Friday, December 31, 2010

Here it is December 31 and this is the last poem of the year. Because this is such an auspicious occasion, I am delivering an opus of intrigue and mystery. It’s all hush-hush, wink-wink, in-between the lines stuff. Although I share my writings with my colleagues when it is on the up and up, occasionally I address “sensitive” topics that might ruffle the feathers of the big birds. By posting on this blog, it becomes readable in the public domain, and thus, I must drop to the level of subterfuge, to disguise my message.

And I do like to dabble in nonsense, and see what comes out of it. Happy New Year!!!


This might be my last chance
To put this in writing,
I’m past the moment of boldness
But it’s time for indicting,
Exposing the infractions
Wherever they be,
It could have been you
Instead, it is me.

It’s the duty of the press
To find the rarest detail,
Which is sometimes so obscure
You might think you’re in retail,
Coordinating the castoffs
In the dressing room hamper,
Or getting lost like a rookie
In a Winnebago camper.

To dig up what’s hidden
Requires secret knowledge,
In the realm of the professional
We’re talking about college,
You can’t play in this sandbox
Without having some creds,
And the dress code is such
You can’t show up in dreads.

Details so abstruse
You need a submarine,
To fathom the depths
For the truth to come clean,
A buried conspiracy
Fourteen layers deep,
The story of the year
And we’ve all been asleep.

Money on the bottom
Money on the top,
Dollars without sense
On a roll and just can’t stop,
With reams of regulations
And adjustments to the build,
Hush-hush secret meetings
Between the masters of the guild.

Undercover gatherings
Messages in dead-drops,
Who would ever guess
They congregate in head shops,
Monthly new directives
Provided with pearls and pomp,
Wrapped in shameless packaging
And delivered with a stomp.

The story of the year
You must read between the lines,
Like you, I need to stay employed
And avoid those nasty fines.


Wednesday, December 29, 2010

This was the ultimate in obsessive/compulsive disorder. This 76-ish gentleman, was absolutely, astronomically fixated on his ability, or lack thereof, to have a bowel movement (bm, crap, shit, unload, have a dump behind the stump), or whatever you call it. It was the only thing he could talk about. Every conversation, led back to his bowels. Even if he was telling the story of going to Wisconsin for Christmas, he had to include the agony he experienced on the plane, where he felt “under-pressure” in the little airplane restroom, and he couldn’t take a dump. And, that was just the beginning, regarding why his visit to see the grandchildren, was a disaster. His bowels were constipated.

Yes, that might seem a little overboard, but it is the truth. Now, fit the above scenario, on a fellow with severe, end-stage Pulmonary Fibrosis, COPD, and Asthma, who needs BiPap with 100% Oxygen at all times, just to keep his saturations above 88%. And then, all he can do is talk about his inability to take a dump. Yowza!


Collectively, a complicated psychosis
Overwhelming, was his halitosis,
Never had I met someone, so fixated
So sensational it was, as if iron-plated,
Telling his story, to anyone that was near
Incredibly, like it was his career,
Plausibly, it was a legitimate condition
After awhile, it became a long, boring rendition,
Then he revives, and tells me once more
In fourteen different ways how he just can’t score,
On the bedside throne, even though he has been thoroughly Kaexalated
Nothing seems to help, he’s totally constipated.

What happens at work, stays at work. We can thank Hollywood for that observation. I write about work, weaving and twisting the experiences, and then share it on this blog. Of course names are changed to protect the perpetrators.........because I don't want that bucket falling on my head. Anyway, here's the latest on the topic.

Always Fresh

I don’t write about work much
Unless I’m there in the flesh,
My mind percolates like the coffee pot
Brewing grounds that are always fresh.

The glaring inconsistencies
Are only obvious when I’m there;
Once I’m gone for three short hours
It doesn’t matter, I’m no longer aware.

So I keep the voice recorder
On hand, in my golden chariot,
To capture those thoughts that are running loose
I’m ready with my lariat.

Once I’m home and sleep commences
I cleanse my mind with dreams,
I’ll return to work another day
To write about new themes.


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Just so you know, when I write about nurses, whether I use the masculine or feminine (he or she), usually is dependent on the word I need to rhyme with. So, although I previously wrote about the “3G Nurse” who was on her smart-phone too much at work, here I am once again picking on “her” because of the basic need to rhyme properly.

Now, I know that sometimes 8 hours, or 12 hours at work can seem like torture because the patient is a whacked-out crazy man, or a person with no short-term memory, but still, it's important to keep in mind, that we have a moral duty to relieve human suffering. I've had countless nights like that and you probably have, too. Try to keep in's only 12 hours.........surely, I can remain calm and kind, for just 12 hours. Of course, it's courteous to answer the call-light promptly.

On The Moon

I’m kind of upset
About that nurse over there,
Her patients are calling
And she just sits in her chair,
Checking her email
And talking with others,
Looking at Facebook
To see her sisters and brothers,
Who remain in her homeland
Which is so far away,
Now she’s checking the airlines
To see how much she’ll have to pay,
To travel back home
Six months, next June
While her patients are screaming
It’s like she’s on the moon.

I’m answering those call-lights
And doing her duties,
Both patients are in isolation
And covered with cooties,
But still they have needs
And this is our career,
Where our clients are needy
And not always in good cheer,
They are often in pain
Or they need to take a crap,
Maybe they’re bleeding and vomiting
And it lands in your lap,
Yes, I know it’s disgusting
To have to deal with this wet-work,
But you’re paid to be here
So get off that social network.

With 12 years of experience
Her resume’ looked great,
But she cares more about her social life
Compared to the patients fate,
Now there’s an administrative edict
Regarding use of the computer,
But this chick just doesn’t get it
So, we might as well shoot her.


Monday, December 27, 2010

Time for that end of the year review, sort of thing. What do I remember best? What sticks out in my memory...............

Case Of The Year

Most memorable case
Of the year, who knows?
It might have been that fellow
With the dead, gangrenous toes.

I came on that evening
After a "minor surgery" in the room,
His foot was wrapped like a mummy
And there was a cloying smell of doom.

The day nurse was reporting
"Oh, by the way, please don't forget,
Send the dead toe to the Laboratory
I'll be temporarily in your debt".

I gave him a look, in the usual fashion
Right......; you could have had this done,
But why raise a fuss in the moment
When we can all share a bit of the fun.

What kind of packaging
And where do I send it?
Double-bag it, please
And try not to bend it,
It's a special collection
A pathological piece,
Don't place it on ice
And don't send the fleece.

So I got a couple baggies
The red specimen style,
Threw that toe to the bottom
Sealed it, and kept it a while,
Quite the conversation piece
"Hey, look what I've got?"
Billy-Bob's toe
And it's as ugly as snot!

Well, after all the jokes
About the toe-truck, and such,
I sent it to the lab
For that toe's final touch,
A specimen like no other
An unsightly black lump,
What does the Laboratory do?
They call, asking about the stump.

The dead toe scenario
Has a dismal outlook, indeed,
The odds are, the foot will follow
All the way up to the knee,
I've seen men lose two legs
And two arms, before it was over,
After surviving the beaches of Dunkirk
And leaping the cliffs of Dover.


Revolving Door

Attack of the largest in life
2010 was memorable for sure,
Those super-sized clients of ours
Weren't coming to us for a cure.

But rather, some kind of repair
A secondary causation, due to weight,
Without reducing the underlying problem
We knew they'd be back at a later date.

Bettyjoe Bilotnik
Was admitted four times, I recall,
And it really, was quite surprising
That all of her children were small,
Her mother was built like a toothpick
While Betty's husband was shaped like a blimp,
Pushing Betty in the wide-bottomed wheelchair
Poor old Chester, had a heckuva limp.

Jimmy Johnson from Modesto
Got an ear infection, and an abscess in his neck,
Sepsis knocked him on his can
All 500 pounds of him, on last check,
“Wait, he's just twenty-eight
How in the heck, could he be so sick?”
That's what his sister said
When we had to intubate him real quick,
Because of respiratory failure
He was a smoking asthmatic, to boot,
Oh, he's always been a little heavy
But it never amounted to much; shoot.

Yes, we surely operate
A revolving door of care,
Without our frequent-flyers
I'd hardly know what to wear.


Saturday, December 25, 2010

Working with the super-sick people, it's easy to lose sight of the breadth of the healing process. Additionally, when working my typical one day on-two off, it's only the one out of twenty patients that sticks around more than two days. Now, as I ponder the dichotomy of my existence, sitting here with a boot on my leg for 8 weeks, the life-cycle of the healing process, unfolds before my eyes.


Healing progresses
In its own good time,
More than a nickel
But less than a dime.

The days go by
Kind of slow and boring,
Like the baseball game
Where nobody’s scoring.

Hit the ball, catch the ball
Beat the runner to the bag,
Like a double dose of Ambien
Or Chloroform on a rag.

But who needs excitement
When bones are on the mend,
It’s like the new Spring garden
With little vegetables to tend.

Watching them grow
If you sat there all day,
Would be slower than snot
Is all I can say.

The mending of bone
Takes much longer than expected,
You can’t really feel it growing
But it must be protected.

In that respect, my foot
And lower leg, as well,
Should I fall over or stumble
It will surely hurt like hell,
So I keep it secure
Like hiding my loot,
What used to be a cast
Has now become das boot.

So I busted some bones
To earn an eight-week sleeper,
But I’d rather do that
Than meet the grim reaper.


Thursday, December 16, 2010

I admit it, I haven't been very productive lately. Part of the reason is that I joined the ranks of the injured, when I walked into an open drain hole in a sidewalk, in the dark. That's right, so lay on the sympathy please. Anyway, that story is being told over at ( which is my altered ego site. Anyway, it could have been worse.


Getting injured
Is a bummer,
But, better to fall in a hole
Than be thumped by a hummer.