Friday, December 21, 2007

1997. We were using live-leeches for certain wounds, to protect the microvasculature. Leech saliva contains Hirudin, which is an anticoagulant. It got me thinking and that led to this:

Leech Spit

Leech spit for you
Hirudin for me,
With a torque wrench or hammer
Get your leech spit for free,
Fat bloody suckers
Latch onto your skin,
They suck up the pus
And keep your blood thin.

When those fat little suckers
Have appeased their appetite,
Apply the leech tweezers
To loosen their bite,
You can toss them in a salad
With garlic and oil,
Or throw them in the garden
To enrich the soil.

Leech spit is tasty
Just take it from me,
It's better than jelly
Or a fancy French Brie,
Spread on your cracker
While at brunch with the Queen,
And you don't have to floss
Because it keeps your teeth clean.

Fibril_late; 1997

Thursday, December 20, 2007

As it turns out, you should read the previous entry ("So Very Clear"), before reading this one, (but that is not human nature), so I digress.
Together, these two poems, chronicle events that were happening in the same time frame. Thus, if you were to read the previous one, maybe it would all make some total sense.

Digging My Hole

I'm bound to get in more trouble
Digging my hole deep and wide,
But after our "attitude" meeting
Our morale, just rolled over and died.

Theoretically, as professional persons
We can communicate by "Doyles book of Rules",
But we're all emotional cretins
And few of us have all the tools.

I've commented before in my ramblings
About the ways in which real people talk,
The mirroring/rephrasing proponents
Make me cover my ears and squawk,
To me, it's too stilted and phony
Lacking empathy and a sense of connection,
I believe that it alienates people
And personally, I want some protection.

I'm bound to get in more trouble
For spreading my thoughts in the press,
But I'm merely recording my insights
As a participant in this morale building mess.

Fibril_late; 1995
It was 13 years ago. There were some heavy emotions and discord, curdling among our night shift crew. The Unit Manager had us all sit down together, in an attempt to attain an accord of understanding, and presumption of harmonious relations. It wasn't easy, it didn't flow smoothly, but in the end, compromise was reached and our journey together resumed on a fresh course.

So Very Clear

It's all, so very clear
But I question our success,
Ten people trying to communicate
To clarify a mess.

With our new found understanding
Will we share a common oath?
Or did we polarize our differences
And shatter hopes of growth.

Surely, we won't walk away
As though we are starting anew,
The memories of our discord
Are ingredients in the brew,
It just depends on how we stir it
And the elements we add to the pot,
Will it be a culinary masterpiece
Or just a soup, that's too damn hot?

Fibril_late; 1995

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

A.I.C.D. to those of us who know,.....refers to an Implantable Cardiac Defibrillator. I wrote this at least ten years ago, and revised it today. Not just to bring it up to date, but I know I'm a little better at writing too. Don't expect miracles, OK?


The automatic implantable
Draws comparison
To something like
An angry alligator.

It's a guardian of the heart
And it has some discrimination,
But once the threshold is crossed
There's no possibility of evasion.

Imagine, deep inside of you
A reptile in repose,
Just waiting for your ventricle
To forget the things it knows,
The reptilian response
Is intriguing to explore,
That cold blooded, sleeping 'gator
Is just a hungry carnivore.

The device is touted broadly
As the answer to your needs,
Although placement has gotten easier
Everybody bleeds,
And the shock of the employment
When the device might save your life,
Might be that night of nooky
With your happy, smiling wife.

To utilize this gadget
You must understand its' name,
It requires a prescription
In the medical-lingo game,
Thus, discussing ye olde acronym
A. I. C. D. and all,
The medical establishment
Will rally at the call.

The "A" is for automatic
How it determines, when to fire,
It considers heart rate and morphology
And the odds if you will expire,
Taking into consideration
Last will, Trust and all bequeathments,
Calculating death expenses
And subsequent bereavements.

It is commonly felt that "Implantable"
Is the word, best attached to the "I",
But contrary to that opinion
It's a concept I boldly deny,
I contend that it's a part of the
Medical-miracle always a cure over-rate-able,
In an endless array
If you got bucks to pay
For the price that is always inflatable.

The "C" could stand in for anything
But here, it corresponds to your heart,
If your Doctor believes that you need it
You'd better be playing your part,
Doing research on all of the avenues
Acquiring a second opinion, too,
Be your own consumer advocate
Before committing to saying, "I do".

The "D", is up for discussion
Though it's translated, to imply defibrillator,
If you ask me, a better description
Would define it as, de-liberator,
When you think of the dead guys we are saving
Who otherwise would have departed,
When their heart started flippin' and floppin'
And their A.I.C.D. got it started.

If they had reserved a heavenly timeshare
Some years in the far distant past,
There might be a statute of limitation
Because that heavenly place fills up fast,
Thus, you might lose your priority status
And survive, to commit mortal sin,
Losing your passport to Heaven
When St. Peter, won't let you come in.

I'm hoping you take into consideration
The facts I have carefully spelled out,
Debarking on the path of the A.I.C.D.
You must choose, when you have no more doubt,
Remember to visualize the image
An alligator awaits your instruction,
His bite might surprise you during dinner
While his goal is to prevent your destruction.

1996 / 2007

Friday, November 30, 2007

Just a simple birthday wish.


If Mika is just like her mother
The world is a better place,
If Mika looks like her mother
Then surely, she has a beautiful face;
And if Mika learns from her mother
Perhaps she'll live in a state of grace.


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

oops, I went into a fugue of emptiness, or something. Here is my latest, current poem. I need to dig into some boxes to get to the Nursing stuff, which I will return with in a few days.

What Matters

You may start with something
And it never finishes
But you started, and that is what matters;
Think of things you started and lost
And everything
Ended in tatters,
The journey is life
And life is the journey
It's all about learning and attention,
Insignificant now
Or so it may seem
At the end, may be an honorable mention.

What I have learned
In the course of my years
Has left me open, to the all of potential,
All that may seem
Unconnected and divided
Is but the seed, of the utmost sequential,
Every step of the way
Every motion of breath
Has a purpose to the end of all action,
But we know from our physics
Motion never finds rest
There is always some kind of distraction.


Thursday, November 01, 2007

It's really quite simple how the pseudo-life we attempt to recreate in the average hospital admission, reflects life in the real world. All you have to do is imagine.................

Everybody Feeds

Good taste and good value
A basic human desire,
From the day that you are born
Until the moment you expire.

So with that in mind
We tailor health-care to your needs,
Two sheets and a pillowcase
And everybody feeds.

Fibril_late; 1995

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Once in a while, in our CCU, we would have in our care someone who would be waiting for a heart transplant. That person would be high on the waiting list to receive a donor heart, perhaps "hoping" for some unfortunate motor vehicle accident victim to visit our Emergency Room.

No Longer at the Top

It's lonely here
No longer at the top,
As my cardiac function
Grinds to a stop.

I'm just waiting and waiting
For a suitable donor,
It's a serious commitment
I need a permanent loaner,
But someone must die
So I can survive,
Each day I deteriorate
Wondering when they'll arrive.

As the days turn to weeks
And the weeks into months
My room starts to feel like a jail,
My veins are sclerosed
I'm catecholamine dosed
And my kidneys are starting to fail.

My future is grim
But I'm not without hope,
I'm becoming an expert
At trying to cope,
And I'm thankful the nurses
And doctor's are trying,
Their utmost endeavors
To keep me from dying.

Fibril_late; 1998

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

I must have been thinking about what a gang member would want for Christmas, and what would be the absolutely, most important #1 thing. Yep, a free-admission pass to the Emergency room!

My Christmas List

It's the Christmas season once again
And I've been good all year,
My wishing list ain't very long
So why not lend your ear?
A case of liquor and some wine
And a couple other trifles,
A tear gas mask, some throwing knives
Plus automatic rifles,
A kilo of Columbian
A water-pipe from Seoul,
A pound of methamphetamines
And an ornate hashish bowl,
A vehicle that's nondescript
But advertised as fun,
It should have a lot of gadgets
Like a loaded drive-by gun,
For those fickle freeway freakouts
And the turf related games,
The hassles with the homeboys
And someone else's dames,
A worn and tattered trenchcoat
For flashing Lois Lane,
Some mescaline and LSD
To fry my little brain,
But if you find my list too long
I have one priority,
A year long E.R. admission pass

Fibril_late; 1995

Monday, October 08, 2007

Nursing is hazardous work. Every year, you hear from someone, "Did you hear that so and so died. Yup, got shot by a patient." One time I was kicked in the head by a berserker, and suffered a concussion. Patients get sick, and then crazy, and you never know what will happen next. Back in the day, it wasn't like that.

In Days Long Gone

In days long gone
Of innocent youth,
You could go to a Doctor
To get at the truth,
Because disease back then
Was fairly simple,
Unwanted babies
Or maybe a pimple,
A week in the hospital
Would do the trick,
If you didn't die
You weren't really sick,
Because medicine men
Didn't have many drugs,
No antibiotics
For bacterial bugs,
Just common sense
Like fluid and rest,
Surgical wounds
Were debrided and dressed,
Life support measures
Not yet invented,
Many more sinners
Took stock and repented.

But today, man, it's different
This hospital scene,
Each organ system
Has a machine;
Any mechanic can tell you
This carries a price,
It's Russian roulette
With a medical device.

Central line catheters
A bacterial threat,
Ground fault dysrhythmias
If a pacer gets wet,
Gastric perforation
From sump pumping hoses,
After long-term use
They'll have a nasal necrosis,
Tracheal malacia
And traumatic intubation,
Will lead to a permanent
Horse voiced oration,
Tympanic rupture
From a doppler detonation,
Uremic poisoning
From bladder ablation,
And that's just the patients
But, what about the nurse,
Each day at the job
Is surely a curse.

Consider the dangerous
Equipment itself,
Monitor boxes
That fall off the shelf,
Land on your head
Bruising your brain,
There's no medication
For this kind of pain,
Suspended televisions
That swing in an arc,
Causing serious damage
At night, in the dark,
Colonic disasters
From overfilled pans,
Body fluid exposure
On your clothes and your hands,
Broken thermometers
With mercurial spills,
Inhaling poisonous dust
From all those crushed pills,
Exposure to X-rays
That zoom through the walls,
Effectively neutering
Ovaries and balls.

Good god, it's a nightmare
There is nowhere to hide,
But who keeps statistics
On the nurses that died,
In the course of their work
By their choice of career,
They silently vanish
Year after year,
As their spirits race homeward
At the crack of each dawn,
The days of their innocent youth
Are long gone.

Fibril_late; 1997

Sunday, October 07, 2007

In most hospitals, there is rivalry between different ICU's, where each arena, likes to believe they know the most, have the most critical patient's to care for, and therefore, are the "best" critical-care nurses. Working in what is known as the Coronary Care Unit (medical) meant that you took care of people with CHF, acute MI's, Unstable Angina, pacemaker's, etc. You didn't have to deal with many wounds, virtually no post-op surgical patient's and rarely any infections. In other words, a pretty clean place. So when one of "our" nurses, decided to transfer to the Surgical Intensive Care Unit, I was forced to put my disbelief into words.

Oh, Marge

Oh, Marge
I have to tell the truth,
Will steal your youth,
We'll miss your
Always wonderful self,
Like empty bookends
On a shelf.

Trauma surgeons
There's not doubt,
Really love to
Shake and shout,
Measure outputs
Like fanatics,
And drink the juice
Of drained lymphatics.

So sure, the place
Is great for learnin',
Q-2 hour
Crash and burnin',
Busted faces
Legs and brains,
Fifty thousand
Sucking drains.

But you'll be back
To plead your case,
And fool us with
A happy face,
Nostalgic for
The pretty view,
At sunrise
In the C.C.U.

Fibril_late; 1994
The word Obtunded is not used in everyday conversation. Its meaning is; mentally dulled. A person may be obtunded due to head trauma. Yet, you can understand why it might be commonly used, among certain medical persons.
Even less used is obtundation, which means, a dulled or reduced level of alertness or consciousness. One might report, that "Mr. X is in a profound state of obtundation." One of the ways to determine if the person is arousable, is to rub their sternum briskly and firmly, with your knuckles. Yes, it cause a noxious pain. Early in my career I worked with a nurse named Jan, whose sternal rub was legendary. Numerous obtunded persons, came to wakefulness under her forceful rub.

The Obtundation Rap

The shift was OK
Until he tried to spoil it,
Circling the
Obtundation toilet.

I lit up his pupils
And screamed, "Look here, Bub",
I'm known far and wide
For my killer sternal-rub,
You might think you can fool me
But as your nurse, I get first dibs,
To rap out the death-march
On your skinny little ribs.

Your brand of behavior
Will not be endured,
One way or another
Your obtundation will be cured.

Fibril_late; 1992

Thursday, October 04, 2007

WARNING: This poem is totally gross.
Unfortunately, it was inspired by my own, real-life experience, getting involved in some TID dressing change, on a stage-4, infected decubitus. The only way I could deal with the demolition of "Universal Precautions", was to write about it.

Pseudomonas Stew

When the wound begins to fester
Oozing yellow goo,
When the pungency develops
Into a powerful pee-yoo,
When the macerated tissue
Melts into a slurry,
It's time to plan for dinner
Though there isn't any hurry.

When, necrosing blisters burst
And splatter you with blood,
When the stage-four lumbar crater
Starts leaking thick green crud,
It's time to think of dinner
Invite a friend or two,
The main course is a favorite
That pseudomonas stew.

FIbril_late; 1995
It seems like every big city has a Trauma Center, smack dab in the center of all the action. It's so convenient for the gangs and what not. When you get shot or stabbed, your friendly neighborhood Emergency department is just down the street looking for new business. Hey, we groove on it too; after all, there is nothing more boring than twiddling your thumbs all night in the E.R.

The Stockton Boulevard Shuffle

At night we go out cruisin'
For something fun to do,
We pack the glove compartment
With rock cocaine and glue,
We inventory weapons
And check our ammunition,
Then analyze the dress code
To prepare for demolition,
We'll boogie on the boulevard
Until the moon has set,
We're hunting for our rivals
It's a turf related debt.

We're doin' the Stockton Shuffle
It's our favorite expedition,
We'll keep our zip guns loaded
And ready for attrition.

The happy hombre' hideaway
Is actively recruiting,
Respect is guaranteed
If you've done a drive by shooting,
Because our leader, Jesus Wannabee
Got blown away last week,
He took a double shotgun blast
Directly on his beak,
Thus splattering his sacred essence
Upon the dashboard fur,
Now, when we take a low ride cruise
The windshield is a blur.

It's a party, it's a shuffle, on the promenade
We're kickin' up our heels out in the street,
We're paying our respects to Jesus Wannabee
While jamming to our favorite gangland beat.

Fibril_late; 1993

Friday, September 28, 2007

Who wants to get old and remain happy and productive? Most everyone would agree to that plan. But how about getting old and suffer dementia? Not a very desirable scenario, right? Well, here is one possible avenue of escape.

Demented Blues

Getting old
Don't look too fun,
I'm gonna get
A suicide gun,
Fill it full of bullets
Then hide it in my bed,
When I get demented
I'll ventilate my head.

I want a one way ticket
On the euthanasia bus,
Just let me die in peace
If I get delirious.

Fibril_late; 1993

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Oh, my gosh; back to the topic of sputum once again. Since you're just reading the latest poem, you must become aware that I was once a Respiratory Therapist. Yes, many long years ago, prior to my exalted career as a Nurse. So yes, I know the ins and outs of sputum. After a while, one gets an attitude about it all...............


If you spit your sputum
On the floor,
Don't expect me
At your door,
Because the house-rule states
And, I'll be brief,
You have to use
Your handkerchief.

So heed my word
Don't be a fool,
It's easy enough
To follow my rule,
But if you continue
Don't be surprised,
When you find your lips
Are cauterized.

Fibril_late; 1994
In the presence of people with advanced stages of disease, you (Nurse) become sensitive to certain expressions of speech, or how they describe how they are feeling at the moment. Some of those expressions, portend impending doom and disaster.
For example, when the patient who has had a major Myocardial Infarction, suddenly states, "I don't feel so good" , yet all the while, everything has been looking peachy-keen. Don't ask questions, just call out the door, and say something like, "Would someone please bring the crash-cart to room-17, ASAP!!!". Yes, that is a clear example of your critical-thinking skills kicking in (aka, "intuition"). If you overlook it...................

Cruisin' Heaven

A mysterious event
Happened just today,
The man said, "I don't feel so good"
Then his heart-beat went away.

I told him not to do that
But he didn't seem to care,
His heart rate slowed dramatically
Until it wasn't there.

With bells and buzzers ringing
We wailed upon that man,
His color went from purple
To a lovely desert tan.

He received a hit of atropine
Some calcium and epi,
He replied with tachy-rhythms
But his pump just wasn't peppy.

With the force of seven doctors
And the strength of twenty nurses,
Collectively their aura
Dispelled the evil curses,
That had bound him to his destiny
In a room without a view,
Now he's cruisin' heavens highways
With an angel friend or two.

Fibril_late; 1997
A short story about a dying told to me by (name withheld by request).


He had some pain
But then, he waited,
Because he didn't know
What it implicated,
Then he got real sick
Or so he stated,
When he became dizzy
And nauseated,
Because it's uglier than pain
When you vomit unabated,
Its the worst, God-awful feeling
That you ever have hated.

So he came into the hospital
To be evaluated,
He was worried that his body
Would soon become outdated,
He had never been a patient
And thought health was overrated,
He had never had a cause
Until death seemed almost fated.

His breathing was tachypneic
His neck veins were inflated,
His rhythm Sinus tach
And very ectopated,
His ischemic myocardium
Gave up and fibrillated,
We zapped him with the stunners
Till his heart electroplated.

Unconsciousness ensued
When his brain waves were ablated,
His astral body floated
To the ceiling elevated,
Then the angel guys arrived
And he participated,
There was no turning back
Because his life force dissipated.

Fibril_lated; 1995
Regarding the study of EKG, it is the topic of Heart Block that appears to confuse most persons. Let's take a look at it:

Demystifying the EKG

At work I ponder images
The waveforms of an EKG,
In the language of the beating heart
It usually is clear to me,
But sometimes I am mystified
About the A.V. block,
It manifests so many ways
My brain goes into shock.

First degree or second degree
Third degree and more,
P-waves are advancing
And can't get through the door,
I must utilize some rules
As my analyzing key,
To unlock the great unknown
Of this crazy EKG.

Fibril_late; 1997

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

This is another old, Joint Commission rant, regarding how all departments of the hospital must tidy up all their charts and documents.
It is also a poem where, with each succeeding line, the first letter subsequently spells out a phrase as you read downward through the lines. It's kind of a fun exercise in writing.

The Joint Commission

Justify each document
Condense a neat reply,
Harp on education
And answer what and why,
Organize your data

Within a structured format,
Anachronistic rules
Need you for a doormat,
There is really little
Sense to this, And I will tell you why

Piles of needless documents
Are mounting to the sky,
Plugging up the landfills
Eliminating trees,
Reasoning is absent, I think everyone agrees.

Fibril_late; 1996

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Ok, (not OJ, ok?).
3 days a month, I am an Instructor in a class of students learning the fine art of Basic Cardiac Monitoring. I tutor as well. Over the years I have written quite a few arrhythmia poems and this one too, about AV conduction.

Just An Impulse

I'm on a Roman holiday
To find the Mother Lode,
The treasure map I'm following
Describes the A.V. node.

Yes, I am just an impulse
A vector plus or minus,
Traveling on a pathway
That started at the Sinus.

I'm scheduled for a rendezvous
A well earned coffee break,
A hang out at the Junction
To discuss which road to take.

At the crossroads there's a signal
That will guide my future travels,
If I violate the timing
Synchronicity unravels,
Then the trip that I had planned
Will require transformation,
As an impulse, I may follow
A course of aberration.

In the future I will hire
A tour guide for instruction,
As a stimulus, I must know
The pathways of conduction.

Fibril_late; 1998

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Allegory is a form of extended metaphor, in which objects, persons, and actions in a narrative, are equated with the meanings that lie outside the narrative itself. The underlying meaning has moral, social, religious, or political significance, and characters are often personifications of abstract ideas as charity, greed, or envy.
Thus an allegory is a story with two meanings, a literal meaning and a symbolic meaning.

Well, this is something akin to an allegory. It's about a man who is dying, and in the course of his death, he loses the compass of his mind.

No One at the Helm

Stormy winter landscape, where
White capped waves
Wash a stony beach,
All within the minds eye,
This man is out of reach.

Cellular degeneration
In the microscopic realm,
The captain is in the forecastle
And there's no one at the helm.

The three-masted schooner
Of his body, mind and spirit,
Are hopelessly adrift, yet
He doesn't sense, to fear it.

Self induced or inorganic
The end result the same,
He won't remember where he lives
And might forget his name,
Once, the captain of the ship
That ruled the awesome seas,
Reduced to live out life
In diminishing degrees.

Fibril_late; 1997

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Usually with each posting, the poem that I wrote 10 years ago or so, I actually remember that event associated with it; thus, this was a journaling of my reality at the time. But other times, I don't have a clue to what I was referring too. This poem is about near-death, something about EKG arrhythmia's, possibly about PVC's, but your guess is as good as mine.

The Death Bumps

Take heed, the rolling eyeballs
Beware, the gasping breath,
Take note, the tachycardia
Watch out for bumps of death,
They hide behind the rhythm
And rarely show their face,
But increase the vagal tone
And you'll see the death bump pace,
Attempt to stay the inevitable
The course, that all life takes,
Remain alert and ready for
The trail the death bump makes.

Fibril_late; 1995

Saturday, September 08, 2007

There is an entire science built around the results of automobiles ramming into each other at high rates of speed. I think forensics fits in there somewhere, and no doubt, a whole lot of other stuff, like what I am about to describe.

The Multi-Auto Pileup

The Multi-Auto Pileup
Loose body part trajectory,
Has prompted in-depth studies
At the cannonball refrectory,
Those bug-eyed, quasi-scientists
Will poke their noses deep,
At the site of any accidents
Where body parts might heap.

Several questions come to mind
About these missing limbs,
Do you have a separate funeral
And sing fragmented hymns,
And then, there is the theory
About the phantom pain,
Is there a phantom body
If you find an intact brain,
You may find this topic gruesome
And too disgusting for your mind,
But someday in the future
We may cure the phantom blind.

Fibril_late; 1997

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Thanks to TV and movies (I suspect), the most common sights that are recalled about the medical/nursing professions, have to do with the excitement in the Emergency Department or in the ICU. And to those of us who've spent a lot of time there, it often seems like:

The Outskirts of Hell

Some nights like this
Are too darn boring,
It takes a maximum effort
To keep from snoring,
But I must be ready
For catastrophe and clamor,
The component of nursing
That provides all the glamor.

Saving the lives of
The sick and the broken,
High fat consumption
And cigarette smokin',
Uppers and downers
Liquor, cocaine,
Greasing the pipes
As they slip down the drain.

Being an angel
Of mercy and death,
Holding the keys
To their heartbeat and breath,
Then going home hungry
And burnt out, as well,
It's a glamorous life
On the outskirts of Hell.

Fibril_late; 1998
When patients bleed unexpectedly, it is always worrisome. When it's enough blood to leak from the bed to the floor, it's a serious situation. Let me tell you about it:

Bloody Shoes

Petrified, I am indeed
I'm nervous, when
They start to bleed,
When blood leaks out
And stains the bed,
I get kind of dizzy
In my head,
If I find a pool
Upon the floor,
Spreading towards
The open door,
I want to run
The other way,
Because bloody shoes
Just ruin my day.

Fibril_late; 1999

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

I admit it; I'm over 50, and the AARP is sending me subscription queries on a quarterly basis. What's up with that? I'm not old, and certainly I'm not anywhere near retirement (but unfortunately, I fall back on that excuse to substantiate why I haven't worked much in the past 4 years).

Anyways, I do still suffer from some degree of chemical sensitivity, which I believe I acquired from the many years of hanging around in hospitals (25 years+). Here it is, 4 years since I officially left the "big-house" and most perfumes that are included in any type of household product, cause my eyes to burn and I become irritable ("what in the heck is that smell, and get it out of the house, NOW").
Considering all the chemicals Nurses are exposed to from the medications we have to handle, formulate and deliver and the myriads of "sanitation-cleaning" materials we come in contact with, there is no question that Nurses have to be counted amongst those with excessive chemical exposure issues. And the proof is in the following poem I wrote, back in the day............

The Saga of the Shiny Floor

Who would think
That critical-care,
Would need a floor
With a shiny glare,
Perhaps, it's for
The public eyes,
Who might be concerned
If Junior dies,
Inside a joint
With a dirty floor,
Patient care
May be less; not more.

To me it seems
A poor decision,
The chemicals
Irritate my vision,
As such, I may not
Spot the clue,
That Junior's demise
Is imminently due.

It's plainly clear
That someone wise,
Must find a suitable
To save the Nurses
And the sick,
Who are dropping like flies
Pretty damn quick.

Fibril_late; 1998

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Why, do all my poems seem historical (or hysterical)? Because they are. I experienced a spinal-lumbar injury (at work) in September of 2000, that essentially ended my career (as it was previously understood).
I hung around my place of work for about 3 years, and then got acquainted with disability/retirement. What have I done since then?

I studied, tested and practiced a bit of Legal Nurse Consulting.
I studied at UC Davis and got a Certificate in Financial Planning. (sheesh, that was difficult!)
I studied Massage Therapy, and I graduate TOMORROW!!!!!!!!! This is where I belong. Along with the Registered Nurse, that I will always be.

My Massage Instructor, was getting ready to move on, but he hung around for just one more class.
Following, is my tribute to a fantastic teacher:

The Teacher

I've graduated
At last hurray,
The year went by
From then to day,
And it's more exciting
Than my previous time in college,
Where I got a grasp
On financial knowledge.

Way back then
3 years ago,
I was a stranded victim
Learning that I didn't know,
Enough to practice
On my HP-12C,
Financial knowledge
Was like Greek to me.

Along about, last summer
Craigs'list caught my eye,
I could study Massage Therapy
For a year, on the fly,
And right then I remembered
Where I was 3 decades ago,
Studying the rudiments of Touch therapy
Acupressure and Jin Shin Do.

I leaped at the chance
And chanced at the leap,
It didn't cost much and I wondered
Would the instructor be cheap,
But life is funny sometimes
It delivers unexpected,
The custom-ordered teacher
Arrives, as if directed.

I suspect the other students
Recognized him, as the best of teachers,
But if you've followed a similar path
There is another set of features,
Hidden beneath the surface
Known to those who traverse the same,
I know this teacher was directed
Am I worthy, to play in his game?

When the Guru or the guide
Intercepts the path you travel,
It's time to get your act together
Or for sure, it will unravel,
Because, so often they arrive
At our crossroads, of hesitation,
Where it's time to grasp the horns;
Accelerate and levitation.

The gratitude and thanks
Are sometimes difficult to convey,
Words seem shallow and so temporary
They come and go each day,
But the feelings of the heart
That are powered with the Shen,
I trust the Teacher can interpret this
These simple scribblings from my pen.

Fibril_late; 8/22/07
(aka: mojomassage)
I see myself as a chronicler of the secret thoughts of Nurses. Surely I am not alone with my devious interpretations about the berserkers in the hospital (aka, out of control and possible alien/outer space patients); right??? Actually, after reading this over 7 times, I might have been writing about a colleague. Who knows?

The Whiney Scale

On a Whiney scale, of one-to-eighty
Your score is really up there, matey,
You're irritating me, for sure
I'm wondering if, there is a cure.

In secret, I will be strategic
Then render you, a paraplegic,
I'll perform a tracheotomy
Combined with a lobotomy,
To complete this attack
Against irritation,
I'll administer
The best sedation.

I'm hoping this approach will endure
And I can claim a lasting cure.

Fibril_late; 1997

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Another musical poem, set to the tune by the Beatles, "I'm A Loser".

I'm an Oozer

I'm an Oozer
I'm not what I appear to be,
I'm an Oozer
I'm bleeding out, oh, can't you see?

I had a cath
Then I bled
And almost died,
The doctor promised
Me the best
But he lied.

I'm an Oozer
My blood is dripping on the floor,
I'm an Oozer
My doctor's sneaking out the door.

If I should die
I will haunt
That S.O.B.
And I'll make sure
He won't forget
Poor, little me.

I'm an Oozer
I'm not what I appear to be,
I'm an Oozer
I'm bleeding out, oh, can't you see?

Fibril_late; 1998
There are times when a catastrophic event occurs (perhaps the latest rendition of "Code Blue" cardiac arrest) and the victim has about 13 intravenous lines, 7 medication drips, 4 invasive monitors, and there are 11 people in the room, including 5 who have no need to be there. That is when it is life-and-death crucial that you know exactly which IV-line is your "medication" line (and it's not dripping on the floor). Also, it helps if the vital-sign monitors are accurate too. Otherwise.............

Someone Dies

When you're reaching for the Lidocaine
The epi or the atropine,
The propane or the methane
Or maybe even gasoline,
The Wheaties or the Captain Crunch
The chocolate cupcakes for your lunch.

Be sure you check the vital signs
And ensure the patency of lines,
'Cause in the midst of great surprise
If you're not careful, someone dies.

Fibril_late; 1994

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Central Line Changes

Central line changes
Are a mystical event,
A cosmic-three encounter
Undertaking to prevent,
The pitfalls of infection
That are monstrous in their scope,
Should you become a victim
There is little room for hope.

The success of this endeavor
Is an issue of sterility,
It takes a licensed person
And validation of virility,
To honor lofty spirit guides
Who safeguard this affair,
You must purify your conscience
And sanitize your hair.

Approach the hapless victim
Assure him with your poise,
Some folks respond to silence
While others love some noise,
Then don your gay apparel
And the dirty gloves of science,
Advance into the dressing zone
And attack with bold defiance.

The skin is red and puffy
The smell is overpowering,
A colony of yeast cells
Before my eyes are flowering,
Do I panic? No, I don't
I have faith in this technique,
This method is so powerful
When I'm done, the skin will squeak.

Silently I pray
To appease the Gods of Prep,
I've memorized the ritual
But review it step by step,
And secretly I offer
A gift to their account,
In turn they will agree
To reduce the colony count.

Right attitude and ritual
The strength that guides my moves,
Along the sacred path of prepping
In three concentric grooves,
Focused at the center
At the site of penetration,
The circles then get larger
As I prep with concentration.

I apply a sterile dressing
Then tape it with a passion,
While going to great lengths
To adhere to current fashion,
Because sloppy looking dressings
May reflect on my career,
The prep Gods might abandon me
If my Supervisor is near.

So, the changing of a dressing
Is like the changing of the guard,
If you follow the procedure
It isn't very hard,
And remember to placate
The Gods of sterile dressings,
They'll save the site and your career
And shower you with blessings.

Fibril_late: 1995
Never Say Dye

I went into the hospital
To have my vessels scraped,
I reacted to the dye, and now
My kidneys have been raped,
I admit the Doctor warned me
About some complication,
But he minimized the maximum
And now I've lost my urination.

The renal kidneyologists
Are studying my case,
I haven't peed for seven days
And I'm turning yellow in the face,
There's talk about a catheter
They could place into a vein,
To suck out all the poisons
And sudsidize my brain,
But frankly, I'll be honest
I don't trust this deadly trick,
So, I'm checking out tomorrow
Because I'm safer being sick.

Fibril-late; 1995

It happened to her once before
The day she lost her breath,
We have a fancy term for that
We call it sudden death,
And her family searched around the house
But never found her air,
They had to call the factory
So she could have a spare.

Expectantly, she waited
With a grim look on her face,
Already made her mind up
That she'd leave the human race,
And, the factory delivered
Just a little bit too late,
Yes, that poor old breathless woman
Surrendered to her fate.

Fibril_late; 1994

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Another Poem drifting in the breeze.

To Win The Game

I met a corpse
That wouldn't die,
So I asked the man
Please tell me why,
He couldn't quit
His busted frame,
And he replied
"It's just a game".

When I was young
I went to school,
I memorized
The Golden Rule,
My teachers said
"Son, what's your aim"?
And I replied
"It's just a game".

When I grew up
I looked around,
And tried to figure
What I had found,
I had success and
Love and fame,
But something whispered
"It's just a game".

In later years
When I wore out,
Some people heard me
Scream and shout,
I said to them
"I bear no shame",
'Cause life is just
A little game".

Now, I'm lying here
And my time is up,
I think I've finally
Drained my cup,
I've told the story
Of why I came,
So you might learn
It's just a game.

Fibril_late; 1990's

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Another classic dredged up from the Archives of The Underside:

Tumbling Dominoes

She has been here several weeks
And had every kind of tube,
Can you believe, she was admitted
For just a jiffy-lube?
Her heart was sorta sluggish
And her blood was quite anemic,
And just like tumbling dominoes
Her brain became ischemic.

Combative and demonic
Obesity berserk,
She started bustin' up the place
And nearly killed a clerk,
We loaded her with Versed
Morphine and some Ativan,
Enough to kill an elephant
It knocked her on her can.

But side effects are side effects
And some can lead to death,
We finally had silenced her
But we took away her breath,
So she earned the respirator
It was the prize behind door three,
It includes a year of tubing
And a therapist for free.

Now her respiratory failure
Brought on shock and RDS,
Why, in just a couple hours
She became a total mess,
Reversible?, it's possible
But it's not the likely course,
We can treat her up the yin yang
But can't replace the lost life-force.

Because the woman was a time-bomb
Just waiting to explode,
She had multi-system failure
From a life on lipid road,
Her triglycerides set records
That will stand for many moons,
She had a steady diet
Of booze and macaroons.

Her husband was no better
He paid the grocery bill,
You couldn't make them understand
Their type of life would kill,
Now lying here before us
Is a body, life supported,
And we're rushing around like maniacs
Because her heart beat just aborted,
And it seems a little pointless
To apply our super science,
To a person who spent years
In stubborn, health defiance.

Fibril_late; 1994

Monday, July 23, 2007

Todays headline, and comments.

The Biggest Asshole

"Doctors find no cancer in Bush's polyps"
Proof that cancer prevention is their role,
However, doctors did state they had found
Quite clearly the worlds biggest asshole.

Fibril_late; 7/23/07

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Quite frankly, I have no idea when I wrote this one, but it's about a "LOL" Little Old Lady, getting ready to check out, and the outcome of being the recipient of a "911" call.

Dial 9-1-1 (and have some fun)

I'm alive, I can't believe it
I had given up to die,
I'd arranged to kick the frame today
No one cared to ask me why,
I have lived a long eventful life
But foresaw a painful death,
Then I was boldly interrupted
When I took my final breath.

A local family member
Discovered I was prone,
He heard me fall upon the floor
And thought he heard me moan,
In truth, I was rejoicing
It was time for me to run,
Well, then that sucker saved me
He dialed, 9-1-1.

A gorgeous hunk of Fireman
Drove right up to my door,
Assessed the situation
And figured he could score,
Attached me to a monitor
Announcing an arrest,
Resuscitated me, oh, Lord
With massage upon my breast.

Aroused I was, and more alive
Than I had been for years,
I clutched that fellow to my chest
And nibbled on his ears,
He had a fancy uniform
That I quickly slashed and ripped,
It was barely 30 seconds
Till that Fireman was stripped.

My cardiac arrest
Was instantly converted,
When that fellow aimed his hose at me
Cut loose and really squirted,
I bounded to my feet
Feeling totally renewed,
I'm going to tell my aging lady friends
That they should all get screwed.

Well, I've changed my way of thinking
I'm no longer so depressed,
When I need a little excitement
At first I get undressed,
Then, with a helpless cry
I dial 9-1-1,
My Fireman comes quickly
And boy, we have some fun!

Fibril_late; 1997

Thursday, July 12, 2007

On the suicide topic, there was a friend, who was a good husband, father, provider, scholar and accomplished dentist. He took his own life and checked out. I'm not sure why he did this, but he did tell me later not to worry about him, that everything was all right. When the dearly departed speak, what can you do but agree?

The Desperation

I can understand the desperation
that caused you to end your life.
Like turning off a light,
that had already dimmed
and only glowed with a dullness inside.

Crawl into the darkness
knowing without a doubt
there is no tomorrow.

High hopes
dashed upon the rocks of reality,
after a valiant struggle
in the undertow of life
giving up the fight;
alone in the surf.

Fibril_late; 1995
I'm not the suicide type, but I have on numerous occasions, been the Nurse of the suicide-attempter. What goes through their heads at the special moment? One of the more memorable ones, was an elderly fellow, who shot himself in the chest 5 times and missed all major vessels and heart. All he got out of it, was a new outlook on life and a chest-tube. However, I have written a few poems that examine the process.

Once a Rainbow Garden

Suicide is simple
I'll just drive right off the road,
The world is a heavy place
So I'll lighten up the load,
My life, it feels like madness
I wonder, what's the point of living,
Everyone is taking
I'm worn out, from all the giving.

Fatigue, an evil spirit
Has possessed my inner soul,
What was once a rainbow garden
Is now a dark and musty hole,
Resurrection?; it's unlikely
If circumstances have their way,
Yes, suicide is simple
Because it's just another day.

Fibril_late; 1995

Thursday, July 05, 2007

4th of July; now the 5th of July, and what am I thinking about - - - - - sadly, this debacle in that Middle-Eastern land that our Leaders have dragged us through. Why should I care? Well number one, I have a close family member, who has this contract with the US Army and they want to take another "vacation" over there in August. Hmmmph! So I started to write this thing which I think is to contribute? I call it:

Slash, Burn and Kill

Call it a political mood
If you will,
The freedom with which our government
Will slash, burn and kill,
(July 4)

And I'm telling you now
That I'm totally pissed,
Our dead brothers and sisters
Will always be missed,
Their lives were given up
So the vultures could feed,
Those mouthfuls of men
With their menu of greed.
(July 6)

Under the guise of terrorism
Beneath the pseudonym of dollars,
The high-priests of capitalism
March in robes and stiff collars,
Spouting worn out sports metaphors
Where a solution always means a new war,
And our newly elected government reps
Are stranded on the shore.
(July 12)

And there are those that weep and moan
And those that wring their hands,
Some others pull their hair out
And plot disaster plans,
But what's the point of doing this
With our current administration,
They are fomenting terrorists as we speak
Planting seeds of devastation.
(July 19)

And still, the media moguls
Spout and print their propaganda,
There is Al Quaeda in our neighborhood
And a terrorist disguised as a Panda,
So the local zoo is cordoned off
The animals polygraphed,
Apparently, there were reports
Bin Laden was "giraffed".
(July 25)

I suspect, it seemed like nonsense
The stanza previously penned,
But the mouthpiece of our gov'ment
Tells us where to begin and end,
Just believe the media voices
As though the christian god hath spoken;
Now just suck-up the latest propaganda
And we thank you for your token.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Meeting old-time friends can produce the BEST of times. Recently I did this, and it was the best of the best.

A True Friendship

I finally got together
(after 30 years),
With an old-time friend
And we shed some tears,
Of happiness and joy
To see each other again,
Old-time friend I thank you
For holding up your end.

We hadn't changed much
In each other's eyes,
We'd done our share of living
No need for secret pries,
Into the unspoken deeds
That we might have performed,
When I left our brief reacquaintance
My heart was truly warmed.

I hope to see you again
Sooner than three decades,
It's likely that amount of time
Creates more significant fades,
Of memory and tissue
But still we could age with finesse,
Sixty years of lifetime rendered
A true friendship, none the less.

Fibril_late; 6/21/07
We nurses are well known for multi-tasking. If not, we'd never get through our day, and manage all the caregiver issues successfully. I have to admit, I'm far better organized, more timely, punctual, reliable, etc. in the work-setting, than I am at home (Type-A, at work; Type-Z, at home). In my abode and peripheral life, I take a more laissez-faire attitude about things; comme ci, comme ca, c'est la vie. A lot of French to describe, laid-back. What it means in real life, is that I miss a lot of birthdays, anniversaries and what-not in a timely fashion. So, I wrote the following poem yesterday, to cover my hmm, for missing a bunch of those things that were due to my son.

Here it is:

Pretty Lax

I suspect it seems
I'm pretty lax,
About anniversary days
And those family pacts,
That tie the knots
Between generations--
It all is true;
My explanation.

So to settle it out
To narrow the rift,
Please accept
This 20th Century gift.

Fibril_late; 6/20/07

Monday, June 18, 2007

Here is a super long and lengthy post. A Traveler Nurse, whom I worked with in 1994, went off to Africa for about 6 months. I wrote roughly 13 poems about that, which finally extended into her USA return, new love in her life, and settling down in North Carolina. I present to you, the collection of "Cannibal Soup". (Jean, I hope you're out there having the good life I imagined for you!):

Cannibal Soup

Oh Jean, I wish
Your trip success,.
But I'm a little worried
None the less,
A premonition?
Call it a hunch,
But I think you're at risk
As cannibal lunch.

This is rarely encountered
In civilized places,
Where the melting pot concept
Has diluted the races,
But in countries where
Civilization is not,
There's a chance, you'll be cookin'
In somebody's pot.

There are simple precautions
That you might consider,
To avoid being sold
To the highest bidder,
Watch what you eat
And keep yourself thinner,
Cannibals prefer
A chunkier dinner.

Wear ugly clothing
Avoid animal tones,
Cover your flesh
And hide all of your bones,
Rub on your skin
Some rhinoceros poop,
'Cause they don't like that flavor
In cannibal soup.


Finally, it's Her

For centuries the voodoo guys
Had a prediction,
They spoke in hushed tones
About their greatest conviction,
And of all life's uncertainties
This was for sure,
They were waiting for someone
Not a him, it was Her.

At the start of your trip
When you dreamed, what to do,
You had legitimate fears
About Cannibal stew,
Now knowing the legends
Of a witch-doctor's cure
Who acknowledged his power
Not from him, but from Her.

When you traveled to Africa
The word got around,
There were rumors and whispers
That the legend was found,
Each village you visited
You created a stir,
The natives in awe, said,
"Oh finally, it's Her".

You mumbled Swahili
And went on safari,
It was better than
Gameboy, or even Atari,
Those days of adventure
Went by in a blur,
And the natives were chanting
"Is it him? No, it's Her.

Then deep in the jungle
The fires were burning,
Not for cannibal soup, but
To celebrate your returning,
With gifts for your spirit
And pelts of fine fur,
The natives bowed down
Not for him, but for Her.

I’m sure they were sorry
When you departed at the ocean,
To say goodbye to their legend
Though you renewed their devotion,
And finally when your ship
Disappeared from their view,
The natives went back
To make cannibal stew.

You came back to the states
Wondering what you had learned,
Your family ecstatic
That you had returned,
They arrived at the airport
Unsure where you were,
Then together, they gasped
“Oh finally, it’s Her”!


A Soap Opera Savior

That wanderlust feeling
Seeped out of her bones,
She was driven to go where
There were no phones,
To touch, taste and feel
Other cultures and creatures,
Something more fascinating
Than cheap double features.

What Houdini channeled
And Nostrodamus foresaw,
The witch-doctor studied
A dead monkey's paw,
Their general conclusion
Was brilliant and clear,
The stars have predicted
That Jean will be here!

Her eager disciples
Are anxiously waiting,
They all want to know
Just who she is dating,
Her sanctified path
And balanced behavior,
Create an aura of mystery
Like a soap opera savior.

Your mission pre-written
On cave-dwellers walls,
You’re saving your money
Till destiny calls,
So, cast aside indecision
Your followers wait,
Be bold, take a trip
Before it’s too late.


A Sketchy History

The European populace
Requests a visitation,
In that continent of Catholicism
You match the saint equation,
An angel in your own right
Your origin a mystery,
Though steeped in their tradition
You have a sketchy history.

The peoples of the ancient times
Bespoke of one to come,
But they somehow merged a mix-up
With the tale of one Tom Thumb,
So they think your general height
Is about ten centimeters,
And when you take a bath
You use, just a couple liters.

It would be a dilemma
For anyone less than thee,
But Jean, I have the feeling
You’ll do it easily.


A Similar Feeling

A similar feeling
Was once felt before,
With suitcases packed
You stood at the door,
A moments hesitation
To turn the latchkey,
A brief glimpse of something
And a sweet memory.

Taking the trip
A path never traveled,
Yet, somehow it feels
Like remembrance unraveled,
And when you return
You're not quite the same,
Your lamplight is burning
With a much, fuller flame.


The Call of the Wild

Dear Jean, I have been wondering
Where you have been,
Have you traveled the dusty roads
On a wanderlust spin,
Do distant lands still beckon you
With the call of the wild,
Is it only a grownup experience
Or did you wander as a child?

I can imagine
Your Mother sometimes said,
“It’s five a.m. and little Jean
Has left an empty bed”,
With the bedroom window open
And footprints in the snow,
I better call her brother
And ask him where she’d go.

I suspect that in your heart
You’ve always thought to travel,
That the mysteries of life
Would unfold and then unravel,
To fill your life with beauty
Astonishment and treasure,
The uniqueness of experience
Is a gift you can not measure.


A Patron Spirit

Whispered incantations
Of ancient pagan rites,
Bonfire dancers chanting
For seven days and nights,
Homage made to spirits
To sanctify and clean,
Make ready sacred vessels
For the goddess known as Jean.

Stargazers have predicted
The dawning of an age,
The writers of the history
Will add another page,
The scholars with an audience
Will ask, “What does it mean?”
The believers, know the answer
In their hearts, they know it’s Jean.

It doesn’t happen often
Like gold, it’s hard to find,
To have a patron spirit
So honest, just and kind,
Preparations bear fruition
The coming of the Queen,
And the natives count their blessings
For the goddess, know as Jean.


Beyond Common Tradition

Hers was a life
Of which legends are made,
She was born in the sun
And retired in the shade,
But somewhere in between
There was a fabulous rendition,
An exemplary existence
Beyond common tradition.

Her family was conservative
She always did her best,
Just follow Mom and Daddy’s ways
It’s safe within the nest,
But it didn’t fill her up inside
It left her feeling hollow,
And though they knew she loved them
She had a different star to follow.

Although I used the word conservative
Her parents had great knowledge,
They encouraged all their children
To attend some kind of college,
Knowing that the value comes
In exploring brand new themes,
They taking the experience
To carry out their dreams.

Her dreams were like a ball of yarn
Just waiting to unravel,
With just a little push, she rolled
Into the world of travel,
Returning now and then
Bearing gifts of life and beauty,
And then that girl would dram again
As though it was her duty.

A legend in her own time
Within the family tree,
When pressed for explanations
She’d say, “Because, it’s me”.


Public Image

Whether on an adventure
Or laying roots somewhere,
Her public wants to know
And strangers always stare,
The curious are quizzical
Her fans expect the most,
Is she settled in the country
Or still traveling coast to coast.

Photographers have captured her
The “Enquirer” reports,
They saw her in Port Lisbon
In a halter top and shorts,
The gossip columns tattle
About her public image,
She was spotted at a “Cowboy’s” game
At the line of scrimmage.

The truth is hard to fathom
The fantasies will fly,
When facts are at a minimum
It’s easier to lie,
About your famous exploits
The jet-set life you lead,
The story bleeds excitement
No matter what the deed.

So where is Waldo
And where is Jean,
Like Elvis Presley
You’ve been seen,
A thousand places
By reports,
In your halter top
And shorts.

This audience knows
The unknown truth,
You’re making the most
Of a beautiful youth,
Because memories form
An inner tapestry,
A special place to travel
When you mind is free.


Dancing on the Breeze

Wanderlust spirit
In another year's life,
A friend of the natives
A lucky mans' wife,
Unfettered creature
Dancing on the breeze,
You walk on the water
Apparently at ease.


The Dreams of Childhood

The thought of planting roots somewhere
Had always sounded stale,
And loving someone deeply
Was just a fairytale,
But now the dreams of childhood
Descended from above,
A quality not known before
She opened up to love.

She settled up her debts
And settled down her soul,
She found a man that cared for her
The half that made her whole;
The spirit of this wanderer
Is finally laid to rest,
With the knowledge that her choices
Were indeed, the very best.


The Saga of Cannibal Soup: Revisited

Picture the scene:
A pretty young lady
Racing around in a panic,
An unlucky heritage
Anxiety enriched
Her Grandparents were on the Titanic,
Wandering about
In hostile territory
Somehow removed from her group,
Unable to recognize
Her potential involvement
In the local dish, cannibal soup.

An American girl
With a childhood dream
To travel and write her own story,
A subconscious urging
On path of discovery
Blazing a trail of true glory,
But now in the midst
Of this frightening jungle
Her childhood dream left behind,
Reality gnawed
On the edge of her fear
That she was the cannibal kind.

A native approached
Bedecked in fine feathers
Brandishing weapons with glee,
Like a well trained scout
He let out a shout
Appearing to say, “Come and see”,
His cadre of comrades
Burst from the jungle
Coming together in a group,
Were they looking around
At the prize they had found
As the meat for their cannibal soup?

As luck would have it
And providence too
These natives were all vegetarians,
Having come a long way
On the evolutionary chain
A far cry from ancient barbarians,
And cannibal soup
Was only a myth
To discourage the curious guest,
With a gallery of heads
And a family sized pot
Invaders were always impressed.

Picture the scene:
A pretty young lady
At dinner with indigenous folks,
Enjoying a variety
Of plant life and grubs
And swapping their cannibal jokes,
Her panic and fear
Long since forgotten
Dispelled by this congenial group,
Forging a memory
Etched with experience
The saga of cannibal soup.


Cute Fixer-Upper

It was a night to remember
Or something like that
The shadows were larger than life,
A message was written
By a hand dripping blood
Pinned to the door with a knife,
There were bats in the belfry
Skeletons in the closet
And a cockroach as big as a mouse,
They knew they had followed
The agent's directions
Home beautiful, this was their house.

A cute fixer-upper
A handyman’s dream
A doll-house of epic proportion,
Close to shopping and schools
Central air / holey walls
The description was one of distortion,
A creek through the property
Filled with bottles and cans
With an occasional carcass of deer,
Water stains on the walls
Of the second floor bedroom
It can flood ninety days of the year.

It shows like a model
It’s aged like her grandmother
It’s family-friendly and clean,
Spoken by a guy
In a seer-sucker suit
His dentures all slimy and green,
It has very sharp lines
The floor tiles are broken
This dream home is ready to sell,
In a gated community
The gun blasts are deafening
This little bit of heaven is hell.

It has country seclusion
With city convenience
The freeway is just past the porch,
It has 220 wiring
But no service for miles
It’s a candle-light dinner by torch,
With lush, lakeside landscaping
Roots in the plumbing
The septic tank, never was pumped,
The city folks eyes
Too glazed for fine print
Another EPA nightmare was dumped.

They patch up the holes
And haul off the garbage
Spreading fresh paint, far and wide,
They shoot at the traffic
With a 30-ought-6
And luckily no one has died,
The still, in the barn
And the buds in the basement
Provide income to pay off their debts,
They’re searching the papers
For a cute fixer-upper
“Why honey, we could double our bets”!


The last one is a classic that I could sell to anyone who has ever bought a used house!

Fibril_late; 1994-95

Monday, May 21, 2007

Down In Your Colon

Have you ever wondered
What goes on, down in your colon,
When it feels like those microbes
Have decided to go bowlin',
Why not go see your friendly Doctor
He has an awesome scope and light,
For just a few minutes of your precious time
He'll demonstrate his hindsight.


If you would hang around long enough with the dead, the dying, the sick and maimed, the children and babies, the psychic, religious, atheist and what not, in their time of dire need , occasionally you will witness some qualified “miracles”. My understanding of a miracle, is an event, that goes beyond a scientific explanation, or beyond the means by which we “see” the causative agent of the extraordinary event. I know there are many energies of the spectrum of physics, whereby we do not yet have instruments sensitive or sophisticated enough, to measure either their wavelength, or their power, effect or influence. Heck, that’s why we have scientists to work on that stuff. In the meantime, I’ve seen enough to keep any skeptic, busy refuting my experiences!

The Skeptical Man

The skeptical man
A doubter is he,
Show him a flower
He says, "Prove it to me",
Tell him you've experienced
Lo, none but a miracle,
Still he won't believe it
Unless it's empirical.


Here I butcher the English language with lame rhymes.

Ream, Ream, Ream

The heart attacks
The myocardium,
Says, look out son
I beg your pardium,
But you’re in my way
This ain’t no dreamya,
Havin’ tonight
It’s really ischemia.

Call the Surgeons
Page the team,
Let’s take out your arteries
And ream, ream, ream.


Sneezing; some people have a quiet little mousy sneeze. Me - it’s like Mt. Vesuvius blowing it’s top. Now, imagine doing that with a strep-throat; yes, pure agony!

The Sneeze

There are moments like these
That I’m glad I don’t sneeze,
It’s so peaceful and quiet
And a sneeze would deny it,
Not to mention my throat
That is now, sore and tender,
I can imagine the pain
That a sneeze would surrender.


Sunday, May 20, 2007

There are those days where I'd much rather be somewhere else, enjoying nature, rather than dodging bacteria. In the end, you have to make the best of any situation I guess.

You know
Moments like these,
I'd rather be
Amidst the flowers and trees,
Wandering aimlessly about
In some predetermined direction,
Instead, I'm back in town
Surrounded by disease and infection.

I may as well
Make the most of it all,
Relieve some suffering
Answer that call,
Send someone home
And heal one or two,
And as for the rest
I'll leave them for you.

Memory; what it you lost it?

I Don't Remember

I know I must be someone
But I don't remember who,
I have a job somewhere
But I don't know what I do,
I have some friends and family
But I don't know who they are,
I would find them if I could, you know
But I cannot find my car.

A nearly ancient poem, just unearthed from 1982, regarding the dilemma of mental illness.

Derailed Thoughts

You know, when you're driving home
And it seems like the same old way
But suddenly, you're lost, and you find
You're across the border;
Well, that must be something like
The fellow with a mental disorder.

Derailed thoughts
Like a telegraph line
With its wires crossed.
It doesn't matter if you remember
Where your home is;
You're still getting lost.
So, what can you do?
Find an alternate route
Or maybe get a new map
Or get a mobile home -
Then you'll always be there.


Friday, May 11, 2007

Deep, so deep; bedrock deep!

The Wisdom in the Stones

I sat upon the bluff last night
And looked across the canyon,
I deliberated destiny
As I was my own companion,
The sunset spread across the sky
In a thousand colored tones,
Ancient voices echoed from the walls
The wisdom in the stones.

The evidence of centuries erosion
I have touched,
The absolute infinity of loving
I have clutched,
The tenderness of kindness
Presented by a friend,
These are things that have beginnings
But never have an end.

Fibril_late; 1994
A look at religious conservatism and something else about reading the words that others write and how we interpret those words.

Original Sin

Original man
Original sin,
Original scriptures
That won't let you in.

Original hate
Original fear,
Original prejudice
That won't let you near.

These are the beliefs
To which many subscribe,
Content in their place
As the original tribe.

Fibril_late; 1994

Ideas and Themes

Letters written
Letters sent,
You wonder what
The writer meant,
Requires constraint,
If you don't understand
The painters' paint.

Is the answer,
Like my imaginary
Leaping about
Ideas and themes,
Interpret them
Just like my dreams.

What it means
Can change with time,
Today a blessing
Tomorrow a crime,
Read with care
And intuition,
Allow flexibility
In your rendition.

Fibril_late; 1994

Monday, May 07, 2007

Here is a timeless rant about plundering governments.


Tragedy struck
On the street today,
A government collapsed
Many lives at play,
Innocent people
Slaughtered and maimed,
The propaganda machine
Says who should be blamed.

Tragedy struck
And families are broken,
Long promised freedoms
Are now but a token,
While deals made by men
Who wager with death,
Leave innocents gasping
For a last, dying breath.

Tragedy is felt
Far away from that place,
For the hundreds that died
I see but one face,
The tragedy occurs
When power fuels greed,
And the desires of a few
Overshadow what they need.

Fibril_late; 1994

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Last post, April 15th? That's kind of hard to believe; after all, I started out with the lofty dream of blogging QD. Daily living, got in the way. I tell people I am a semi-retired nurse. Funny, even the nurses who have gone on to other careers, can never let go of this nursing thing, if they pursued it for 2 decades, like myself. I think it's an inborn genetic trait; it underlies all things.

Anyway, a few weeks have passed, too many daily distractions, so I delve into the "daily poems" that occurred alongside my health-care writings back in the day. There is so much to cover.

"Beyond Common Tradition" was about someone, who I can no longer recall; nonetheless, memorable in the retelling.

Beyond Common Tradition

Hers was a life
Of which legends are made,
She was born in the sun
And retired in the shade,
But somewhere in between
There was a fabulous rendition,
An exemplary existence
Beyond common tradition.

Her family was conservative
She always did her best,
Just follow Mom and Daddy's course
It's safe within the nest,
But it didn't fill her up inside
It left her, feeling hollow,
And though they knew she loved them
She had a different star to follow.

Though I use the word conservative
Her parents had great knowledge,
They encouraged all their children
To attend some kind of college,
Knowing that the value comes
In exploring brand new themes,
Then taking the experience
To carry out their dreams.

Her dreams were like a ball of yarn
Just waiting to unravel,
With just a little push, she rolled
Into the world of travel,
Returning now and then
Bearing gifts of life and laughter,
And then a dream would sprout again
Which she'd be chasing after.

A legend in her own time
Within the family tree,
When pressed for explanations
She'd say, "Because it's me".

Fibril_late; 1984

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Back in the early '90's, I made the acquaintance of a fine nurse and nationally recognized educator, named Deborah Tuggle, RN. I attended many of her classes, worked with her a few times at one of the local ICU's and was a contributor of some poems for one of her CCRN classes. I just stumbled over my drafts for those poems and thought I'd do a little
21st-century revising and revisiting. I will load up the whole pie in this entry, as it has been more than a couple weeks since I posted last.

SVT versus TFS

Is it aberration or ectopy
S.V.T. or T.F.S.?
Sometimes I get, so darned confused
I quit, with just a guess,
I get so doggone overwhelmed
I can't recall my name,
Does it really matter in the end
Or would the outcome be the same?
I swear I think my "idiot-factor"
Has increased, by more than double,
Ever since I took that class
From the famous Mrs. Tuggle.

Let's examine a scenario
To illustrate my point,
My shift is all but over
I'm about to leave the joint,
When abruptly, I'm assaulted
By alarms and lights galore,
My patients' heart has gone whacko
(Now I'll have to chart some more),
His rhythm is wide and ugly
So I race down to his room,
My tunnel vision activates
The flashing lights spell doom.

Is he conscious?
Is he dead?
(Is he even in the bed)?
Should I stop a sec and clock him
Or just go ahead and shock him?
No, no….hey, I'm a pro
I've taken Tuggle's course,
He's fine for now….I'll stop and think
My memory, I will force.

I'll check a few key leads
Before I treat this guy tonight,
Is it S.V.T. or T.F.S.
Or Wolff, Parkinson and White?
Does a delta wave announce itself
Or remain concealed and silent?
Is it simply an aberrancy
Or something else more violent?
Is the phenomena reentry
Are the P-waves retrograde?
Does the AV node dissociate
Or do P-waves simply fade?
Is the axis indeterminate
Is it normal, left or right?
Is V1 looking up or down
Is the R-wave broad or tight?
What else was I supposed to check
What else did teacher say?
My God, that woman drives me nuts
I don't care anyway!

There's just, too much to think about
It's too much to recall,
These silly EKG rules
Are just no fun at all!
You know, he looks a whole lot worse
Let's just forget the clues,
I think that I should shock him now
And end these rhythm blues!
So I hit him with some macrovolts
To turn his rate around,
His body jerked right off the bed
He moaned a frightful sound.

Despite his pain and suffering
His rhythm was reversed,
He was mad as hell I zapped him
And announced that I'd been cursed,
In the end, what only mattered
Did I fixed him or did I not?
I halted decompensation
Plus all my nerves are shot!
But was it V-Tach or SVT
Or was it really T.F.S.?
That Tuggle Frustration Syndrome
Is the cause of my distress!

p. hupp; 1991
rev. 2007

Advanced Certification Blues

It's a lot of stress and worry
A major pain in the neck.
Some nurses want to do it
To enhance their weekly check,
Then others seek a challenge
To prove their skills exist,
Or to correct a prior-exam upset
To right the wrongs they missed.

Anxiety commences
Before beginning class,
We're talking, major chunks of money
To ensure you're going to pass,
And what if you should flop
Despite this education,
Your self-esteem will under go
Its' final degradation.

You can see the task is mighty
For the dedicated teacher,
They must ignite your feeble spirit
Like a fire and brimstone preacher,
And cast aside the devils
Of ignorance and fears,
Hoping you'll be back to take
Their class in three more years.

p. hupp 1991
rev: 2007

Balloon Pump

When your heart doesn't want to thump
It's time for an aortic-balloon pump,
It squirts the blood back, retrograde
To reduce the myocardial fade,
It unloads the diastolic side
And improves the coronary glide,
It has many complications, though
You could lose a foot, a leg or toe,
Or if a clot, by chance should travel
Some precious organ might unravel,
It could migrate up into your head
And though we saved your heart,
You'd still be dead.

p.hupp; 1991
rev. 2007

Neuro Learning

You used to think that Parkinsons
Was a place to buy your clothes,
And Babinski was a guy
That manicured your toes,
You thought a Grand-mal seizure
Was a grocery store arrest,
And a thing called quantal squander
Was a competency test.

And by now your cerebellum
Has tremors from the strain,
From cramming unrelated
Facts into your brain,
And you suspect your C.P.P.*
Is dangerously low,
From an obscure malformation
Redirecting neural flow.

But how fortunate for you
Your condition is benign,
All you have to do is study
And memorize each line,
Then the words will fall into place
Into memories, defined,
And despite your greatest worries
You've intellectualized your mind.

p. hupp, 1991
rev. 2007

Addison's Prices

No matter where you're going
No matter where you've been,
Make sure you don't ignore
The system Endocrine.

Back in the days
Of James Madison,
Came the naming of diseases
Like Addison;
One day he was shopping
For some coffee and tea,
He had a jones for some brew
(Though it always made him pee),
But he went into shock
When he saw the prices,
And thus begat
Addisonian crisis!
And hyperkalemia,
And hyponatremia,
Dextrose and saline
For fluid revival,
For long term survival.

Don't sit around
Debating the cause,
This Addison's beast
Has some serious claws,
So if you treat it rapidly
With the latest regime,
Impending death
Will be yesterdays dream,

Don't be a doubter
A skeptic or a cynic,
Make follow-up appointments
And we'll see you in the clinic.

p. hupp; 1991
rev. 2007


G.I. troubles
What a mess,
Gastric bleeders
I confess,
Turn my stomach
There's no doubt,
When their blood
Comes gushing out.

An acute abdomen
Or ugly bowels,
Causes people
To scream in vowels,
Call the doctor
And sharpen the knife,
It's their only
Chance for life.

Hepato this
And chole that,
Neighbors chat,
Liver function
Out of kilter,
Won't detoxify
Or filter.

Massive ascites
Ain't no fun,
You look like a pumpkin
In the sun,
Tap the belly
Before it blows,
Ascites fluid
All over your clothes,
All day on the crapper,
This is the song
Of the liver-failure rapper.

p. hupp; 1991
ref. 2007


The acidosis diabeatus
Is not a crisis of the fetus,
It's most often those
Who are type one,
In their insulin.

The fatty acids accumulate
Producing a keto-acid state,
A greater than fifteen
Anion gap,
Encourages their
Lungs to flap,
To dissociate carbonic acid
Meanwhile this dude, is totally flaccid.

When the patient
Is dehydrated,
Become concentrated,
Aggressive treatment
Is required,
Before the victims'
Heart gets tired.

Insulin and fluids free
I.V. route most rapidly,
Check the glucose every hour
So the treatment won't go sour.
Discharge plan?
To educate;
To prevent a similar
Repeat date.

p. hupp; 1991
rev. 2007

The Big Test

The night before the test next day
There's a trepidation creeping,
A few will burn the midnight oil
To study, instead of sleeping,
Some others actually go to bed
Yet their sleep will be forsaken,
They'll toss and turn the whole night through
Afraid they won't awaken,
To the din of 17 alarm clocks
Placed strategically around the room,
So they get up in the morning
With a foreboding sense of doom.

What kind of clothes
Do you wear to this test?
Should you go as a slob
Or dress in your best,
If you give it little thought
And leave it up to chance,
Before you leave the house
Make sure you have your pants.

The test is always on Saturday
So you are the only commuter,
You spend the whole drive dreaming
That you owned a mini-computer,
Hidden in the glove-box
With a modem in your ear,
Then you'd be the only scholar
With a perfect score this year.

Outside the somber testing place
Small groups of nurses collect,
Presenting each other with questions
With the hope they will choose what's correct,
When faced with a similar topic
On the test, they will soon undergo,
The moment of truth can be merciless
When you realize how little you know.

The exam is really over?
You can't believe it's finished,
The results will come in about two months
But your worries haven't diminished,
Because now you dwell on the questions
Where you clearly had no clue,
And since the test is behind you
There's not a damn thing you can do.

You might pray to your Gods and your Goddesses
To grant you just one small request,
Sacrifice a lamb and rub that rabbits foot
To guarantee that you passed the darn test.

p. hupp; 1991
rev. 2007

Necrotizing Needlepoint

Perhaps you thought that breathing
Was a commonplace event,
And the term, "A dime sized lesion"
Was just money that you spent,
Did you think that hypoxemia
Was a viral titer test,
Or that tracheal malacia
Was a common household pest?

Did you know that bronchiectasis
Hung out with atelectasis?
Or grasp that wheezing airways
Were often found on stairways?

Don't ignore that pneumothorax
Muffled breath sounds are a clue,
A deviated trachea
Accompanies it too,
Hypoxemia develops
Mental confusion in the head,
You better place that chest-tube quick
Or this fellow will soon be dead.

Hospital-acquired pneumonia
Is the going thing today,
If you never wash your hands
You'll put a lot of them in play,
And the antibiotic resistant bugs
Will thank you for the chance,
To do their necrotizing needlepoint
At the pseudomonas dance.
Joe Camel has retired
But advertisers never quit,
Pre-teen little Bobby smokes
His cool factor is up a bit,
In health class he just snickers
Tarry lungs, no that ain't me,
In forty years he'll curse the beast
We know as C.O.P.D.

p. hupp; 1991
rev. 2007

Blood Cell Party

The white cells attack foreign proteins
The red cells just go with the flow,
The platelets are seen stuck together
On their way to a matinee show,
It's a film about tubules and solutes
Of osmo's and creatinine clearance,
It adds up to only one thing
A very confusing appearance.

The syndrome of I.A.D.H.
The SED rate and left-to-right shift,
Require the proper translation
Before you catch on to their drift,
But sooner or later the meaning
Will find itself well understood,
When these systems are all out of kilter
The outcome won't look very good.

p. hupp; 1991
rev. 2007

Monday, March 26, 2007

Another reawakening, an eye-opener of realization. I wrote about it back in 1995, and now a recent issue of a local Nursing magazine, has substantiated what I feared back then; Nursing is burying itself in "after-the-name-titles identified with mysterious letter combinations", where everyone and anyone, has to make their little stamp of recognition. It seems so childish to me. Who gives a rats-ass? Why not just show the RN, and then carry around a little card with all your extra-special, super-duper, ain't they awesome, look what I did, credentials identified by their "letters" and what the heck it all means. Stop giving me a headache, every time I pick up some nursing literature, Ok?

And this is just the beginning! Stay tuned for the latest interpretations.

Toxic Credential Syndrome

I was present at a seminar
Just the other day,
Presented by some experts
They captured me all day,
Enthralled I was, I must admit
Astounded, I confess,
I learned some facts I never knew
But I pause, and now digress.

What captured my attention
Were the credentials after each name,
Without a glossary to help me
I was almost put to shame,
When I realized no one else
Would know the meanings, either,
I silently relaxed
And took a little breather.

Little do these experts know
They have a sickness; it's incurable,
Toxic Credential Syndrome
Rarely, is insurable,
It's a chronic, life disorder
Of self-substantiation,
Seeking after-name initials
That defy interpretation.

After days of in-depth study
And cryptogram decoding,
I almost had the cypher, but
I felt my mind eroding,
The breakthrough came, when I was sitting
Upon the holy throne,
While bearing down, I visualized
A new Rosetta stone.

My interpretations
Are that and nothing more,
Other scholars may follow me
But I warn them, it's a chore,
Fellow collaborators
Have chosen to stay unnamed,
I understand their reluctance
The risk of being blamed.

I may become notorious
Denounced, more likely banned,
But I have my convictions
And have to take a stand,
The TCS condition
Is a threat to any nurse,
Should this research halt their suffering
I will gladly bear the curse.

Fibril_late; 12/95

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Remember when we all laughed about that silly "Valley Girl" song, by Frank Zappa. It was filled with all those juvenile forms of speech such as:
Like, He's like, I'm like,……
As if
Ya know
Totally Rad
Oh my God……

Now our whole flippin' society talks in this manner. The problem I see, is that when professionals speak this way, it makes them at best, appear poorly educated and at worst, just blathering idiots. So, there I was at some ACLS course and the physician instructor kept saying, "If you will" with a smattering of "ya know's" thrown in (like, every sentence, and it was not even, totally, like rad). Word.

Listen Carefully To Speech

"If you will", please let me clarify
A point of worthy status,
"If you will", I'm very tired
Of catchy phrase-like flatus,
"If you will", is touted daily
From the mouths of modern man,
"If you will", is like, I mean, ya know
Over and over again.

If this is too confusing
Listen carefully to speech,
Repetitive terms, like um, it's all
Are enough to make you screech,
The continual daily bombardment
Of sloppy vocal expression,
May undermine the professional
Leaving a less than desirable impression.

Fibril_late; 12/95

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

More about cost-cutting and budget cuts.

A Dangerous Method of Efficiency

Casting caution to the wind
Making budget cuts galore,
It's a dangerous method of efficiency
Kicking your people out the door.

Our industry needs to be streamlined
With careful consideration and pride,
Unlike the methods you see today
Which is technically suicide.

Fibril_late; 12/95