason he was asked to leave was because after two warnings you insisted on screaming obscenities so that the little girl two doors down could hear you. I won't have that in the ER. This isn't a bar or your dorm.”
Drunky: “That's bu-bu-bullshit! Its because we're queer and you know it! You fu- fuck- fucking Christian piece of shit! Fuck you!” (Maybe 90 dB and at the end.... he huffed... and literally pouted. If he could stand I would have expected to see a foot stomp. Were it not for my headache, I might have even seen the humor at that point. But the ibuprofen hadn't worked yet.)
Me: “Well for one, I'm not Christian. Two, thanks for proving my point. And three if I bear you any ill will its not that I'm homophobic, I just really don't like you. The only problem I have with you being queer is that I'm embarrassed since I'm gay too. And the fact that you are playing the gay card because you're angry that you've been treated like a spoiled brat just annoys the living snot out of me.”
Drunky: moves his lips, eyes bug out a bit, and a little squeak comes out.
Me: “I grew up in the 80s in the south and had the shit beaten out of me (numerous times with startling regularity) by fag-hatin' rednecks. So I know what homophobia is, and this isn't it, son. This is just the natural consequences of your actions. My advice to you would be to shut up, start acting like a grown-up, and maybe if you can demonstrate that you can, I'll let BF back in.”
Drunky: "Bwa-ha-haaaaaa." Snivel. Cough. Flounces over on his side (and won't look at me as he blubbers because I am such a mean man.)
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Though fortunately perhaps he had a few functioning axons somewhere in his poorly developed frontal lobe and after I left, we had blessed silence as he fell asleep.
-- Your friendly neighborhood ER doctor
*MTF = Metabolize To Freedom (the process of letting one's liver gradually decrease one's blood alcohol level to the point that you are safe to be released into the wild.)
Monday, March 24, 2008
I am writing this partly as therapy for myself, partly so my partner doesn't have to hear the kvetching as much, and partly because this is just too funny not to share sometimes. Of course I will blur the details enough that it will be entirely HIPPA-tastic. So if someday I am fingered by a patient, I will just let you know now... no, it wasn't you.
Though for my first post, I will just link to something I wrote last year after a very bad weekend, and thoroughly enjoyed seeing hit the best of craigslist. Though the most entertaining part was googling it and finding it discussed on several pain discussion groups. The merits of the advice was debated by people who actively drug-seek in ERs... and it was generally well received as decent advice. That made me smile way more than the nurse who thought it was funny up until I mentioned fibromyalgia – which she has. I'm sure she doesn't like House, MD either. http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/sfo/301345524.html
Though for my first post, I will just link to something I wrote last year after a very bad weekend, and thoroughly enjoyed seeing hit the best of craigslist. Though the most entertaining part was googling it and finding it discussed on several pain discussion groups. The merits of the advice was debated by people who actively drug-seek in ERs... and it was generally well received as decent advice. That made me smile way more than the nurse who thought it was funny up until I mentioned fibromyalgia – which she has. I'm sure she doesn't like House, MD either. http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/sfo/301345524.html
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