Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Superstitions? Do they have a valid place in the work-setting? Perhaps not, but they are practiced all over the world, even here in the enlightened USA.


Superstitious practices
Of educated folks,
To the level-headed pragmatist
It seems to be a joke.

But the degree of education
Can't be factored in the mix,
When modern medicine itself
Looks like a bag of magic tricks.

Nurses of the ICU
Are superstitious creatures,
We're trained to look for omens
And other sickly features,
That might portend a menacing
Or evil lurking force,
Like that creature of Mr. Websters
The headless man and horse.

When we get a special feeling
That death is prowling near,
We don't cringe or shake and shudder
Nor show a bit of fear,
But we'll roll the mighty crash cart
To the threshold of their room,
An invisible shield of power
Dispelling any doom.

Another nurse prepares
An empty room this way,
She freshens up the linens
All equipment is OK,
With a flourish of her wand
She casts a spell both left and right,
Protecting her from admits
All throughout the night.

A thousand different nurses
Have a manifold of ways,
Some work best in the middle of night
And others during days,
Thus with superstitious practices
Of an educated crew,
Our workplace is safe and guarded
It's the prognostic thing to do.


Monday, April 28, 2008

A flight of ideas, clumped together, wandering around like atrial fibrillation.

Exhaustion and Fatigue

I pretend that I’ll write
After work, so inspired,
But more often than not
I am just, grossly tired,
Overly fatigued
From the labors of thinking,
Junk food snacking
And coffee drinking,
Weight-lifting patients
Who didn’t diet, last year,
Decubitus ulcers
Draining gallons of beer,
Or something quite similar
I kid you, not,
It smells like it’s fermented
And has the thickness of snot.

What clients like these
Are doing at our station,
We can’t figure out
It’s an abomination,
We’re a Cardiac Unit
It’s supposed to be clean,
But the hospital has become
An infection machine,
Where any Tom, Bill or Mary
With a debilitating disease,
Will squander our resources
Can you say, “Medicare, please?”

Now, the specialist doctors
And in-house boss leaders,
Looked hard at statistics
And the money-loss bleeders,
They initiated a recommended
Model of care,
An around-the-clock doctor
Is the latest fresh air,
To attack any problem
Or intervene in a crisis,
They will drown it with knowledge
And life-saving devices,
And the specialist doctors
Can be home with the wife,
Finally having a chance
To live a doctor-normal life.

Now, this 24-hour physician
Is the latest twist,
They have a catchy kind of name
And they seem kind of young
Like they recently jumped ship,
They have their hand-held computers
And their language is hip,
They say, “no problem” and “what‘s up”
When they’re paged at oh-four-hundred,
Often reluctant to make decisions
And be accused that they blundered,
In the middle of the night
With a patient they didn’t know,
So, it’s business as usual
In this medical picture show.

Once again, I have rambled
“Like, what was the point?”
You are probably thinking
I was smoking a joint,
But it all had to do
With exhaustion and fatigue,
This ain’t the sandbox, boy
“Like, it’s totally, major league”.

Countless times I have seen the individual patient who had clearly stated and defined in their written record, that they held a "DNR" classification. Yes, that's right, Do Not Resuscitate. Oh, but then they need to have some kind of surgery and DNR apparently doesn't play on the sound system in the O.R.
So, for just a short time.........they will be temporarily classified as a "Full Code". If something bad happens, like a cardiac / respiratory arrest, then they will receive the Cadillac Escalade of emergency therapies. Somehow a few brain-stem neurons survive, their heart keeps beating, they do some guppy breathing and bingo!, they slowly dissolve over the next 7 weeks. What the heck?!? I could have sworn I read "DNR" on his Admission Record!

It is a horrid, unethical, immoral crime against humanity. Hard to say that in the same breath, when we claim we are advocates for human dignity. Give me a flippin' break, Jake!

Free Resuscitation

When I got too old
To drive my car,
My doctor made me
But when I went in
For my surgery,
They offered resuscitation
Completely free.

That's a heck of a deal
The surgeon said,
If you crump on the table
We'll bring you back from the dead,
Because we don't want people dying
In our operation room,
It's bad for my reputation
And it's a flippin', dollar doom.

But worry not, sir
There ain't no one better,
We operate by the book
Down to the last letter,
And the gist of all of this talk
Is about risks and regulations,
You'll come through with flying colors
And standing ovations.

So you did poorly, after surgery
Well, it's clearly not our fault,
We performed what we promised
And you didn't tell us to halt,
When you had the opportunity
Before morbidity and mortality,
Would get the upper hand
And you'd become a fatality.

You should have put your foot down
And stayed a DNR,
'Cause now you're riding in a hearse
Which you traded for your car.


I can't begin to explain this whole time-card thing, but I can take a stab at it with a rhyme [actually, it's becoming a series of poems -5]:

Time-Clock Wars

When I went back to work
The time-clock wars were raging,
What with Union regulations
And Administrative staging,
Petty minds and silly rules
Made professionals shake in their boots,
Sure to chase us into retirement
To make room for some ignorant recruits.

Dead Brain Waves

Part II; Time-Clock Wars

The old ones are dropping, like flies in the sun
They've worked here for years, and they're nearly all done
With the hemodynamics of pressure, dead brain waves and more,
While some obsessive-compulsive janitorial panel
Should be placed in strait-jackets constructed of flannel
Because this break-time snafu, is just one more, insane stupid chore.

Snafu, is just another
Of my favorite acronyms,
Like, s-bar and fubar
And flams that are flims,
By combining these terms
We can describe where we are,
This time-clock snafu
Has become a fubar.

Two Fifteen's
Part III; Time-Clock Wars

Did you clock your 30 minutes
Did you take your two "fifteens",
Did you record it for posterity
Or just to earn your magic beans?

This time-clock we pay homage to
Is omnipotent, and called Ceridian,
It must be approached with deep devotion
At the 45th meridian,
Seven minutes before or after
On any quarterly divide,
Don't ask me to explain it
I'd much rather let it slide,
Because, here it comes around again
It's my golden opportunity,
If I don't swipe my badge correctly
I'll be punished without impunity.

Fibril_late; 4/9/08

Souffle' Surprise
Part IV; Time-Clock Wars

The soup has thickened
The griddle is hot,
This Ceridian concoction
Is thicker than snot,
New broth was added
For more flavor, less spice,
But the dishes on the table
All come with a price.

The chef is ticked off
The waitress is bloated,
They both missed their break
When the soufflé' exploded,
And when that egg hit the fan
Why, everyone ducked,
They collectively exclaimed -
We are totally mucked!

(Actually, my agent was there and heard something different... but that's another story!)
Fibril_late; 4/10/08

Us Dogs
Part V; Time-Clock Wars

Even when some dogs are sleeping
Others will remain awake,
We vigilant loyal watchdogs
Recognize what is at stake,
Our masters wish to control all our boundaries
Including leash laws and when we may rest,
How they revel in their control of our destiny
To us dogs, it's just another stupid test.

Fibril_late; 4/28/08

Part VI; Time Clock Wars

Yes, I clocked my 30 minutes
Yes, I took my 2 "fifteens",
And someone marked it in a book
Though I don't know what it means,
It might be evaluated
By some expert panel folks,
In the meantime, I've exploited it
To rhyme these silly jokes.


Friday, April 25, 2008

Out of Reach

I use to enjoy
Calling you on the phone,
No matter the mood
You had a good tone,
With your sharp witted thoughts
And colorful speech,
But now, dear old friend
You seem far out of reach.

(to be continued)


Thursday, April 24, 2008

I guess I could file this under the heading of, "Fibril_late's Believe It or Not". Clearly, it was a story begging to be told and thus...............out it tumbled!

Talk To the Ghost

What is the thing
That bothers me the most?
Unrelentless streams of visitors
Or the ever-present ghost,
Who rattles in the closet
And hides behind the curtain,
At times, I prefer the ghost
Over visitors, that's for certain.

I can talk to the ghost
He doesn't talk back,
He tries to throw ectoplasm
But his aim is out of whack,
Although he manages to frighten
The ones who see him not,
I guess I'm some kind of emissary
The only friend he's got.

Everywhere I've worked
There has always been a ghost,
I think he's a greeter for death
Like your friendly Walmart host,
Essentially, non-threatening
Offering his invisible, twisted smile,
A member of the welcome wagon
With his own peculiar style.

There have been she-ghosts
But they bear a different role,
As experts of duplicity
They come to recognize the soul,
Do an assessment of lifetime value
The good and bad and the duration,
Flip a coin and do the numbers
For the ultimate destination.

All in all, I count my blessings
For the role I chose to play,
There are wonderful people I work with
Each and every day,
And when relentless streams of visitors
Fray my nerves, like overcooked toast,
I can stick my head in the housekeeping closet
And talk to my friend, the ghost.


Thursday, April 17, 2008

He was a mountain of a man, and now, he is a man beneath a mountain.

CPR Calypso

Billy-Bob Boiko
Was the father of the clan,
Well respected amongst his peers
He was mountain of a man,
Pound for pound, magnifico!
He was worth his weight in gold,
But each pound of flesh was killing him
He was prematurely old.

He denied his diabetes
He ignored the heart disease,
He smoked two packs a day, or more
You should have heard him wheeze,
But he claimed it was his allergies
He'd never been sick before!
While a shadow of death was hovering
Outside his bedroom door.

The family freaked when he had chest pain
And called a "9-1-1" emergency,
They screamed and moaned to the dispatcher
With overwhelming urgency,
The ambulance crew should have brought a hoist
Because Billy was immense,
They had to fabricate a gurney
From a neighbors redwood fence.

It was a terrific tale
Of sound and fury,
A rich, full life
Lived in a big, damn hurry,
Ignoring simple rules
Of pleasure and pain,
Fourteen dishes for dinner
And no alcohol refrain,
A boatload of dependents
As his life went down the drain,
When he flat-lined and keeled over
And left nothing but a stain.

He did the CPR Calypso
During the ambulance ride,
Clearly brain dead from anoxia
Oh how, his family cried,
They pointed fingers left and right
There was a thunderstorm of blame,
But underneath it all, I hope
They were floundering in self-blame.

They had unreal expectations
For the medical team that day,
They thought Billy-Bob would be revived
And he wouldn't have to pay,
Because that's the all-American dream
For any foreign son,
America, the land of the free
Should apply to everyone.

Billy-Bob Boiko
Is now a man beneath a mountain,
His pigeon-crap plastered statue
Sits in a dried up fountain,
His baby brother Besnik
Has stepped into his brother's shoes,
He tops the scales at four-fifty
Like there's nothing left to lose.

Fibril_late/ 4/17/08

Sunday, April 13, 2008

I saw this bit of history in the chart of a 21 year old, who had been admitted for attempted suicide, that he had the diagnosis of "A.D.D.". By now, thanks to the psychological / pharmaceutical industry (and Dr. Phil), everybody knows this means Attention Deficit Disorder. However, what came to my mind, was how he had started out with ADD, and now, having tried to commit suicide, he had effectively tried to subtract himself from earth.
I knew immediately, that a poem was due to address this unique situation.

A.D.D. and Subtract

He started out life with A.D.D.
But he finished with subtract,
He claimed to be a well mannered fellow
But it was truly just an act.

He was a testament of early intervention
And a reservoir of latent potential,
A proud owner of classic presentation
While supplying the diagnosis differential.

He could prove to the average proud parent
That he was a child in need,
He qualified for therapies galore
And memorized the A.D.D. creed.

His mother learned the lingo and practiced for hours
She was a regular A.D.D. moxie,
Any seasoned professional of forensic practice
Could recognize Munchausen by Proxy*.

As his advocate for treatment and cheerleader for attention
This mother had a well rehearsed act,
But what started as textbook A.D.D.
Would metamorphose into classic subtract.

His old lady was clearly complicit
In the development of his mental condition,
Although psycho abuse indeed was the problem
He helped her by his own volition.

As a poster-child for A.D.D.
He learned about kiddee cocaine,
If you crushed the Ritalin and snorted it up
You could mainline it straight to your brain,
It was the rage among kids, in the friends that he kept
They laughed and called it Vitamin “R”,
It was cheaper than buying illicit drugs on the street
When you kept it at home in a jar.

The final chapter of this sordid, sad story
This miserable cretin lost hope,
After an alcohol binge, Vitamin R and cocaine
He finished life, at the end of his rope.


For an easy description of "Munchausen by Proxy", check the following link:

(stay tuned)


Thursday, April 10, 2008

OK, I admit it; once in a while, I get a vibe, that maybe, the poems that are written here at my site, might cause some fur to rise. But then I remember, hey, I'm anonymous. I'm "Princess Peanut" the cat. Meoww. Sure, I understand that I'm one of the few blessed cats on earth, that is the channel (we're talking spirits here) for a real human, aka, "Fibril_late". I can't reveal her/his name, because of course, they might get in trouble. Big, bad Meoww!
But the fact is, I can't help but obey the spirit.

Perhaps the following poem, might help out those fur-raisers:

Just Call me a Fool

I write about this
And I write about that,
But don't take it personal
Because that's not where it's at.

My attention is focused
On ideas and pain,
A loss of satisfaction
And ill gotten gains.

Crimes of humanity
And irritations of employment,
Shortening life spans
And a loss of enjoyment.

Policies and directives
From a corporate point of view,
Adversely affecting
All of me and all of you.

Freedom of speech
Just isn't my fortay,
Freedom of writing
Is where I earn my pay.

I won't use my words
To cause harm to another,
But I might use some terms
That are offensive to your mother.

And most of the time
I'll use humor as a tool,
And for all of the rest
Just call me a fool.


Wednesday, April 09, 2008

No words needed to describe this poem.

Double Casket

A foreigner to me
May be a relative to you,
It is clearly all about
Our particular point of view.

And when they're whacked out crazy
I'm about to blow a gasket,
If the both of us expire
We're going to need a double casket.

So my modus operandi
Is to be liberal with the drugs,
And my advice to family
"Could you give them lot's of hugs?"


Sunday, April 06, 2008

This particular morning, I came home after "Round 2", of the wrestling match with a tag team of two sick foreigners. Something seemed to break; my knee, my back and my psyche. Luckily, I have 3 days off. Here is a telling of what didn't really happen.

From Here to Dover

I am just another chap,
Who has lived through too much crap,
And I'm really getting sick and tired of it,
But the folks, where I hang out,
Love to fling it all about,
And most recently, I told that guy to shove it,
Now, I'm lucky no one heard,
That I flipped the guy, the bird
Or most likely, I'd have to pay some sort of fine,
But if you ask, was I surprised?
Have an inkling, or surmised,
I'd find myself, in ye olde Unemployment line?

Quite frankly, I was shocked
They were loaded, door was locked,
When I tried to come to work this very day,
They said, I'd really gone too far
This was a hospital, not a bar,
And consequently, you have no job, and get no pay,
At that moment, I was flippin'
I said, "Boss, you must be trippin'",
Why every Nurse, has horrid days like this and that,
But if you want to screw me over
I will sue you, from here to Dover,
And my attorney, will be the one who trims your fat.