A few weeks back, I had the privilege of working at a Non-profit Organization Special Care Centre that specifically helps severe to profoundly intellectually and physically disabled children and adults. Each client had their own unique personality, and I grew to love them all.
One of these clients is a girl called Nancy who has Down's Syndrome. I think Nancy had a severe hatred for Ariel and myself. We may have been the instigators of this hatred, however. Nancy likes things certain ways. She likes to get her way too. She is a strong girl and loves to work out on the rowing-machine (I would know, I was manipulated by those muscles more than a number of times). The bruises are gone but the emotional pain is still present.
Nancy would never let myself, Ariel or Cameron change her bedding and I mean NEVER. Being the typical Florence Nightingale trained nurses we are, we know that hygiene is important, so Ariel and I decided to change Nancy's bedding while she wasn't looking. Big mistake. Just as we managed to pull the duvet up, Nancy walked into her room and freaked. She shoved me to the side (those muscles) and ripped the new bedding off, and went into the dirty laundry to find old sheets. Yeugh. I'm 95.6% sure she took someone else's urine-soaked sheet.
Nancy constantly wears a bandage on her arm - for no particular reason - and looks like a 'cutter'. She wore the bandage for so long that she got heat rash underneath it. The sister in charge removed it and all hell broke loose. Nancy ran up to me one day, grabbed my wrist (those muscles) and dragged me to the Sister's office screaming "COME!". She then demanded that I tell the Sister that she needs her bandage. I didn't do that and boy oh boy she started hurting me (those damn muscles, again!). Nancy is considered to be the Matron of the sanctuary - that's how in control of everything she is. She insisted on making the beds with us in the morning, and after we made beds, she would inspect our handiwork (and would usually pull everything off and do it herself because our three years of training apparently made us absolutely useless at making beds).
I remember very clearly a time when Nancy pulled a sleeping girl, Lisa, out of bed so she could remove the linen. Lisa nearly landed head first on the floor, but just walked straight to the bathroom without even batting an eyelid. Lisa is autistic, but for some reason, I kept calling her an atheist.. But that's a WHOLE 'nother story.
My favourite memory of Nancy is from 'Music Time'. Music therapy is used to help rehabilitate the clients and Nancy freaking loved it. On Monday at 15:00 you were guaranteed to find Nancy in the main hall headbanging while beating a huge round drum. God forbid you take the drum, or her drumsticks away, because she will beat you down - those damn muscles.
*Note: If you have money to spare and would like to donate to this incredible organization, let me know and I'll give you the details. They really do need all the help they can get, and I am witness to the fact that they change lives on a daily basis.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Let's Use Logic
MDR-TB is a multi-drug resistant form of Tuberculosis or TB. It's bad news, because it's very difficult to treat. Working in a Medical ward, I was checking over the various diagnoses of our patients and found one who was a Query MDR-TB. She wasn't, however, in any form of isolation and was sharing a cubicle with three other patients.
I confronted the Sister of the ward, and asked her why this was happening and if we could please move the patient into an (already available) isolation cubicle so that no one else catches this deadly disease. "No, you can't do that, because she is only a query MDR-TB. If she is confirmed, we will do something." I'm sorry, but my logic (which no one at this goddamn place seems to have) is that if she is eventually confirmed to have MDR-TB, it means that she had it all along and will most likely have spread it to everyone she was in contact with: patients, nurses and doctors. Two days later, her test results come back. Confirmed MDR-TB. In two days, the chances are very high that she gave it to every patient in that room as well as to the nurses treating her. Yet, we wonder why this disease is spreading so easily. I was a very good, selfish nurse and avoided that cubicle for the entire time that patient was there.
Look at me now, TB-FREE!
I confronted the Sister of the ward, and asked her why this was happening and if we could please move the patient into an (already available) isolation cubicle so that no one else catches this deadly disease. "No, you can't do that, because she is only a query MDR-TB. If she is confirmed, we will do something." I'm sorry, but my logic (which no one at this goddamn place seems to have) is that if she is eventually confirmed to have MDR-TB, it means that she had it all along and will most likely have spread it to everyone she was in contact with: patients, nurses and doctors. Two days later, her test results come back. Confirmed MDR-TB. In two days, the chances are very high that she gave it to every patient in that room as well as to the nurses treating her. Yet, we wonder why this disease is spreading so easily. I was a very good, selfish nurse and avoided that cubicle for the entire time that patient was there.
Look at me now, TB-FREE!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Casualty Catheter
In the Casualty Resuscitation Room, a Sister was teaching us how to insert a male catheter which is much more dangerous and risky. It requires more skill and care than a female catheter. She inserts it, talking the hind leg off a donkey (apparently I attract people that feel a need to speak to me non-stop), has to grab a catheter bag to attach to the pipe and let go of the pipe that was in the bladder by now. Pee rushed out and sprayed all over my uniform.
She is theoretically my boss, so it's not like I could just smash her head into a wall. All I could do was give a fake smile and say "Oh, hahaha, it's fine, don't worry about it. Hyuk." I spent the rest of the day avoiding urine and conniving over how I could take my revenge.
She is theoretically my boss, so it's not like I could just smash her head into a wall. All I could do was give a fake smile and say "Oh, hahaha, it's fine, don't worry about it. Hyuk." I spent the rest of the day avoiding urine and conniving over how I could take my revenge.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Chicken Soup for Andy's Soul
Max was a 27-year-old patient who had a stroke (yep, extremely young). He lost his ability to talk and he lost control of the right side of his body.
Good thing that whenever his restraints came loose on his left hand, he ripped out his drip, ripped off his nappy and tried to rip out his catheter. I actually found it extremely amusing to see a half-paralysed man showing three (big) nurses at a time who was boss. You know how you speak to animals, and babies? Not because you think they'll answer you or understand what you're saying, but just because it's what you tend to do? I did that with Max. I used to have fat conversations with him (or should I say, myself) about whatever was going on, whatever was annoying me, what was happening with my love life - it was my own personal therapy. That poor, poor man - I never know when to shut up.
One day, I was rubbing his back when he turned to me and very softly whispered, "Where's my wife?". My heart broke. After three months of not speaking, he chooses me to be the one to say his 'first' words to, and he misses his wife. I phoned her straight away and she came to see him immediately. I stood by and watched tears of happiness running down their cheeks.
Yep, the cynical nurse can be touched by simple things.
Good thing that whenever his restraints came loose on his left hand, he ripped out his drip, ripped off his nappy and tried to rip out his catheter. I actually found it extremely amusing to see a half-paralysed man showing three (big) nurses at a time who was boss. You know how you speak to animals, and babies? Not because you think they'll answer you or understand what you're saying, but just because it's what you tend to do? I did that with Max. I used to have fat conversations with him (or should I say, myself) about whatever was going on, whatever was annoying me, what was happening with my love life - it was my own personal therapy. That poor, poor man - I never know when to shut up.
One day, I was rubbing his back when he turned to me and very softly whispered, "Where's my wife?". My heart broke. After three months of not speaking, he chooses me to be the one to say his 'first' words to, and he misses his wife. I phoned her straight away and she came to see him immediately. I stood by and watched tears of happiness running down their cheeks.
Yep, the cynical nurse can be touched by simple things.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Sluice Room Sperm
Working in Orthopaedic Ward means lots of urine testing due to the high risk of patients developing kidney stones and urinary tract infections thanks to a 'wee' term called "urinary stasis" - sorry I couldn't help myself with the pun.
Myself and Cindy did urine testing together. I took a urinal from a patient and we met in the Sluice Room to do the test. I poured the urine out into a clear measuring jar and it looked a bit cloudy. We put the test stick in and noticed that the cloudiness was actually sperm which started clinging to our test strip.
We stood in the Sluice Room giggling and gagging for ages. I can't handle urine. urine with sperm is on a whole other level. Even thinking about it now - three years later - makes me want to vom all over my keyboard.
Myself and Cindy did urine testing together. I took a urinal from a patient and we met in the Sluice Room to do the test. I poured the urine out into a clear measuring jar and it looked a bit cloudy. We put the test stick in and noticed that the cloudiness was actually sperm which started clinging to our test strip.
We stood in the Sluice Room giggling and gagging for ages. I can't handle urine. urine with sperm is on a whole other level. Even thinking about it now - three years later - makes me want to vom all over my keyboard.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Manny the Mortician(s)
There are two morticians in the hospital, both with the same name - Manny. They smell vaguely of cabbage and death in a bone marrow stew. Either they never wash their hair, or they rub their heads on decomposing dead bodies, but their hair is literally dripping with oil, sweat (and occasionally faeces). You hardly ever hear them speak, but when you do, you can be certain that they will crack a really insensitive joke and burst out laughing - displaying their missing and rotten teeth. I remember being distraught after seeing and caring for my first dead patient, and through my tears, I saw brown teeth smiling at my 'special delivery'.
The scariest situation is when you get into an elevator with one of them. It's just you, a mortician, and a cold body covered in plastic and a green cloth. As you can imagine, not much conversation goes down. In fact, I have never said a word to either Manny for fear of them stealing my soul. Now, imagine actually getting stuck in the lift with one of them. Considering this is a government hospital, it is safe to say the lifts will stop working a couple times a week. I say I take the stairs to maintain my fitness. This is a lie.
If you go down to the morgue, you have to be careful because if the morticians see you walk into one of the big fridges, they hide under the trolleys and grab your leg unexpectedly (meaning you literally need a change of panties). These big fridges are the freakiest thing. They are so cold, and you just see bodies piled on top of each other. Occasionally, a stupid, dumbass nurse will get a body bag for a patient that is too small, and instead of wasting it and getting a bigger one, they will cut a slit through the top of the bag and the bottom so that all you see are feet and tops of heads sticking out. Ever heard of frostbite?
Word on the hospital corridor is that you can hear the sound of ghosts singing at the morgue at night. I walked there on my own one night in an attempt to see, or hear, a ghost. Truth be told, all I heard was my own screams as I ran back to my ward - Cindy had thought it funny to hide behind a wall and jump out at me. :(
The scariest situation is when you get into an elevator with one of them. It's just you, a mortician, and a cold body covered in plastic and a green cloth. As you can imagine, not much conversation goes down. In fact, I have never said a word to either Manny for fear of them stealing my soul. Now, imagine actually getting stuck in the lift with one of them. Considering this is a government hospital, it is safe to say the lifts will stop working a couple times a week. I say I take the stairs to maintain my fitness. This is a lie.
If you go down to the morgue, you have to be careful because if the morticians see you walk into one of the big fridges, they hide under the trolleys and grab your leg unexpectedly (meaning you literally need a change of panties). These big fridges are the freakiest thing. They are so cold, and you just see bodies piled on top of each other. Occasionally, a stupid, dumbass nurse will get a body bag for a patient that is too small, and instead of wasting it and getting a bigger one, they will cut a slit through the top of the bag and the bottom so that all you see are feet and tops of heads sticking out. Ever heard of frostbite?
Word on the hospital corridor is that you can hear the sound of ghosts singing at the morgue at night. I walked there on my own one night in an attempt to see, or hear, a ghost. Truth be told, all I heard was my own screams as I ran back to my ward - Cindy had thought it funny to hide behind a wall and jump out at me. :(
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Pee On Your Own Time!
Admission wards are known for being hectically busy. You are constantly moving patients out to other wards and spend all your time admitting new patients from Casualty. The only reason it's nice is because it actually gives you something to do, rather than sitting on your arse drinking tea all day (for which South African nurses are renowned).
One day, I was working a twelve-hour shift (which, I'm sure you've established, is my definition of hell) in an Admission ward. Typical of my luck, it was coming to the end of my shift and at 18:45 I received a new patient to admit. If you work hard enough, you can finish a PROPER admission in about 30 minutes. So, I wasn't too bothered, 15 minutes extra isn't all that bad. The patient was a man with suspected Tick Bite Fever. I, being the over-achiever I am, decided to help out the doctor by drawing bloods, getting a urine sample, etc. Getting the blood was simple (I find simple pleasure in sticking a needle into bulging veins), but getting the urine was a whole 'nother story.
The patient told me he needed to pee, which was awesome because that way I could kill two birds with one stone: he gets relieved, I get pee. I bring him a urinal and go back to file auditing. I could see he was having trouble, so I left the room to give him some 'privacy'. I got back to him five minutes later (most likely because I was trying to convince permanent staff not to leave me alone in charge of the ward) all cheerful *time to go home* "Mr. Peters, are you done?". He huffs and puffs, still holding the urinal to his groin and squeaks out "No." I learnt a little tip to turn on a tap to help someone pee, so I did this while sneakily looking at my watch. It had already hit 19:20. Behind the closed curtain, I could still hear Mr. Peters huffing and puffing. I stood for another five minutes, looking around the room, peering out the window, trying not to whistle, hoping for a miracle in the form of a Golden Shower of pee. Seriously, its 19:25 - he can pee on me if he wants, as long as he pees. No such luck. I go up to him, and ask what I can do to help.. WHYYYY OH WHY DID I DO THAT?! Mr. Peters says: "I'm just struggling to hold it, can you hold it for me?" I thought he was talking about the urinal which I immediately grabbed, but noooo he needed me to hold his penis. Yep, you read that right. So, I awkwardly grabbed a pair of gloves and gently gripped his manhood. We stood there for close to 10 minutes waiting for him to pee. My free hand was force-feeding him water and diuretics in an attempt for some gold beneath the rainbow.
A couple different positions and tactics and he still hadn't peed. It was past 8 by this stage and eventually I thought "Screw it". I work too damn hard just for a freaking drop of pee. I left him with his urinal and with the situation now the responsibility of night staff. Believe you me, by that stage I needed to pee like a hippopotamus and ran back to the nurse's residence clenching.
One day, I was working a twelve-hour shift (which, I'm sure you've established, is my definition of hell) in an Admission ward. Typical of my luck, it was coming to the end of my shift and at 18:45 I received a new patient to admit. If you work hard enough, you can finish a PROPER admission in about 30 minutes. So, I wasn't too bothered, 15 minutes extra isn't all that bad. The patient was a man with suspected Tick Bite Fever. I, being the over-achiever I am, decided to help out the doctor by drawing bloods, getting a urine sample, etc. Getting the blood was simple (I find simple pleasure in sticking a needle into bulging veins), but getting the urine was a whole 'nother story.
The patient told me he needed to pee, which was awesome because that way I could kill two birds with one stone: he gets relieved, I get pee. I bring him a urinal and go back to file auditing. I could see he was having trouble, so I left the room to give him some 'privacy'. I got back to him five minutes later (most likely because I was trying to convince permanent staff not to leave me alone in charge of the ward) all cheerful *time to go home* "Mr. Peters, are you done?". He huffs and puffs, still holding the urinal to his groin and squeaks out "No." I learnt a little tip to turn on a tap to help someone pee, so I did this while sneakily looking at my watch. It had already hit 19:20. Behind the closed curtain, I could still hear Mr. Peters huffing and puffing. I stood for another five minutes, looking around the room, peering out the window, trying not to whistle, hoping for a miracle in the form of a Golden Shower of pee. Seriously, its 19:25 - he can pee on me if he wants, as long as he pees. No such luck. I go up to him, and ask what I can do to help.. WHYYYY OH WHY DID I DO THAT?! Mr. Peters says: "I'm just struggling to hold it, can you hold it for me?" I thought he was talking about the urinal which I immediately grabbed, but noooo he needed me to hold his penis. Yep, you read that right. So, I awkwardly grabbed a pair of gloves and gently gripped his manhood. We stood there for close to 10 minutes waiting for him to pee. My free hand was force-feeding him water and diuretics in an attempt for some gold beneath the rainbow.
A couple different positions and tactics and he still hadn't peed. It was past 8 by this stage and eventually I thought "Screw it". I work too damn hard just for a freaking drop of pee. I left him with his urinal and with the situation now the responsibility of night staff. Believe you me, by that stage I needed to pee like a hippopotamus and ran back to the nurse's residence clenching.
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