So memorable are the times, where Mr. Patient, uses the call-bell at least every 15 minutes, for the littlest thing, even though each time before I leave his room (again!), I ask him, "Is there anything else I can do for you?". No, he says, and "thank you so much". Just minutes later, after disrobing the isolation garb, scrubbing my hands with hand cleanser, and I'm trying to sit down for a teensy bit of charting,
ding-a-ling, I hear his call bell again, he wants his pillows adjusted. I redress, enter the room, and there is his brain-dead brother at the bedside, asking me to fluff the pillow. Two pods from the same pea, I guess.


Polite

How polite you claim to be
But polite, you're really not,
You're on your call light every minute
For a drink, a wipe, and a shot,
You told me how your parents
They raised you properly,
But for a guy who's 62 years old
There's no evidence to see.

You say that you're so thankful
For every bit of our care,
But you claim you're too damned weak
To even part your hair,
You can't even hold the urinal
So you pee into the bed,
But you can find the call bell 50 times
And cry, "I'm almost dead".

I just left your room 2 minutes ago
And before I left, I queried,
If you needed any pillows, food, or
Medications carried,
No, you thanked me from the bottom of your heart
While I shed my isolation gown,
Then you nailed that call-bell 15 times
Before I made it back to town.

Your sibling came to visit
He treated you like the royal brother,
He even used the call-bell
For a pillow, a blanket and another,
"Cup of ice, please, can't you bring it
When you come back to the room",
Then he nailed me with a nasty attitude
When I failed to bring a broom.

I should thank your blessed parents
That you were raised the proper way,
Because, after visiting your room those 50 times.......
It really made my day!

Fibril_late;
9/27/09