June, 2006 Archive

i sent a patient to MRI last week. nothing unusual with that really. except of course that he had  some kind of chest surgery about a week old, and he still had staples on. and although it was not a reasonable excuse, my excuse was that, it was practically the AM nurse who arranged all the stuff for MRI, as dispatch was there at 1850, just a few minutes after i took report. she forgot all about the staple, and so did i, because they were rushing to do the MRI.

the MRI technician called later to tell me that they were not doing the MRI after all, because the patient was anxious and was unable to keep still for the whole test, he needed sedation. he was supposed to be there for over an hour, but he was sent back to our unit a lot earlier. still, i didn’t remember the staples. not until the patient was in the unit that i realized the mistake i’ve done. as expected, i was overwhelmed with guilt. and paranoia.

i checked the surgery incision right away. it was okay, nothing really out of the ordinary. the patient denied any discomfort, but only said that he was sort of just uncomfotable on the MRI chamber. two days later, i found out from the nurse taking care of the patient that the doctors didn’t really care about the staples, they just want the MRI done, and those staples were insignificant, as far as the MRI was concerned. i could have been charged with negligence, but i wasn’t.

i guess i’m just lucky like that.

but as i said, paranoia and guilt ate my mind away. on my way home that day, i was imagining the worst case scenario, and was playing this litigation process on  my head. i was thinking something could have happened to the wound, the patient, etc., and i was eventually convicted of something. i was, as usual, picturing myself in a black and white stripe or orange prison uniform, when i had to step on the brake at a four way stop. i did stop, but since my mind was in some stinky, lonely jail somewhere, it didn’t really register that there was a crossing car ahead of me, which was already moving when i stopped. after a second of stopping, i stepped on the gas, and the driver, just looked at me, and stopped to let me go first. i swear he could have shot me if he had a gun, but he didn’t.

i guess i’m just lucky like that.

she asked me how i was. i smiled, and thought it best to keep quiet, because i do not want to take advantage of her politeness. i sort of go over the top when answering the “how are you” question these days. so i just kept smiling, to which, the old lady eventually smirked. donating blood always makes me feel warm and nice inside, but i can’t help it. i just had to smile to that nice lady, and keep quiet. she did leave me in peace as we were both munching on the post donation complimentary cookies. i could have asked how she was instead, but i didn’t.

i guess i’m just a snob like that.

for the second time within the past two years that we moved to this house, our mailbox lock got broken. it was not difficult to have it fixed, but it was a hassle. i don’t know what it is about us that the neighbors hate, but they sort of like the idea of trying to open our mailbox with some sharp objects. they could have chosen other games to play, but they didn’t.

i guess they just hate us like that.

i didn’t care if it was more than 10 bucks. i didn’t care if it was labeled with the wrong size either. it was a size 8 capri, it was $14.99 at 75% off, and it went home with me. i can’t believe my eyes when i tried it on. i could have looked like a trying hard mama in it, but i didn’t.

i guess i’m just hot like that. heh.

i don’t really know what i’m saying…

i guess it’s just that  i am a very lucky snob, who is hated by my neighbors because i’m pretty hot!

whew! it took me awhile to figure that out!

he wanted two urinals facing him, on the right side of the table, at the end part. next to the second urinal, he wanted his wipes. the pillow was too soft, the mattress, not firm enough. his left leg should be lifted just a few inches above the bed, and it needed to be held just behind the ankle. if the sheets cannot be totally straightened out, he wanted it removed. the TV needed to face him at a certain angle.  the sound was scratchy, the remote had to be changed right away. breakfast should come on time, and there should be nonfat strawberry yogurt.

he wanted to know my name every three minutes, because he needed to call me by my name. only, he was getting so nervous with the idea that something was not in order, that he kept forgetting my name. he asked if can just call me “sunshine” or “sweetheart”, because those are easy to remember.

he almost annoyed me, but in the end i felt sorry for him. i did not want to be him. to be specifically obsessed with those things i consider unimportant did not sound like fun. in fact, it was ugly. and sad.

and so is profanity. it is sad. and ugly.

i told her we needed her bed for a telemetry patient, so we needed to transfer her to a different room. she hated it that she had all her stuff settled in her tables and now we wanted to move her. i told her that her things were not a problem because we will move the tables with her. “F*#K YOU!” she said.

i felt blood rushed through my face, but like a decent professional, i kept quiet. in between the threats to go home against medical advice and the claims to call her family to let them know that we were “f*#king” with her, i was called f*#k a couple of times. everytime, i cringed and held my breath, counting a thousand times, before opening my mouth. if rudeness begets rudeness, where will this world go? i kept quiet.

profanity. what about it? does it make people feel powerful? does it make people feel better? what is there to gain in calling somebody else something you don’t want to be called? why is it so insulting? why is it so offensive?

i don’t know which is sadder. to be in a hospital and obsess about every tiny detail of your tiny environment. or to be in a hospital and cuss about every tiny detail of your tiny environment.

that is a nonsensical thought.

the saddest truth is that i see these things everyday.

and the sensible question is: when will i ever get used to it?

enema: the humiliating experience of having a slightly slimy tube, (the size of your little finger) up in your ass, so that everything that you placed in your mouth since the day you were born, will come out of your behind, in this dramatic, loud, fashion that you have absolutely no control of.

they might as well call it ass assault. because really, that is how it is, in a no nonsense kind of way.

our brilliant clinical instructors back in nursing school thought it was the greatest idea. every student should experience the degrading thing that every patient goes through when their assess are assaulted. so, one sunny afternoon, when every sweat in every pore of our skin was getting impatient to come out, we wore our new underwear with the hope that somebody will notice its crispness rather than how our rectum looks like in the glistening rays of the tropical sun.

there we were, the whole innocent looking 70 of us, awaiting our fate. 35 pairs, 35 enema sets, two restrooms. not to mention, very limited water to flush the evidence of our previous ingestions.

there is no way to describe that exact moment. you go past the humiliation of somebody going through your whole posterior private part. then, there is the inexperience that made it difficult to actually find the one hole where you put the tube in. not that there are a lot of choices down there; but hands are shaking, and for crying out loud, the clinical instructor is standing next to you, examining your target. the thing that comes to your mind is that, when it is your turn to lie down there, you are totally naked, without taking your clothes off.

then the sense of water getting inside you. surreal.

then, the climax. you grab the towel, cover your face, run to the restroom like some olympians run for the gold, and cross your fingers that you get to it when it is empty. don’t forget, farting is a part of the whole process, and you definitely have magical powers if your fart doesn’t come with something else, because usually, a fart is just a bonus of the real thing that is dripping down your legs.

it was a learning experience alright.

but it is the worst thing you can do to a reasonably decent person. like a patient.

there is nothing more humiliating than being unable to do it in peace. there is nothing more humiliating than watching somebody look at your ass, poking it, and then yelling that you can’t take it anymore, and that you need to go, only to find out that when you were yelling, you actually started to go, and half of your private emission is on the floor, and half is on your bed. only at the end of the whole drama will you realize, that it doesn’t smell good either. that is the final revelation, but by then you are too weak to be embarassed.

nothing more humiliating than that.

i absolutely hate doing it to my patients. not only because they are humiliated by it, but also because i know exactly how they feel. i really do.

nurses, is there anything else you do to your patient that you “hate” more? really? there is more? what is it?

patients, is there really something more humiliating than that lovely enema?

they were not my friends, but they were more than acquaintances. we used to work at the same hospital, and go to the same church back home. the guy is an orthopedic surgeon, and his wife, an ob-gyn. i saw them this weekend, and we exchanged the usual, expected, ”hello, how are you”. they told me they are here for a couple of weeks, for a break.

i, however, did not stop at the usual, expected ”i’m fine” polite response. i blabbed for a minute or two about how unhappy i am here, and how there is not a day i do not think of going home for good, because i can’t stand myself here, because work is so hard here, because having lived here for four years has turned me into this insensitive bitch that i never thought i am capable of becoming, because i am paid enough money here that i am now so materialistic instead of altruistic.

____________________

she is in her late 30s, and will get married next month. just before the edible underwears and ridiculously revealing negligees were opened, i exchanged hellos with the mother of the bridal shower host. she told me that her only son is getting married in canada too on that same week, so she will not be able to attend the wedding; then she asked the usual, expected, “how are you”.

again, i did not stop at the usual, expected “i’m fine” polite response. i blabbed for minutes about how unhappy i am here, and how there is not a day i do not think of going home for….

what is the matter with me?

it is not as if i was forced to come here. it is not as if the people at the american embassy in the philippines begged me, crying loudly, to come here. it is not as if a gun was pointed to my head, and i was harassed, my life threatened, if i do not come here.

i chose to fill up the application, pay the ridiculous processing fees, take the difficult exams. i did it, nobody forced me. not even one person.

i don’t know who i am anymore. i just know i am not who i was, before i came here.

i should get a grip of myself. i should give the usual, expected response to the usual, expected “how are you” question. i should put on that genuine looking smile, and tell everyone who is interested that my life has never been better. i should proudly explain that i live in this big 5 bedroom house now, i drive my own car, and i am insured for $500,000.00. i should further add that i have a few credit cards with credit limits beyond my imagination, and that i can actually get  a lot of things i have never even dreamed of having, and can now go to places i have only dreamed of going.

i should do that, instead of whining about how my life is now defined by my wants. i should not bore everyone with how it makes me sick that i have now pushed back the idea of helping other people financially. i should have the decency to keep it private that though i used to celebrate my birthday by buying little snacks and distributing it to the homeless, i now have been self debating between getting myself a bigger, better TV, or a fancier ipod. i should keep it a secret that though not having a backyard back home didn’t even bother me, i now feel sorry for myself for not having a little pond and a little fountain, and a matching outdoor furniture in my big backyard.

i should keep quiet. and save everyone the trouble of thinking why i am this ungrateful soul, who is selfless one day and selfish the next. 

i should keep quiet. and stop blaming america and the opportunities it gave me to earn more money. it is not the place, it is me. it is not the material things, it is my growing attachment to it.

i have changed, and not for the better. i look at the mirror and i do not like the woman looking back at me. that is a valid point of personal concern, but others don’t care.

i should keep quiet. and keep everything to myself. or go see a shrink, because now, i can actually afford one.

i should keep quiet. shut my big mouth up, and end all the nonsensical whining.

or…get a plane ticket, and go home already. geez

                                  _____________________________________

a clarification of sorts: lest some might think that i am swimming naked in a room full of money. let me make it clear: i am not. when i say i am being paid more than enough, i say it in reference to the fact that in my last job back home, before i left in 2002, i was paid $120.00 a month for a 40 hour/week work.
also, i only said i can afford a shrink because our insurance covers it, and the $20 co-pay sounds reasonable enough if i really need to see one.
another thing is, i am not living in a paid mansion, and i am not driving a fancy car. i described the house we have now as “big”, in comparison to the the 5 bedroom apartment where i used to live back home. the one which i shared with 17 other women, mostly nurses, because bedspace was the only thing we can afford to pay, considering our pay. besides, we still need to pay for the 8 year old house in the next 28 years, and there are still 53 monthly payments left for the car.
lastly, i don’t have cash lying idle in the bank, i can only afford big time holidays and purchases if i use my credit cards. as it happens, i am still unable to convince myself that i should do that, because i noticed that everytime i use my card, when the bill comes every month, they actually want me to pay for it. so, i still use my cards the old-fashioned way; you know, just spend what i can pay in full.
no, i am not rich as i might have implied.
just thought i should clear that up…