Thursday, January 29, 2009

Weighing in, in the east corner, is Popeye's nemesis, Bluto, topping 600 Lbs....

Save a Nurse

Morbidly Obese
Means your weight is killing you,
I'll be perfectly frank
It's killing me too.

It took 6 of us Nurses
To turn you for your bath,
Instantaneous injuries resulted -
Can you do the math?

You expect a compassionate nurse
And rightfully, so,
Do you ever wonder
Where did they go?
Check the Workman's Comp record
And look up their names,
Back and shoulder injuries
Are the name of the game.

In the course of my career
Starting, in nineteen seventy eight,
500 pound patients
Weren't on the plate,
Now it's every 5th admit
Demanding, gold-plated care,
While 4 imported nurses
Could fit on your chair!

Well, I've got a plan
For weighty problems of your type,
Our cleanup crew is shorthanded
And the odor is ripe,
If you'll just hop out of bed
And join us in room four,
You can assist in rolling Bluto
He weighs six-fifty four,
Perhaps you'll be inspired
To drop 100 K,
Knowing deep in your heart
You can save a Nurse that way!


Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I must post at least one politically derived poem, to honor this great moment:

Ten Balls

Ten inaugural balls
They weren't really for Obama,
People dancing in the halls
'Twas the goodbye-Busharama!


Thursday, January 15, 2009

I know that most of us get a little fussy and whiney at times, but when Mrs. Kilo whined, complained and fussed with any activity, it became tiresome rapidly. I don't even recall what her admitting diagnosis was, (merely 4 days ago); all I remember, was that she had a pretty generous menu of pain relievers, sedatives and anti-anxiety agents at her disposal, and I administered them. No harm was done. She never stopped breathing and the shift passed without undue stress. The next night, I got lucky....she shipped out 90 minutes after the start of my shift. Her exit was marred by the following event, described below.

Cursing Her Bowels

Over there in yonder corner
In that room beyond the door,
Weighing in at 140 kilo's
I have to tell you, she's a chore.

50 years old and whining
Like a child, over-pampered and spoiled,
Blaming "everybody" before me
"They ignored me all day, and I'm soiled".

Demanding attention, crying and fussing
Barely lifting a finger, for herself,
Reminds me of the "Eats and Poops Baby Doll"
Sitting on a Toys-R-Us shelf.

I ponder my options, what would Jesus do?
Give a baptismal bath and some towels?
Cleanup with compassion and my BillyBob smile
While silently cursing her bowels.

I enjoy discovering ways to write about things like Packed-cells and Paxil; how could they possibly be related, other than the fact that they sound sort of similar?

Packed Cells vs. Paxil

Occasionally, I’m not sure
What my patient needs more,
Two units of packed-cells
Or Paxil, fourscore.

At times they need them both
Because they’re bloody crazy,
At other times the Paxil
Just makes them too damn lazy.

To sum it up, I’m telling you
Blood is the elixir of life,
In contrast, hoard the Paxil
And save it for your wife.


Monday, January 12, 2009

Comfort can be so easy to provide. Kind words, a warm blanket and a shot of morphine. How hard is that?

Another Blanket

In a peculiar kind of way,
Couldn't name where he was
Or the time of the day.

Forty-five years old
And at the end of his line,
He appreciated a warm blanket
And told me, "that's just fine",
He said it was pretty unusual
For a cop to wipe his butt,
I told him, "This isn't the jail,
You're parked at Hospital-Hut".

He gave thanks for every thing
Every kindness that was given,
Perhaps he knew his days were numbered
In the life that he was livin'.

To palliate his pain
He'd ask for a little treat,
"You know, a shot of morphine"
Better than food, better than sweet.

His sister was concerned
That he seemed a little confused,
Was it a sign of some kind of brain damage
Perhaps he was abused,
Maybe that lump upon his head
Was from a fall onto the floor,
He was missing a couple of days
So we'll never learn that score,
But it didn't really matter
In the long run of his illness,
He had end-stage HIV
And I could appreciate his stillness,
While seeking comfort for his basic needs
Like shelter from the storm,
"How about another pain shot
And a blanket; make it warm".


Friday, January 02, 2009

In our region, there are many families that originate from the Russian territories. These are hardy people. They go many miles and many years, until suddenly one of their major organs fails. Once they've been admitted to the hospital, they often seem to be at death's door, because in truth, they have advanced Heart disease, Hypertension and Diabetes. More often than not, the family didn't "know" about it. And since this is America, surely we have an instant cure..............

Uncle Faddi

The Russians are a hardy bunch
If they take their vodka
With every lunch,
They live long lives
Then collapse without warning,
Whilst 47 close relatives
Go into mourning.

The survivors are dumfounded
They lack understanding,
But they want complete life-support
Yes, they are demanding,
The full mondo treatment
For Great-uncle Faddi,
It's hard to explain to them
He just needs a new body.