Just a reminder why Nursing is such an exciting job choice! And really, why hasn't the infamous "somebody" invented something to counteract deadly odors???

A Crazy Fool

I really am a crazy fool
For messing around with bloody stool,
The C.D.C. has firmly stated
Make sure you’re not contaminated,
So the hospital invests some bucks
For gowns and gloves and masks deluxe,
But there’s something missing in that equation
Adequate air filtration,
A state of siege that’s most unlawful
Good golly gosh, that stuff smells awful.

Fibril_late; 3/93

Some place I worked had one of those trash receptacles with a foot pedal that would raise the lid of the device. I guess because of the pressure dynamics, dust and other debris (??!??) would sometimes fly up into your face. After a couple of rounds of that, I learned to avoid placing my trash in it; yet it was quite inspiring nonetheless.

In Your Coffee Cup

The pop-top garbage barrel
Flings the germs on your apparel,
Every time it opens up
The germs jump in your coffee cup,
Delicious as it sounds to be
I’d rather that it wasn’t me,
So I’ll throw my trash upon the rug
And someone else can have a bug.

Fibril_late; 3/93

Oh yummy, this is a tasty one! Warm, sick bodies are a veritable breeding ground and human petri dish for opportunistic organisms. Some of those bugs are clever enough to secrete smelly, oozing goop; might go well with soup.

In Your Soup

The mother of infection
Is pregnant, yes indeed,
She's looking for a medium
To plant a fertile seed,
A warm and damp environment
Preferably, it's dark
Then just a couple yeast cells
And soon you'll see her mark,
At first a coloration
And then an urge to scratch,
It will form a creamy pus
With a taste that's tough to match,
You can try it on a cracker
Or mix it in your soup,
There is really no comparison
To exudative goop.

Fibril_late; 3/93

He's a real "p.i.a." (pain in the arse). We've all heard that somewhere. The following poem is a takeoff on those initials, and gives pause of thought, when considering the choice of your surgeon.

P.I.A. - Physician Index of Acceleration

"Fresh" open heart
A term of generosity,
The freshness is determined
By the surgeons' style/velocity,
If he lingers in the chest too long
The freshness is at risk,
If he uses mehamphetamines
His delivery will be brisk.

So, check the P.I.A.
Of the surgeon that you pick,
Before he cracks your chest
You'll want to know if he is quick.

Fibril_late; 2/93

I know almost zip about the neurological sciences, but there is a test of the oculovestibular reflex known as "cold calorics". Try this only if you are comatose. Have somebody inject 50-100cc of iced water in your ear. Maybe you'll wake up enough to look over at the idiot who just did such an insane thing. Come on now, maybe you were just sleeping. Anyway, I referenced the name when regarding the phenomenon of drinking an icy drink, and there is a vagal response which can cause the heartbeat to slow. Not so bad, unless you've recently had some whopping heart attack; oops!

Cardiac Calorics

If you're looking for adventure
And you'd like to try heroics,
Treat your patient with the heart attack
To cardiac calorics,
It's really very simple
A cup of ice will do,
Have him take a couple drinks
And maybe he'll turn blue.

There's a slowing of the heart rate
An upturn of the eye,
Keep the Atropine at hand
Or the fellow just might die,
If perchance, he comes around
You can justify your decision,
Couched in terms of research
Did the fellow have a vision?

An out of body journey
Did he meet a long lost friend,
Did he get a premonition
About when the world will end,
If he fails to come around
He may have found the treasure,
And your deed will be recorded
As a cost effective measure.

Fibril_late; 2/93

Mr. Jones, once again faced with a life and death decision. He's splitsville!

Jesus And The Hemiparesis

Mr. Jones, your heart's no good
No, it's not beating like it should,
We want to take a look inside
We're wondering why you haven't died,
A simple test, a little sedation
The risk is low for complication,
Now why don't you just sign this paper
So we can start this little caper.

Oh, by the way, I forgot to say
That you might bleed to death today,
Or wake up with a hemiparesis
Or find yourself at the right hand of Jesus,
Wait Mr. Jones, don't run away
You're going to miss the fun today.

Fibril_late; 2/93

Over the years, my "John Doe" was named, Mr. Jones. The poor guy suffered a great deal and here he gets the proverbial, "good news / bad news".

Dead Men Don't Get Sick

Mr. Jones, we've got some good news
Some bad news and it's rotten,
Cheer up, you've won the lotto
But you're a dead man, soon forgotten,
We've examined you from head to toe
And there ain't nuthin' workin',
In fact we're quite amazed
That your old heart's still jerkin',
And so we have, but one request
That you will grant, we're hope'n,
Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit
We'd just like to cut you open,
And reach a hand or two inside
To find what makes you tick,
Don't worry, there's no harm in this
Because dead men don't get sick.

Fibril_late; 2/93

The dreaded presence of the "Head Nurse"; no one is safe.

More Than Skin Deep

I work in the shadow
Of the head honcho's call,
Oh, the weight on my spirit
The burden of it all,
The tap on my shoulder
If I'm caught asleep,
That woman's out to prove
That pain is more than skin deep.

She sneaks down the hallway
Her thoughts are in focus,
She's a voodoo magician
And knows hocus-pocus,
When she sees me I'm bound
By her one evil eye,
God forbid I am sleeping
Because surely, I'll die.

I have dreamed, I have pondered
About some revenge,
I called up the ghosts
Of ancient Stonehenge,
To assist my endeavors
To protect my domain,
They said gamma ray beams
Would curdle her brain,
I've installed motion sensors
To signal her arrival,
Without early warning
I have no hope for survival.

But this time I know
I've beaten the curse,
Never victimized again
By the head honcho nurse.

Fibril_late; 1/93

Revisiting the themes of falling asleep on the night shift and the head-honcho nurse.

Don't Be Caught Nodding

She's the mastermind planner
Of an insidious plot,
When we talk on the phone
My brain starts to rot,
And I'm driven to sleep
Like the Pharaohs worst curse,
It's a case of entrapment
By the head honcho nurse.

Her normally noisy high heels
Move in silence,
As she ponders her favorite
Method of violence,
She has torture devices
Hidden deep in her purse,
I must stay alert
For the head honcho nurse.

Her personal life
Is a long standing mystery,
The list of her conquests
Will be recorded in history,
Her methods of power
Are sublimely diverse,
I must stay awake
For the head honcho nurse.

You may call me obsessed
Or suggest I am manic,
You may think I've succumbed
To hysterical panic,
But pay attention, please note
She comes to work in a hearse,
So don't be caught nodding
By the head honcho nurse.

Fibril_late; 1/92

The last poem of 1992 reads like a "bookend" to the beginning poem, "The Underside of Nursing". Where that poem was somewhat tongue-in-cheek, "The Spirit of Visions" is more about what drives the soul of Nursing.

A Spirit Of Visions

The camaraderie of nurses
That I mentioned once before,
Is like the glue that binds the book seams
And the hinges on a door.

Like the sands of ancient deserts
And the waves of mighty seas,
The gale force winds of a hurricane
And a forest of time tested trees.

It draws from a source of great power
It plays host, to a spirit of visions,
It shoulders the pain of all brotherhood
While bearing the weight of decisions.

There’s a loneliness shared by its members
As the givers and takers of pain,
It rests on the heart with a heaviness
We bleed life, in a bottomless drain.

But the law of abundance sustains us
The cup that we pour, is refilled,
After quenching the thirst of so many
There’s enough left for us, that we’ve spilled.

Fibril_late, 12/92

A fitting end to 1992, with the blockbuster satirical poem;

‘Twas The Night After Christmas

‘Twas the night after Christmas
And all throughout this dive,
Not a nurse was seen stirring
Nor their patents alive,
The Foleys were hung
At the beds, what a chore,
Leaking their contents
All over the floor,
The doctors were nodding
While still on their feet,
Dreaming of nurses
Who might be in heat,
When all of a sudden
There arose such a clatter,
As seventeen nurses
Awakened to chatter,
About marriage and dating
And clothing and pets,
Their favorite jewelry
And credit card debts,
When their chatter abated
One could feel the blue mood,
Until somebody round up
Some old Christmas food,
The left over crusts
Of the half eaten pies,
The souring eggnog
Complete with some flies.

In the course of the feast
And their unified chew,
They were rudely annoyed
By the call of Code Blue,
Come the doctors and nurses
The pharmacy and the like,
Each wanting a chance
To drive in their spike,
Acute pandemonium
Reigned on the scene,
As those nurses all rushed
To lick their plates clean,
But alas and alack
When the dust finally cleared,
They were shocked to behold
What all of them feared,
The dead had arisen
And found their call-lights,
The magic was gone
'Twas just one of those nights.

Fibril_late; 12/92

An ode to Nursing documentation (excessive) and the decimation of trees as a result.

My Wildest Dreams

I envision a future
Where care-plans take flight,
Blanking the sky
Turning day into night,
After sucking the pulp
From a million dead trees,
As paper suppliers
Are brought to their knees.

Documentation
The care plan companion,
Will then cause the closing
Of the landfill, Grand Canyon,
And microfilm storage
Will burst at the seams,
Finally fulfilling
My wildest dreams.

Fibril_late; 11/92

Medical care for the oldsters in mind. Take heed, if you get old, watch out for physicians 40+ years younger than you. And get out the freakin' magnifying glass when you read the list of possible complications!

Some Common Sense

You might think an 83 year old
Would have some common sense,
In terms of trusting eager doctors
Who don't live in present tense,
You know the guys I talk about
The ones that paint by number,
They way they think of surgery
You might as well be lumber.

Masters of misinformation
Making risks appear minor instead,
Failing to mention their magnitude
You can't argue, if you become dead,
Should illness of chronic capacity
Be found in an organ or two,
Your chances of short term survival
May not be an option for you.

So take heed of eager doctors
Who seem so damned assured,
The more illness you present with
The less likely you'll be cured.

Fibril_late; 11/92

"Peanut" is the cat mascot of this blog. She lived a long, enjoyable life of 16 years, having recently passed away in the springtime of 2006. She was rescued as a very young kitten, the runt of the litter, on a farm where humans could care less about "just another cat". She was loved by many during her long life, had the most agreeable disposition and never suffered from medical care. In January of this year she did experience a stroke and although she was taken in for an emergency exam, her owners would not allow her to spend the night, and truly suffer from pointless procedures and tests. Imagine a CAT scan for a cat?!? The next thing I expected was that the Veterninarian was going to suggest thrombolytics and a cerebral angiogram. What the heck?
Post-stroke she recovered some of her faculties, but eventually her hearing and vision failed. Never once did she complain. Peanut was truly an irreplaceable feline. We miss her dearly. She was kind enough to will her fleas to us, and we enjoyed thier company for about 5 more weeks.

Fibril_late; 7/6/06

Old people, old age, overwhelmed with the difficult-to-understand changes in medical care and being expected to believe "what ever the doctor said".

All For The Glory

Little old ladies
And little old men,
Would just rather die
Than be treated again,
With the modernest medicine
That money can buy,
They silently plead, mister
Please let me die.

Little old people
Who don't have a clue,
About some asinine treatment
Their doctor will do,
All for the glory
Of his god-like opinion,
You give up your rights
In the medical dominion.

Just another depressing
Opinion of science,
When we seek immortality
With each new appliance,
All with the promise
That no one will suffer,
In the long run it only
Makes dying, much tougher.

Fibril_late; 10/92

The Halloween special issue finished up with this lovely piece about dating while in a vegetative state. I suppose many of us might claim that has happened to us, but that's a topic for "Loveline".

Acquiring An Odor

He accomplished one thing
On his hospital tour,
He finally lost weight
Though he didn’t find a cure,
To his terminal illness
His vegetative state,
But now that he is thinner
He can finally get a date.

But who would be your lover
When you’re unconscious or in a coma,
Slowly wasting away
Acquiring an aroma,
I know there is an answer
I saw it on TV,
There’s a party line for the brain-dead
Call nine hundred, one, two, three.

A sexy voice is waiting
To warm your chilling flesh,
They haven’t got a clue
If you’re spoiled or you’re fresh,
So cast aside depression
And forget about the pain,
You’ve got a date tonight
As you go swirling, down the drain.

Fibril_late; 10/92

Another Holiday Slacker contribution at The Underside of Nursing.

Tardy & Sick Notes - Poems

Please excuse this little youth
The dentist had to check his tooth,
He's ready now to sit and listen
Now that his pearly whites do glisten.

* * * * * * *

Please excuse Clare
She had her teeth checked,
'Twas time for her yearly
Dental inspect,
The Dentist said bravo
They really look good,
You're obviously brushing
The way that you should,
Now head back to school
You fulfilled your mission,
You're a bona-fide graduate
Of successful dentition.

* * * * * * *

Jon said to his Momma
My throat is very sore,
And no matter what you say Ma
I'm not going out that door,
So you better call my teacher
To make sure that I'm excused,
If I went to school and talked all day
My throat would be abused,
And just think about my classmates
My teachers and my peers,
Dare I threaten them with sickness
And validate their fears,
No I couldn't stoop as low as that
I'd be the guilty fool,
Have mercy on me, Mother
And keep me home from school.

* * * * * * * *

Clare awakened Tuesday morning
And said Dad, I had a dream,
A horrific awful nightmare
That made me cry and scream,
I was living in a castle
And I fell into the moat,
A thousand hungry crocodiles
Had me by the throat,
Blood guts and gore I spilled
Into that sparkling water,
I must survive, I'm on a mission
As my father's oldest daughter,
Well at last I found the shore
And left that crimson pool,
But my throat is awful sore
So today, I'm missing school.

My heart was torn asunder
When I heard that gruesome tale,
It seemed so real, I saw the gouges
And her countenance was pale,
I reveled at her bravery
What a strong heroic lass,
And gave her my approval
It's OK to miss your class.

* * * * * * *

Clare woke up today
At five minutes to eight,
And said, "Oh, my goodness"
I'm going to be late,
Her dad said, "Now honey,
Don't worry and fret",
You've been late before
And they haven't kicked you out yet.

* * * * * * * *

So sorry
We're late
It happened again,
I was busy
While savin'
The women and men,
If they'd
Only behave
And stop all this sickness,
We'd arrive
At this school
With more punctual quickness.

* * * * * * * * *

Our Dad was late
He was out saving lives,
Of the brothers Karamazov
And the Stepford wives,
Well, they all survived
And are feeling great,
But I'm sorry to say
That the kids were late.

* * * * * * * * * *

Jon is sick
His nose doth run,
And he said, "Dad
This ain't no fun",
On top of that
My throat is sore,
Don't leave me now
There's so much more,
My bones do ache
My head is split,
So do you doubt
I feel like it,
Is better that I spend the day
At home in bed and far away,
From all my friends
Colleagues and teachers,
Call Jimmy Swaggart
And his preachers,
To generate
Some mighty power,
This just might be
My darkest hour,
In the darkest day
Of the darkest week,
How my throat is sore
I must cease to speak,
But come on, Dad
Please don't be cruel,
Won't you let me please
Stay home from school?

My heart was wrenched
Within my chest,
I knew he'd tried
His very best,
To send him out
I'd be the fool,
So I said, sure
Stay home from school.

* * * * * * * * *

This child is late
Please accept my apology,
What class did he miss
Was it math or geology,
His mother, she flew
On a plane, early morning,
A short weekend trip
With hardly a warning,
And this student stayed home
To care for young sister,
Yes, he sat on the baby
While waiting for the mister,
To return with the limo
Which today is their bus,
For this exemplary student
There's no reason to fuss,
So that's about it
The story's been told,
Please welcome him back
Into the academic fold.

Fibril_late;
 '87-'88

4th of July, holiday weekend and I'm being sorta lazy. However, I do keep my eyes and ears open for breaking news. This piece which I picked up from the "AP" and was also well covered on CNN Headline News is quite shocking to our vaulted science industry..............

I would never have believed it, but I saw this Yahoo News headline today and my worst fears were realized. As if we didn't already have enough horror stories about drug smuggling. Yup, read it with your own eyes:

Crack found in foam on shuttle fuel tank (AP)

Surely the AP wouldn't lie, would they? No wonder NASA wouldn't let the shuttle fly today!

Fibril_late; 7/3/06

This Nightmare Ain't No Dream

There is a place I go at night
And dream the darkest dreams,
Blood, guts and gore, are frequent sights
And the air is pierced with screams,
Half a lifetime I will spend there
You needn't ask my why,
I've been chosen as an agent
To help the sick to die.

I assure you, it's not easy
To kick the frame today,
There's an awful lot of shit
You have to buy along the way,
Yes folks, it's modern medicine
Dedicated to save your lives,
We've traded in the leeches
For a full array of knives,
So if the part don't work
No problem, we'll replace it,
Your bank account is full?
No matter, we'll erase it.

I suspect you've probably guessed
The place I go each night,
I can't recommend you visit
It's bound to give you a fright,
And the shock might cause your heart
To tremble just a bit,
If our monitors suspect you
The fan will hit the shit,
Oh, flashing lights and loud alarms
The doors will lock behind you,
There's no escape, no place to hide
You know that we will find you,
So please enjoy your visit
I'm sure you'll find, it's just a scream,
At sunrise you'll awake to find
This nightmare ain't no dream.

Fibril_late; 10/92