Every time there is a new paper on the restroom bulletin board, and it outlines a "flowchart", well good golly, it must be another "latest hot thing to do". Yup, that's a surefire countryfied guarantee!

Boxes and Arrows


Note the boxes and arrows
Some wide and some narrow
The emphasis, where asterisks lie,
Another awesome directive
For Nurses collective
The Pressure-Sore Flowchart, oh my!

It has every ingredient
To demand we're expedient
It describes what to do, when and how,
Make sure you do it right
If a pressure-sore is in sight,
Or surely, (you-know-who), will have a cow.

It's a Medicare didactic
To use threat as a tactic
To shift the cost of the problem to us,
And thus the panic doth fly
From those leaders up high,
And the workers bear the burden and fuss.

- - - - - - -

While those boxes and arrows
Were so orderly and neat,
The conditions and diseases
Causing sores, can't all be beat;

Thus, we pay through the nose
For the wounds that won't close,
[Medicare bean-counters are happy
They're not paying for those],
Some hospitals will go bankrupt
Then doors will close............

At last the boxes and arrows
And the occasional asterisk,
Will go the way of the dodo bird
And the old floppy disk,
Succumb to the vagaries
Of regulation and defrayal,
Another typical case
Of healthcare betrayal.

Fibril_late
6/4/09

JCAH In the News again.

Where To Go

We have boxes and arrows
And flowcharts galore,
Which is a sure guarantee
It will mean a new chore,
And when two chores a month
Are introduced with regularity,
It becomes quite a challenge
To a Nurses dexterity.

I’m not pointing fingers
Nor assigning any blame,
Although I suspect there’s a connection
With that famous Jayco Game,
It’s a bit like Monopoly
Hooks-and-Ladders, and Chance,
Dress up in your Disco boots
Start the music, let’s dance.

With our arrows and boxes
Pointing sideways and down,
We can tell them where to go
When Joint Commission comes to town.

Fibril_late;
5/28/09

HNNK/DKA - Thats a mouthful, isn't it? For some reason, what used to be HHNK (Hyperglycemic Hyperosmolar Non-Ketotic : Diabetic Ketoacidosis, has been renamed HNNK) ....sounds like Mary Poppins is at work here, huh?

Anyway, at our facility, some BODY has chosen to vote in the HNNK, abbreviation, and it still means the same thing, but the initials don't really work out. Whatever!

To those of us who are shackled with doing fingerstick blood glucose tests every 30 to 60 minutes, I assure you, we recognize it as SOS.

Yes, that means:

Same Old Ship

HNNK
Used to be HHNK,
Don't ask me why
They didn't say,
It still is packaged
With DKA wrapping,
And you read about it first
Where everyone is crapping.

I can hardly wait
For the next revision,
As usual, it won't be
Our decision,
We're just the folks
Who play by the rule,
That's what they taught us
Back in school.

HNNK
It sounds like a ship,
Ready to sail
On its maiden trip,
But ask any sailor
It's the same old boat,
As ready to sink
As it is to float

HNNK
Three pages of orders,
So entirely typical
With these types of disorders,
No doubt derived
By an oversized committee,
And as slaves of the document
We beg you, have pity!

Fibril_late;
5/24/09

This topic has caused another poem!

HNNK Revisited

This HNNK thing
Is a document to admire,
Dr. M, is promoting it
So we'll save it from the fire.

As stubborn as we are
I guess we'll take it for a spin,
That previous HHNK thing?
We'd had it up to the chin!

Mutiny had previously been scheduled
To arrive, June 4th, oh-nine,
HHNK orders, were getting keel-hauled
And afterwards, pickled in brine.

Perhaps our bitching and moaning
Finally passed the deaf ears,
It overstepped many a brain
Misfiring on 10 gears;
Because................
Reversing acidosis
And tweaking the glucose,
Is not a refined science
No, that doesn't even come close,
To describing the ways
The problem has been addressed,
As if every 5 years
It's another new test,
Of our capacity to follow
Convoluted orders and a hot new plan,
When we know good a well
We're back where we began.

This HNNK treatment thing
Is a sight to behold,
By the time we understand it
Most of us will be too old,
To prepare for the next version
Due in seven years,
Retired by then, anyways
We'll reminisce over a few beers.

Fibril_late;
5/27/09

This poem dates back to about 1980, and it's a real classic.

Ode To Gomer

What do you see, Nurses
What do you see?
What are you thinking
When I take a pee?

Did you notice my bladder
Distended and firm?
And that thing in my stool
It looked just like a worm.

Did you observe that my sputum
Was crawling and green,
Can't you see I need treatments
On my breathing machine?

I'm nauseous and nasty
Whoops, up comes my brunch,
Please save it for me
I'll have it for lunch.

That IV solution
Is really poison, you know
And you're trying to kill me
But I won't let go.

I'm calling my lawyer
To represent me,
I'll have you all jailed
And I'll be set free.

Oh my God, my heart's pounding
Like it's hitting my rib,
And I hear a loud voice announce
"Look, it's V-fib"!

Someone's thumping my chest
As ribs crack, one by one,
Why is everyone smiling
Like this is all fun.

Now I'm just an old body
Lying limp on this bed,
The crowd sighs with relief
'Cause this old gomer is dead.

Fibril_late;
1980?

Now, from the not so good ideas department. In this day and age of "names that catch the attention", why would Sister Euphemia allow her Pharmacy to name a new directive, "Pharmacy Profiling"? I immediately thought of "racial profiling". Duh!
So, what in the heck is Pharmacy up to, with their brand of profiling?!? I sure don't know, but I have at least one idea.

Pharmacy Profiling

Pharmacy profiling
Is the latest aberration,
Delivered by a department
Famous for obfuscation,
After numerous MERP alerts
And countless Pharm-a-grams,
They are pulling out the stops
And kicking out the jams.

Pharmacy profiling
Am I on their list?
Are they hunting down perps
Regarding meds that were missed,
Planning pointless punishments
For punks such as me,
Pharmacy profiling
Will be a catastrophe, you'll see.

Pharmacy profiling
I'm worried a bit,
Big Brother is watching
They're profiling my shit,
Luckily, I'm devious
Sneaky and sly,
Profiles be damned
Will be our battle cry!

Fibril_late;
5/15/09

A Poem Inside

When there's a poem inside
And it's sneaking out,
It might make a little squeak
Or exclaim with a shout,
Sometimes with a holler
At other times a whisper,
At times with a crunch
Like lettuce in a crisper.

It's very spontaneous
With a little assistance,
Words chosen at first
Take the path of least resistance,
With quite a few readings
The words sort themselves out,
I'm happy with the result
Or knock it over with a clout.

It might land in a trash-heap
With potato peels and rice,
Or find the desk of a publisher
Who turns out to be nice,
And in most cases the writing
Will find a way to be fun,
Just one page or two
And then it's all done

Fibril_late;
5/12/09

Loose stools.........certainly a problem!

Loose Stools vs. Loose Schools
Part 1

I think I’ve discovered
The answer for the ages,
After studying diligently
Well over 5000 pages,
A query frequently posed
Regarding loose stools,
It originated I’ve discovered
From those days of loose schools.

All sorts of problems
Can be traced to those times,
And I assure you, it's difficult
Making all of these rhymes,
Regarding a topic like this
But I shall prevail,
Loose stools need a solution
There is no room to fail.

Fibril_late;
5/12/09

Dementia: out in left field, scrambled, discontinued, broken neuronal connections in the brain, and currently irreversible.

Into This Moment

Happily demented
You don’t know what you’ve missed,
Live the moment right now
Forget who you kissed,
You don’t know your daughter
Your husband or son,
You live the moment right now
And it all seems like fun.

Happily demented
You won’t realize that you’re lost,
You could shop every day
And never know what it cost,
So just sit on the porch
Reminiscing the past,
Time condensed into this moment
Until death, shall it last.

Fibril_late;
5/12/09

SNF - We pronounce it like the word "sniff". The abbreviation translates to "Skilled Nursing Facility". Sad to say, but long-term care facilities are commonly colonized, along with their patient population, by a vast variety of infectious, communicable cooties.

The C-diff Song

She came from the Sniff
With a case of C-diff
We weren't surprised
By that occurrence, not a bit,
Oh, but that smell, it did offend
Forever, without end
Just imagine 12 hours of that shit;

Any Nurse worth their salt
Would surely, ponder the gestalt
As if some evil apparition, dogged their trail,
Just by walking in the door
At eighteen-hundred, forty-four
They'd be dealt, the shit assignment, without fail;

They realize, it all depends
On humble beginnings and horrid ends
Who's in charge, the night they both will work together,
Because crappy assignments, seem to follow
With smiley platitudes that all ring hollow
It's just another night to bear the cross and leather;

Gown and mask, booties and glove
There's nothing better, when you're in love
Enjoy it, over and over, all night long,
When you get home, and notice the booties
You will feel like you're covered in cooties,
That's the way it goes, when you dance the C-diff song.

Fibril-late;
5/5/09

It has been a quiet stretch. Work has overwhelmed me with writable dilemma's; however, it took a walk through academia to spark my muse.

*Look, I don't make up sentences like the following.........I leave it to my peers - read within the brackets: (I only respond in rhyme)

["In consideration of our current shortage of nurses and consequent heavy workloads, we cannot afford to adopt new practices, unless they are evidence based"]
and furthermore,
["Evidence-based guidelines can serve as a catalyst for knowledge translation to the clinical arena"].

Come-on, what the FUBAR, are these bumps talking about regarding "knowledge translation", huh? Just think a while on it......

Evidenced Based

Evidenced based
HooRah, HooRay,
Do what the experts say
Tomorrow, today,
They are the ones
Who decide what we do,
But I don't really know them
Any better than you.

Quality control
Based on the best,
They said, they did more than
One thousand plus test,
Who am I to question
I'm just the nurse,
If it screws up, what then?
Of course, I bear the curse!

Evidenced based?
They didn't ask me, not ever,
Perhaps, 25 years
Was not enough to say I'm clever,
After all, I'm not a researcher
I don't have the degrees,
I'm just an AA, RN
Gesundheit! Did you sneeze?

Evidenced based?
It carries some meaning,
Although, I am not sure
Just exactly who they're screening,
The Nurse, or the patient
It's not terribly clear,
I guess, I will know
If I'm fired some year.

Fibril_late;
5/4/09

The Joint Commission is on the way. Hide the food and coffee cups. Cross your eye's and microdot your tea. Resistance is futile.

JC Blues

The Joint Commission
Is now in session,
Waiting to hear
Our collective confession,
Of all our mistakes
The foibles and flaws,
With a justified punishment
For every cause.

The Joint Commission
Is a devious delegation,
Recording secret notes
Derived from information,
We so generously shared
In the spirit of humanity,
Historically, their pickiness
Borders on insanity.

These cretins from JCAH
Will be changing their name,
They sought counsel above
With a bigger player in the game,
They’re wearing white collars
And counting sandalwood beads,
Come children, to Joint Confession
We’ll absolve your evil deeds.

Fibril_late;
4/21/09

Oh bother; here comes ye olde Joint Commission, on their rounds again. Hmmmm, wouldn't it be wonderful if they were what their name implies? A commission dealing with joints? You know........weed, marijuana and the like.

A Giant Doobie

The coming Joint Commission
Will look for your omissions,
In other words
If you don’t commit,
The Joint Commission
Will give you shit.

What I’d like to see
From the Joint Commission,
Is a giant doobie
To smoke, while fishin’,
Because that is what
Their name implies,
Some righteous weed
With burgers and fries.

Fibril_late;
4/18/09

Emergency Departments the world over, are dangerous places to be. Heck, if you're in California, you just might want to drive over the hill to Nevada; no sales tax and more.

Just Stay Home

When you’re lodged in the ED
For hours and hours,
And the Doctor won’t order
More than one whiskey-sour,
The thing you must do
Is to claim you see bugs,
They’ll think you’re in DT’s
And they’ll give you some drugs.

For one reason or other
People seem to get worse,
In that dungeon of an E.R.
It’s an unholy curse,
And in this litigious time
Of frivolous law,
You’ll have everything scanned
From your arse to your jaw.

My advice, to Joe Public
If you’re sick, just stay home,
Put on a pot of tea
With a dash of mondo-foam,
You’ll be floating to Nirvana
With all your parts intact,
If you insist on coming to the hospital
Your system may be hacked.

Fibril_late;
4/17/09

Sometimes it's easy to understand why Nurses drop out of their career, and don't look back. One of those reasons, revolves around one's "bad luck" in the assignment of care, for the days work. Frankly, this is a testy subject, because it may seem like your Charge Nurse is a bully, or just plain brain-dead; a person who doesn't give a snot about how heavy an assignment they are dealing you, for your 8 or 12-hour shift.

Or possibly, you are enlightened like myself, and figure, it must be due to some cosmic, astrological, karmic, evil-mojo-spirit-demon, hovering just behind my back, and stabbing me repeatedly, with an ebola saturated cactus spline, into my first chakra. Then it all becomes perfectly clear; kill, or be killed!

Assignment Misalignment

Certainly, there will be times
When you question your assignment,
You will ponder your earthly Karma
And your astrological alignment,
But any actions beyond that
Are but, futile wasted motion,
One round of work, is like a drop of rain
In your entire Nursing ocean.

Like the travails of early explorers
With tests of other-worldly endurance,
Horrendous shifts of reckless mayhem
Have a cyclic frightening occurrence,
You never know when your number is up
Though some attest, they can feel a vibe,
From finely honed, critical thinking skills
And genetic memory of the tribe.

About the time, when you’re thinking
You've had your very worst night,
The Grim Reaper is chuckling
Think again, you’re in for a fright,
Because I have recently cooked up
The worst, frickin' assignment,
After tonight, you'll know misery
And need a karmic realignment.

Your shift will be so horrid
Like a nightmare you're dreaming,
And after only two hours
You'll be silently screaming,
One hour more, you'll be cussing a blue-streak
Four-letter words, by and large,
Promising heaps of bad mojo
Upon the head of the Nurse who's in charge.

You wonder if there was a memo
From your commander (who lacks all refinements),
During 2009, give old BillyBob
The most god-awful, frightening assignments,
Test his mettle, let's see if he's breakable
After all, he's a pain in the neck,
Yet you know, beyond a reasonable doubt
They're expecting you to pick up the check.

Fibril_late;
4/16/09

You don't want to know what drove me to this........................it is too horrid to tell.

The "Slime and Phlegm Triumvirate"

1. Slime and Phlegm

Slime and Phlegm would hang out
At Billy-Bob's on Main,
Mucus-Masters in their own right
Always poised to slime your brain;

You could never accuse those bad boys
Of ever carrying a decent scent,
In fact wherever Slime and Phlegm were found
Their buddy, Mal Odorous also went.

Could any redeeming qualities
Be found, amongst these two?
Well if you can imagine those by-gone days
Before the discovery of Super-Glue,
And the Industrial complications
When two surfaces wouldn't adhere,
Versus the serendipitous clinginess
When Slime and Phlegm were near.

Indeed, those were the incubation days
For the mother of invention,
It all began in High School
Where the rowdy bunch met in Detention,
For flinging phlegm and slimers
At young ladies, in their class,
And the seeds of ingenuity
Were bubbling out their ass.


2. They Were Known

Some thought Slime and Phlegm were twins
But that's not the way it was,
Some proposed they were from the same neighborhood
Exactly why, who knows, or just because,
They both were known to slink around
Dark alleys or outback places,
Dropping in unexpectedly
Upon unsuspecting faces,
They were known to keep company
More with adolescents or kids,
With a general lack of untidiness
What was sliding, would be on the skids.

Slime and Phlegm were best of friends
But at times, they wished for three,
Easily bored, they'd scream at each other
"Oh Bro', you are boring me";

Now both, do look back fondly
Remembering the wonderful day,
They were hanging out at the putrid pits
When Snot came out to play,
You couldn't have picked a happier bunch
This slippery, sticky trio,
Whether in Pelican Bay or Folsom
San Quentin or Camarillo.


3. Nothing Left To Chance

It's really hard to say
If yonder Phlegm is my friend,
Surely, he's a sticky kind of guy
But you never know, how it will end.

Can one posit a preposition?
The superlatives, the pro's and cons,
About the subtraction or the addition
The historical figures in nickel-bronze,
Because there must be some deeper meaning
Some enduring value, in its place,
Perhaps there are some redeeming features
When it's stuck all over your face,
Possibly, it is no coincidence
That in the middle of your face, is your nose.
Shielding you from the wicked winds
And brutal ice and snows.

And once again I've detoured
On the road, that's called my journey,
Kind of like planning to be a Doctor
And ending up as an Attorney,
Parallels can be found
And this is one of them,
I've ended up with Slime
When I started out with Phlegm.

Some will find the topic
Too gross to contemplate,
And admonish me, dear Sir
Don't you know that I just ate,
I will apologize sincerely
But continue with my dance,
When you deal with Slime and Phlegm
There is nothing left to chance.

With retrospective analysis
You could say their point is well made,
Slime and Phlegm are so unique
And so few would dare to trade,
But those of us, who are in the know
Revere them in abject wonder,
Slime and Phlegm, can not be trifled with
Or surely, you will rue your blunder.

Fibril_late;
4/9/09

Even in 2003, Administrative Nursing held no vision for me.

Not For Me

Administration
Is not for me,
Too much
Paperwork, you see.

Fibril_late;
2003

The doorway into the infinite, ya, just another name for room 2988. Sister Euphemia, thinks differently:

Paradise Portal

Two men died
In the course of 8 hours,
They had a destination
Beyond our paltry powers,
To maintain the slightest grip
On the leash that held their souls,
Poised at the edge of eternity
We held the minor player roles.

Both of these final exits
Shared the same departure room,
Notoriously superstitious
A Nurse will claim, a vibe of doom,
A mysterious lurking power
Inhabits room eighty-eight,
They want to call the hospital Shaman
To exorcise, this psychic gate.

Sister Euphemia, holds a different opinion
More positive, in the heavenly light,
We all must depart this earthly plane
And let our souls take their ultimate flight,
This hospital, offers a timeless service
A pathway, for departure immortal,
"We invite you to visit, our V.I.P. suite;
Sister Euphemia's Paradise Portal".

Fibril_late;
4/5/09

A close friend was in the hospital, suffering from too many specialists. Here is her story.

They Were Specialists

Imagine, if you will
Her dilemma, in this dominion,
There were 14 assorted doctors
All with a different opinion,
Supposedly, they were specialists
But she had a rare disease,
They said, "Come on Honey, we know what's best
Sign the paper; let us do what we please.

Surely, you jest, Dr. Dudes
I'd laugh, but first let me cry
Yesterday you told me a different tale
About a transplant, and how soon I might die,
Today you are saying, I just need a valve
And tomorrow, I wonder what's next,
I think I'll go home, while you make up your minds
Don't bother to call, send a text.

Discharge me, they did, in such record time
The Ward-Clerk, was given a plaque,
When I landed at home, dear Sam and Elizabeth
Plucked all of the knives from my back,
Some doctor will call, in the next day or two
To tell me, the latest great plan,
In the meantime I think I'll just knock back a shot
And hideout with my best canine-clan.

Well, that was a story, with bad sound and fury
Oh Shakespeare, a tragedy for sure,
17 specialists can't make up their minds
Though they claim, they just found the right cure,
In the meantime, convalescing in the comfort of home
Her condition, still advances with time,
Reluctant she waits, for Dr. Dude's invitation
To return to the scene of the crime.

Fibril_late;
4/4/09

A couple of weeks ago, Brother Coot, had an aborted MI, with a life-saving stent to his RCA and one jolt of electricity to remind him of the good things in life. Here's the latest follow-up.

Concerns

The old coot has done well
Though I'm not surprised,
Between his colleagues and family
He was certainly well advised,
And the Attorney, that he is
One could easily assume,
He could gather enough information
To fill up a room.

Now these days, your doctor
Just isn't the one to ask,
Their business today
Is like an overfilled flask,
Spilling with patients
Like wine at the brim,
There's no time for answering questions
It's just a diagnosis skim.

Gone are the days
When our doctors sat down,
To truly listen to our concerns
Without a hurried frown,
Rather, we must rely on
The Internet and friends,
To get reliable information
Before our life ends.

Like I said, the old coot
Is doing quite well,
But I'm 2000 miles distant
So, what can I tell?

Fibril_late;
4/4/09

This is gloomy, but I made the mistake of reading the news this morning. Current events, are tomorrow's, horrid history.

Citizen Terrorists

Who needs Al Qaeda
With a gun country like ours,
More citizens are slaughtered
During daylight hours,
By loved-ones and hated ones
Family friends and foe,
Real terrorists, in our homes
People that we know.

We don't require religionists
Whacked out, with interpretations,
On suicide missions
In our gun toting nation,
No, we have home-grown angry folks
With automatic guns,
Shooting women and children
Fathers and sons.

The threat of death and mayhem
Is an industry we foster,
No matter, how good your background check
There's a nutcase on the roster,
Probably sitting on a comfy couch
Festering with personal frustration,
Dreaming of bullets and bloodshed
To assassinate, the aggravation.

With a chip on your shoulder
Or the wrong glance your way,
You go home for a weapon
Just to make it my day,
Without preemptive warning
Or psychiatric clues,
Ten thousand citizen terrorists
Who need to pay their dues.

Fibril_late;
4/3/09

Another trip to the Dentist..........Heck, I see my Dentist way more often than my Primary Care doctor. It's almost like were family. She always offers me choices, when it come to pain relief, and this time was no different, but how could I know she would offer me Betty?

Lip-Lock With Betty

As I was relaxing upon yonder bench
Eagerly awaiting, the arrival of that wench,
Who would soon be probing instruments, of exactitude and pain
Aiming for the pleasure center, deep within my brain,
She asked me - (with her sexy voice)
Dear sir, you can make a choice,
A cocktail shot, of sedatives and drugs
Or a lip-lock with Betty, and a couple of hugs,
Before I excavate and prod and poke
Some people like pain, and that's no joke,
So let me know, your pleasure, sire
Because the iron's hot and in the fire.

Well, I had secretly admired, dear Betty
That's for sure,
And a lip-lock with her, would surely, be the cure,
To any suffering, I might endure today,
Bring it on, my Dental Hygienist.........
I'm ready to play.

While Betty was plastered all over my lips
That Dental Hygienist, was sharpening her tips,
Preparing a target, from X-rays last week
She had an eidetic memory, and didn't need a peek,
At any old records, for this mouth of mine
She was just waiting her chance,
To scrape, buff and shine.

As usual, at the end of this pleasant recreation
The in-house Master Dentist, came to make her observation,
View the scene of the crime; the battle at the front
Go for the end-run, or settle for the punt,
The message that she offered, would be my walking papers
More emphasis on flossing, and fewer sweet-tooth capers.

Fibril_late;
3/29/09

It's kind of fun finding old writings. First, it brings back old memories. Second, it allows me to see, if my writing ability has changed much in 20 years. In this case; clearly not. In fact, I can see, I was a bit of a word-elitist, even way back then.

What I'm presenting here, are 5 poems, which I'll call, "Tri-City Stuff". That was in 1987-88, when I worked one year, at Tri-City Hospital, in Vista, California. I think there may be other writings from that year, but these are just some poems I discovered today, in box 92. This was a time, when "The Underside of Nursing" had yet to be created; these were mere seeds of psyche, fermenting in a warm dark place.

Let's have a go at it, OK?

1987 - 1988:

A Life of Leisure

Cathy, I regret
To inform you on this day,
That I'm leaving this establishment
And traveling on my way.

I assure, in all honesty
'Twas nothing said or done,
A valuable experience
Indeed, I thought it fun.

As nurses, none compare
To this crew, you deftly hired,
Believe me, when I tell you
I was professionally inspired,
So much, I stay awake now
While the night turns into day,
With such stimulating colleagues
I could choose no better way.

Which sums it up, I guess
The memories that I'll treasure,
Now, I'm heading for the mountains
To lead a life of leisure.

Fibril_late; 6/88


The Runner-Band Revolution

The rubber-bands were flying
Like bees about the hive,
It was war in CCU again
Will replacements, soon arrive?
The Chief is working overtime
A master of defense,
This war is getting on her nerves
She’s soon to take offense.

It’s been a long and hoary battle
With participants, too many,
To count the sundry causes
Of this infraction; are there any?
Who knows, who do we ask
Who do we hire, for this task?
Let’s find some folks, down in the city
To come together, in a committee,
To ask some questions and find some answers
Hire a task-force, of dirty-dancers,
Come on folks, let’s get professional
Have a seat in my confessional,
Pass a rumor, go for broke,
There’s a few of us
Who just can’t joke.

What the Hell
It’s been a lot of fun,
For a few of us
But, not everyone.

And........after all is said and done,
I’m glad we gave it
One good run.

Fibril_late; 1988


I’m Sure I’m Not Dead

Too cold, for the living
Just right for the dead,
Now I’m chilled to the core
I just want a warm bed.

Move over, people
And give me some covers,
I’m freezing, you heard me
It don’t mean we’re lovers.

How about some coffee
Or warm soup and bread,
I may look catatonic
But I’m sure I’m not dead.

Too late...........life is flashing
Like a sleigh, across the Arctic,
My boat just came in
And I finally parked-it.

Fibril_late; 1987


A Testing Ground

Can you believe this water-situation
Once again,
It makes me squirm to think about
The germs upon this pen,
Let alone, the creepy crawly things
That habitate this room,
You know, I think this water thing
Is a plot, to bring our doom.

For months, I have suspected
That the night shift is the place,
A testing ground for maniacs
That run the human race,
They think we will not notice
Because our eyes are almost closed,
And by the morning, what’s the difference?
......I don’t know, I must have dozed!

Fibril-late; 3/88


Queen of the Monitor


At night, there sits upon this floor
A wondrous person that guards the door,
And protects us all from dire doom
Yes, peace doth reign, when she’s in the room.

On the mighty scale, of worthless jobs
She’s at the top of all the slobs,
And a credit to members of her sex
She’s Queen of all the monitor techs.

So, roll out the carpet
She’s out in the hall,
Bow down to the queen
Or her axe will fall,
And she’ll torture you till
The morning sun rises,
Then you will understand
How her stories, have won prizes.

Fibril_late;
4/1988

Even when crisis strikes as close to home as a sibling, (perhaps, more inspiring), a poem leaps forth.

The Jury Is Still Out

I'm a little concerned
About the old coot,
His RCA occlusion
Nearly gave him the boot,
But that isn't all
He's not out of the woods,
He has a tight LAD
Compromising the goods.

An acute MI
After a great game of squash,
The jury is still out
Who won? 'Twas a wash,
For the gentleman in question
On court forty-two,
'Tis not the time to argue
Because it could have been you.

Despite the unexpected nature
Of the outcome or the score,
Our favorite plucky protagonist
Welcomes conflict, bring on more,
He's an honest, fiery competitor
Renowned at the D-A-C,
Watch-out; he's already making claims
"Convalescence, ain't for me".

His family, walks on gilded splinters
Nervous-Nellie's, in their right,
Poppa, had a heart-attack
A life-threatening, kind of fright,
And though he looks good on the surface
Who knows, what lies beneath,
They would rather, chuck the Squash games
To avoid,"Will and Last Bequeath".

It takes a while for the novelty
To wear, in this situation,
But it's an everyday occurrence
In the American heart-attack nation,
The Cardiology science
Is so advanced, to save your life,
But there's not a big enough Valium
To calm the kids and wife.

Fibril_late;
3/15/09

(* D-A-C; A Health Club)

About every 5 years I add another notch in the belt of Care-Plan contempt. With nurses thumping their chest about "evidenced-based" therapies and such, I have yet to see any evidence of the inquisitive eyeball, taking a close look at this ridiculous construct that we know as a "care-plan". And now that I've gotten it back on the cutting board, I feel better ranting about it.

Charged With Contempt

For 26 years I've held firm
Staunch with my solid beliefs,
That a number of nursing-care actions
Were created by big-headed chiefs.

I've scribed miles of ink in futility
Writing care-plans of meaningless platitudes,
Created by nose-lifting academics
Entrenched with their superior attitudes,
They tried to create a special language
To set us apart from the medical,
Too bad that they missed the whole point
Convoluted communication; (paranthetical).

I've known long and forever my radical views
Are considered seditious or more,
But who gives a crap about plan notes and such
Another tedious, tiresome chore,
And frankly, I have cause to worry
If summoned to read a care-plan in court,
To attempt to describe, with the crazy language of our tribe
They might charge me with contempt or selling short.

Fibril_late;
3/2/09

Here is an idea, that I thought would lead to a story about Bertha, but instead became another hue and cry, regarding the weighty issues of the day.

Buxom and Girth

Oh Bertha, with the buxom bosom
Had sepsis, pneumonia and shock,
To keep her alive, we infused 30 liters
Adding four-stone, yea, ad-hoc.

Each turn in the bed for her skin care
‘Twould take the muscles of 3 mighty nurses,
Pausing to share a reflection
And sort out their favorite curses.

With a gnashing of teeth and straining of spine
The three groaned in triplicate unity,
Knowing quite well if they busted their backs
The hospital would deny with impunity,
Claiming, we have the equipment
To help move dear Bertha around,
Instead we were rash, we hurried and gnashed
Now they’ll bury us deep in the ground.

Suffice to say, we nurses are tougher
From the keel-haul, we had this past decade,
Throw anything at us, and we will just cuss
We don’t succumb, to the brute or the blade,
Better to back Nurses, than Wall Street
Unlike a mortgaged account, we add worth,
Protect the nurses, the backbone of the workforce
In this arena of buxom and girth.

Fibril_late;
3/1/09

Regarding ageing and the tendency for body parts to stretch and sag, as the years roll by.


Eternal Life

Getting old
Is surely hell,
The teeth will rot
And the body smell,
What once was upright
Sags down below,
Where it will stop
Can anyone know?

Now Billy-Bob
In room seventeen,
Can't remember the last time
His privates were seen,
They are buried below
His pendulous gut,
Whereas, there is no mystery
Regarding his butt.

Considering, Berthalinka
In room two eighty-nine,
They say, "When she was young
Oh, she was so fine",
But eighty years later
Her bosom has expanded,
Close-up? You'll be thinking
The Martian's have landed.

Now, open your mind
And rap on this thought,
During youth, we're caught up
In some appearance, we've sought,
But later with ageing
There is a sagging and swaying,
No matter, your discipline
Your flesh is betraying,
Overwhelming your efforts
To camouflage time,
After 70, your body
Will sag in its prime.

Some youth, will be thinking
Eternal life is for me,
Not realizing the possibility
In two-thousand and forty-three,
Where the answer, for immortality
Will be in a Cracker-Jack box,
Declaring, "You must first live
Seven decades on the clocks."

Sure, you can live forever
Amidst the sagging and swaying,
Some will ponder the universe
While others will be praying,
For the answers to live
With each pendulous part,
Eternal life, reconsidered
Buffet, or a' la carte.

Fibril_late;
2/21/09

Vegetative state; locked-in syndrome, etc. There are many names, and fewer mansions. Six years like that, from age 62 to 68. A wonderful husband, brother and daughter. Tube feeding via a passage in the stomach wall. She looked at peace and she was enormously loved, but she didn't move voluntarily. Allowing her to die, should her heart or breathing cease, would be the best for her, because any resuscitative measures, would very likely cause her pain and suffering, and unforgivable emotional anguish to her loved-ones. And merely designating her a "No-code", would in no way, hamper the love and compassion that had supported her all this time.



Vegetative Valentine
 
An alternate universe
By any other name,
A vegetative state
They are one and the same.
 
Locked-in syndrome
Trapped within the mind,
No outward sensibility
Eyes open; are they blind?
 
It is easy to be fooled
That there is an occupied awareness,
And so simple to nurture hope
For the family, in all fairness,
As they gasp when there is movement
Of a toe or a hand,
They will argue, “See there’s proof
You just don’t understand,
But we know that Momma
For sure, will get better”;
They all share the delusion
Down to the letter.
 
We don’t try to discourage
And we offer every amenity,
Your Momma’s not in pain
She’s the picture of serenity,
And with Momma taken care of
There are issues to address,
Let’s talk about you
You’re an emotional mess.  

We’ll call in a chaplain
A shaman or a priest,
A rabbi, or a Wiccan
And we'll bow to the east,
To help you come to terms
With your guilt and your need,
But quite frankly, folks
Why let Momma bleed?

We're compassionate beings
We suffer with your pain,
And a locked-in syndrome
Is a prison in her brain,
If she should cardiac-arrest
Her survival might be worse,
Then your loving support
Will be an emotional curse.

A vegetative state
For six years is quite long,
When she said, she wanted everything
It probably wasn't this song,
Playing day in and day out
At 45 RPM,
There's a disconnect somewhere
With the rest of her brainstem.

Why not embrace
A "No-Code" designation,
It doesn't mean "give-up"
It's just another radio station,
Giving Momma more songs to sing
In her silent, smiling way,
You'll still love her, till that moment
If not more, every single day.

Fibril_late;
2/15/09

Nursing provides so many opportunities for mirth and laughter.........otherwise, we wouldn't survive.

The Rear Approach

She wasn’t given Lactulose
She hadn’t taken immodium,
So what the cause was, I don’t know
When she farted at the podium.

She was talking to her ancestors
Who were apparently next to the bed,
Her farting gas was so toxic
They were thankful, that they were dead.

Mr. Ed and I, were changing her sheets
And I was positioned, at the rear,
Leaning forward, to place the fresh linen
She blasted one, right in my ear,
Luckily, she was only shooting blanks
My ears rang, but nothing was squirted,
I survived without an Incident Report
An industrial accident averted.

If you’re a new nurse and fresh out of school
Please take my words, as a warning,
Cautiously approach the rear of your patient
To avoid any premature mourning.

Fibril_late;
2/3/09

Who hasn't heard about "Tree-man" of Indonesia? He's the fellow from somewhere who has fungal growths that look similar to tree roots, or maybe, the worse possible alien form of toenail fungus on the planet Arcturas!
Well now, even in our fair village, we have our own local Treeman too.

TREEMAN


You may have heard about "Tree-man"
Of Indonesian lore,
His fungal growths so crazy
He can't get out the door,
A scientist from Britain
Has taken pity on the man,
And promised that poor fellow
He'll do whatever he can.

The other night at work
Imagine my surprise,
I saw something in the hallway
I could hardly believe my eyes,
A tree-man kind of fellow
Being admitted to our floor,
His skin was like the bark of Oak
But baby, there was more;
His legs like massive stumps, they were
His hands like wooden platters,
His arms were gnarled, knotted limbs
What else? It hardly matters.

And like the famous weeping willow
He had weeping wounds, galore,
Now he’s the odds-on favorite
To never leave our floor.



Fibril_late;
2/1/09

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!

Fibril_late;
1/31/09

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!

Fibril_late;
1/21/09

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.

Fibril_late;
1/15/09

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.

Fibril_late;
1/15/09

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

Another Blanket

Spaced-out
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".

Fibril_late;
1/12/09

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.

Fibril_late;
1/2/09

For this Christmas season, I already prepared a "review" of some old holiday themes and presented them to my mates. But that in itself, inspired me to revisit the Christmas spirit of old fashioned tunes we know so well. Take the truly beautiful song of, "Silent Night"; I admire the writing, and the format that allows me to twist it for my own selfish needs................yes, a chronicle of a haunted, Christmas night!

And for your pleasure, I advise you to sing it with the suggested melody:

Silent Night
(Sung to the tune of "Silent Night")

Silent night
Lowly night,
All of my patients
Are drugged up right,
Round about midnight
I doze in my chair,
When airborne E. coli
Drifts into my hair,
Lo, I don't know it
But it's really Grossssssss...............
I'm a fomite on this Christmas night!

Silent night
Foley night,
There's a leak in that catheter
And the linen ain't white,
I looked under the covers
It was yellow and wet,
Curses on the day-nurse
Now he's in my debt,
I'll surely repay him
For a transgression like thissssss.............
I'm rankled on this Christmas night!

Silent night
Goalie night,
If you know about hockey
You'd recognize the sight,
We were body-slammed sideways
By the night Supervisor,
She thinks of Admissions
Like common divisors,
There weren't enough Nurses
To save enough lives...........
We were slammed on this fine Christmas night!

Silent night
Guacamole night,
We brought in some snacks
And did it up right,
Then Moses, from Pharmacy
Coughed on the dip,
We all got diarrhea
On this sinking ship,
It's a night we'll remember
Too long, I am sure.............
We were cleaned out on this Christmas night!

Fibril_late;
12/21/08

At last, some new poems. Sometimes I get topic ideas but just a few juicy lines. Then later, with the assistance of some fermented grapes, the details reveal themselves.

Marketing Fat

"Anti-Obesity Drug Pulled From European Markets"
That's what I read in the news today,
It seems to me, more success might be found
If our grocery markets, would hide the food away.

Rarely is it natural for a person to become obese
Thus, it's usually a condition of habit,
But in today's society of sweet and fatty foods
With the right advertising, we all want to grab it,
And with the onset of sedentary lifestyles
With computers, video games and TV,
The demand for a pill to melt away the fat
Is an attractive concept, believe you me.

These days, it seems to be starting
As young as infancy, soon after the bottle,
Parents, just stupid, at the grocery store
Don't understand, when to damper the throttle,
When it comes to Little-junior's demands
To consume calories each hour of the day,
At five years old, and 65 kilos
I can assure you, his health will soon pay.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

8th grade children
Larger than my wife,
Enough adipose tissue
To carve with a knife.

Not on the basketball
Or volleyball team,
Ten years from now
A gastric-bypass ream.

Those surgery specialists
Are raking in the bucks,
Screw the stock-market
This is a cash machine deluxe,
Because the obesity epidemic
Is just beginning to roll,
With outrageous statistics
Like the holiday bowl,
Because those hundred thousand couch potato's
Are future paying clients,
Thank God, America
For Bariatric science!

Fibril_late;
12/21/08
__________________

Lactulose Advice

Don't get too close
After giving your patient Lactulose,
Approach cautiously
And, I must mention
Beware of bowel distention,
If at all possible
Pad the bed,
Avoid their nether regions
Rather, pose by their head,
And if cleaning is necessary
It won't be the end,
But it's a heckuva lot easier
If you invite your best friend.

Fibril_late;
12/21/08

No medical conundrum has struck my fancy lately, and thus, no related poem. To fill space, here is my take on the leaves of my neighborhood.

Leaf vs. Lawn

While walking around
My neighborhood,
I get a feeling
For what's bad and what's good,
By looking at lawns
Garages and such,
I make assumptions
About those
Who seem to care too much;
Preening their lawns
Like a thoroughbred horse,
With a legion of gardeners
At a private golf-course,
Preparing for a tourney
Of high-stakes croquet,
While in reality
It's just my neighbor
Setting up Santa's sleigh.

He decorated the trees
The bushes and the flowers,
What's up with that, I wonder
With leisure time, for hours,
I wonder if he's working
Retired or laid-off,
Then I see a puff of smoke
And listen to him cough,
Thereby, furthering my suspicions
He has lung-disease and more,
I silently admonish him
And pity him, the chore.

With a little more attention
I compare the state of leaves,
Some lawns like mine, are full of them
And others beset by thieves,
Intent on dispatching all evidence
Via obsessive-compulsive removal,
As I relax before my blanket of leaves
I silently wave my approval.

Driving along my home avenue
I play my game, "Leaf vs. Lawn",
To the average reality-show junkie
It would barely register a yawn.

Fibril_late;
12/7/08

The Drawbacks

One of the drawbacks
Of being the man in nursing,
There are a few scenario's
Nursing school ain't rehearsing;

For example, last night
There was an elder, female, asian,
Though it looked like a peach assignment
I overlooked the equation,
Where men exit the room
In times of elimination,
They won't talk to the man
On this kind of occasion.

Every one to two hours
I entered her room,
Querying pain or discomfort
Anticipating no sense of doom,
But, with no relative for translation
She kept saying, "Ok",
Linen change at oh-five-thirty
Suddenly, hell was to pay.

This woman was lying
In a pool of liquid stool,
I was shaking my head
Like a newborn-nursing fool,
Trying to gently admonish
A lady, without my lingo,
At the same time, self-cursing
"I'm just a stupid gringo!".

But then, I understood
This is a crossroad of cultures,
As if twigs, leaves and tomatoes
Are thrown in a mulcher,
The output is messy
But fertile, there's no doubt,
She was as quiet as a mouse
While I was expecting a shout.

It all worked out in spades
I'm happy to say,
One poop for me, at the end of the shift
What more, can I say?!?

Fibril_late;
11/24/08

This is uber-ridiculous, yet funny. Actually, ridiculous doesn't begin to describe it; after all, how many times can I revisit the same old theme of Kaexalate?

K-Axle-8

I've written poems in the past
About the elevated K,
If the serum sample measures high
You have to make it go away,
And the Doctor commonly orders
An elixir; it's disgusting,
A-k-a: Kaexalate
Guaranteed for bowel busting.

But what if this was truck repair
Eighteen-wheeler, to be specific,
The differential diagnosis
Could really be terrific,
In terms of the location
The drive-shaft and its mate,
The nurse envisions a flexi-seal
And the mechanic, K-Axle-8.

So, you have to be real careful
When communicating with Patient-Bob,
He looks duller than a doornail
And he's dressed like a greasy slob,
But he has an uber-grasp of mechanics
Fluid dynamics and electrical lore,
When you tell him he needs an enema
Why, he thinks he's going to score.

Little does he know, this night
Will pass with loads of gas,
From bed to toilet, and then again
To empty out his ass,
If you can find a correlation
Between mechanics, and the way of medicine,
Instead of cussing you out, at four-a.m.
He'll be singing the praises of Edison.

Fibril_late;
11/17/08

Some things get old really fast.

Continuity

Continuity of care, is fine
When all is well and good,
But when his bowels are loose
Hardly anybody should,
Be subject to caring
For more than a day at a time,
Although an incontinent patient
Has provided many a rhyme.

Fibril_late;
11/17/08

I've mentioned it before, how I recognize it is my role to report not only what is going on in the nursing realm, but to tell the stories of those persons who present into our health-care setting.

To Write

I'm not a prophet or a messenger
I'm just a fellow, who can make a phrase,
I come to work near the end of the night
And then, I welcome in the days,
To write about these others
To tell the story as I see it,
They may never get the chance
As their agent, I can free it,
I won't divulge their sacred oneness
When I meld it with my words,
Yet I'll cast a thousand seeds of wisdom
To be consumed by many birds.

Fibril_late;
11/17/08
_ - _ - _ - _ - _ -

Recordings

Very few nurses
Read the lines that I pen,
The trials and errors
Experienced over and again,
Yet I still feel the urge
To put it in writing,
Like a night-time mosquito
Intent on its biting.

I have written for years
But very few listened,
It really doesn't matter
Regarding the verses I've christened,
These are recordings
That needed to be done,
And I surely didn't know
That I was the one,
While writing for years
In papers and in journals,
Never suspecting my topic
Might be of bedpans and urinals.

Fibril_late;
11/17/08

You have to be careful these days, when looking for a hot date!

Pseudomonas versus Pseudo-Mamas

If you're cruising the crowd
At the Autorama,
Looking for a pseudo-mama,
She might be offering a special bonus,
Candy-flavoured pseudomonas.

Fibril_late;
11/18/08

Do you like variety? Some do, while others like familiarity. Neither is better than the other.

New Patient

If you might ask a pool of nurses
Who work multiple days in a row,
Would they prefer a different choice each night
Or stick with the patients that they know,
Over the years I have asked that question
And the answers are all over the board,
Some like to see a new sunset every day
While others, like to work with what they stored,
Only yesterday, when caring for Mr. X and Y
And now today, they already own some of the facts,
It's akin to following a known path in the forest
Where you already recognize some of the tracks,
But should you query an ER Nurse
The answer is opposite and clearly understood,
That every new patient admitted on this night
Will be moving out in a few hours, as they should.

Fibril_late;
11/16/08

Some may think that I am lax, where I wait to give the bath till 4 am. First off, that leaning-over-pulling-stooping stuff that I have to do, to accomplish the bath, usually tweaks my back. Thus, I wait till the late hours of the shift. That leaves me free to help everyone else. So be it.

If All Looks Well

It's a double edged sword
When working with some nurses;

Even I may be a subject
Of somebody's curses,
Because, I guess it's well known
I don't care about the bath,
I look at every patient
And intuit their path,
In the great scheme of all things
I determine if it's needed,
With vital signs, irritation or rest
If they're alive, I've succeeded,
And after 10 hours
If all looks well, we're good to go,
It's time for my speed-bath
Because I want you to know,
That I recognize that fresh warm water
When placed against the flesh,
Has a remarkable, soothing effect
To erase memories, and refresh.

Fibril_late;
11/10/08

At Sister Euphemia's place, the proverbial wrench was thrown in (not the towel, mind you), regarding all the particulars about getting this humongous EMR system up and running by 12/2/08. Somewhere in the long chain of those-who-know, a decision was made to wait till next year. Which means, "just around the next corner after Jan/1/09". Mine is not to wonder why, but to make it rhyme with just one try. I think I've gotten to the crux of the matter: Resistance to Change. Hmmmmm, that sounds familiar...

Outstanding Duress

Why does Care-Connect pose
Such outstanding duress?
I think it's worth reviewing
Because an incredible mess,
A conundrum of calamities
Is looming in the future,
Where a pat on the back and cookies
Or a 24-carat gold suture,
Won't be adequate to patch
Our confused and aging staff,
Surely Generation X & Y
Will share a hearty laugh.

Why is change so difficult?
We confront it every day,
Never knowing for certain
How a disease dilemma will play,
In yonder victims body
After a week of rampant infection,
Change, is delta squared unknown
And we love to predict its direction.

But an aspect of our jobs
Is guaranteed regular and static,
It's the paperwork we're accustomed to
After decades, it's automatic,
We know exactly what to chart and where
The closet and shelf where they're kept,
This electronic medical record
Blatantly exposes why some feel inept.

I predict a silent rebellion
Perhaps later, an ear-rending scream,
Will be issuing forth from the multitudes
Who thought this nightmare, was surely a dream,
Then the PTO, Sick-calls and other
Will be ringing the phone off the desk,
Forty-five Nurses resigning
And swapping their jobs for burlesque.

I seriously doubt, that this disaster was foreseen
Assumptions were made, regarding the nurses,
Figuring heck, we're such resilient troubleshooters
We'll just knuckle down, muttering our favorite curses,
But, here in the waning, august years of our life
Who wants to deal, with the mother-of-pain,
Why not run with the pension and the 403(b)
And let them hire some new-grads to train.

Fibril_late;
11/10/08

Leigh, the travel nurse extraordinaire, will forever be immortalized by this touching limerick:

Eau du Leigh

There once was a nurse known as Leigh,
Who worked so damn hard, all could see,
The sparks flew as she sped
From each CCU bed,
So remarkably nimble, was she.

Fibril_late (& Ms. V)
11/9/08

Every once in a while, I have to write something so silly and nonsensical, particularly after I've been penning a bunch of true-life-stories. Enough of reality already!

Lisinopril

I’ll take most any medicine
But I won’t ever, take one pill,
To me it’s a moral issue
Regarding Lisinopril.

About the name, it sets me off
It rankles my nerves and gives a chill,
The first two syllables set the tone
Lie, sin, o-pril.

How could I possibly consider
To absorb within, this Lie,
Follow up with a course of Sin
Oh pril, I’d rather die.

I’d rather let my blood pressure
Run it’s course,
Be trampled by elephants
Or kicked by a horse,
Lay on a bed made of
Porcupine quill,
Before I’d ever consume
Lie, sin, o-pril!

Fibril-late;
11/03/08

In Nursing, when you go to work somewhere new, sooner or later you will be expected to be "Relief Charge Nurse" for your particular day/night of work. It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. Usually the established format is that you will receive some sort of "orientation", most likely with one of the other "experienced" charge-nurse persons. Once in a while, an error occurs in the "usual plan" and you might be thrust into the "first night as Charge-Nurse" quite unexpectedly.

In my case, everyone I worked with that fateful night, just refused to believe that I was not supposed to be assigned to Charge, yet. So I figured, "what the hey", they might have a different opinion when the dust settles. Naturally, 3 quiet hours passed and then all hell broke loose. The survivors will talk of this night for years to come.............

Charge


That was interesting
To say the least,
I entered as a lamb
And departed as a beast.

Once again
I was saved by my peers,
With them by my side
I didn't age years,
And surely, any other nurse
Would have been reduced to shrieking,
Gone catatonic
Never again speaking,
But with the help of my comrades
I limped through a disaster,
With their mighty efforts
The night passed much faster.

It was a classic example
Of a courtesy appointment,
And the word on the street is.......
I've had my anointment.

Fibril_late;
10/30/08

Don't take offense when I humor religion, ok? Let me shoulder the entire karmic debt. If you get angry, that isn't my fault.

Now let's just consider for a moment: Doesn't Jehovah deserve to have a week off now and then, to recharge his batteries (or whatever it is that he runs on)? Well, I think so. The big boss in the sky, has a heck of a lot on his plate, and deserves every little bit of peace and quiet that he can sneak in. So, I authorize at least a week off. Just call it a "prior-auth".

Jehovah On Vacation


Jesus is so frickin ' busy
Doing good works, far away,
And of course, he has the power of creation
At his fingertips, they generally say,
But surely this man of the robe
Needs to rest, like that Saturday in the cave,
He may be the ultimate healer
But frankly, he isn't our slave.

And I know for a fact he was here just last week
Saving Popeye, after a bad fight with Bluto,
Olive-Oil was there at his bedside
With her seeing-eye dog, he's named Pluto,
Mr. Whimpy came around with his hamburgers
Flirting with the Nurses; (that Casanova),
And who should he bump into in the hallway
None other, than our good Lord, Jehovah!
He'd dropped in, to have a parlay with Popeye
Bringing a case of special spinach from his garden,
He'd responded to some prayers within our chapel
Figuring someone was in need of a pardon,
And the housekeeper overheard (as he dusted)
That Jehovah planned vacation next week,
So if you should die in the next 7 days
You'll take off from this planet in a streak.

No lingering around on a respirator
No response to a shock to your heart,
When Jesus is off on vacation
It's pretty damn easy to depart,
Slicker than a whistle, slippery as an eel
Faster than you say whoops-a-daisy,
And if you're thinking, that Jesus is watching
"Good Lord", he'd exclaim, "you are crazy"!

Fibril_late;
10/30/08

If you would look at previous posts around October 7, 8 & 9, I was writing about death and families, and Aunt Mary. There was some religion thrown in also, and this piece is just a little bit of unfinished business, inspired by that previous happening.

The Crux of Departure

CPR times 90 minutes
A heartbeat, but desperately slow,
In reality, it was the end of her life
And it was time for Aunt Mary to go,
And I'm telling you, Jesus was there that day
Hell, you could hear the dude coming,
He responded to a summons by his Angels
Off-key, with their death-march humming.

As she peered down that long empty tunnel
His light illuminating, all she could see,
She had long heard his voice in a whisper
"Aunt Mary, come along with me",
But the family at bedside thought otherwise
Claiming, "We have a contract, to grieve"
Halting the process of her departure
Like a magician with tricks up his sleeve.

Yes, the crux of departure, most often
Is prolonged by a family in distress,
The patient in question is dying
While the kin are an emotional mess,
Some want to revel in each torturous breath
As if bystander suffering should be scored,
While the long endured agony of the victim
Is conveniently denied and ignored.

"God will save her", they say, "It is written"
To have faith in the Lord, our belief,
They previously disallowed any medicines
And now they are reveling in grief,
Harboring the idea that Aunt Mary is alive
As proof of her stalwart independence,
Proclaiming each blink of an eyelid
Is proof that the Lord, is in attendance.

After 30 long years of experience
I have opinions derived from observations,
I've seen hundreds of people pass on
From so many different congregations,
And those people who experience the most difficulty
Accepting the end days of life,
Are the most basic of Fundamental Christians
Who take the bible as their mistress and wife.

Fibril_late;
10/30/08

It's happening to a lot of us Nurse baby-boomers; we're providing care to a lot of 50 year-olds with horrendous health problems (and counting our blessings). And then in one short week, I provide care for a couple of really-looking-healthy guys younger than me, and I realize once again, that life is just a crap-shoot. We don't have a clue what is lurking around the next curve in the road!

Rattlebrained

A glioblastoma and a dermoid cyst
I'm telling you, brother
I would rather have missed,
These cerebral events
Inside of my head,
It's anybody's guess
How soon I'll be dead.

He was fifty-one
And the other fifty-two,
No other health problems
And I'm telling you,
As an older senior nurse
I was measuring my well-being,
Against these two guys
I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Twenty-five years ago
When I left nursing school,
I was just about thirty
And no longer a fool,
And I think that's about average
From later observations,
Rattlebrained for 3 decades
In many derivations.

The next twenty years
Are to establish your brand,
By fifty you'll be good
And carefully planned,
So that the next half of life
Will unfold, as you thought,
After all you invested
You can see what you bought.

While I'm looking at these guys
I'm thinking, "Holy crap!",
They look healthier than me
And I realize the trap,
That all of us fall into
Sooner or later,
If you haven't met Fate
Watch out; you might date her.

Fibril_late;
10/21/08

A life is saved, the victim "comes around" and..............voila', you discover they are a classic p.i.a.
Being in the hospital, is just Part "A" of their daily drama performance. One moment they're on the phone, bragging about how they almost died (with a dramatic sob thrown in), the next moment, they're complaining that a favorite TV show isn't on, "here in this place I got moved to, and can't ya page somebody to fixit". And then there is that central line the Surgeon placed an hour ago, when the systolic blood pressure was 47/22, and this Drama Maven, will probably dislodge it in the midst of some hissy-fit!

Sometimes a 12-hour shift can seem like 3 frickin' days.

Harp and Moan

I've talked about this type before
How caring for them, is such a chore,
Drama mavens, in their own right
Their passion play is out of sight.

How they harp and moan
With a waxing whimper,
Bring attention to their cause
With a preen and simper,
Boast or cry
Whatever suits them best,
It's your compassionate attention
They like to test.

At the limit of your tolerance
They will claim offense,
Accusing you of insult
With a phony pretense,
They might demand to see your boss
Or spit at you and curse,
And like a self-fulfilling prophecy
You hate to be their nurse.


Fibril_late;
10/17/08
________________________
Big Problems

The bigger they are
The wimpier they seem,
When they’re 5’2’’
And wide of beam,
Wailing and fussing
Way out of proportion,
Maximizing complaints
Beyond all distortion.

The tiniest problems
Will initiate a grumble,
Magnanimous moaners
They hardly are humble,
Boiling over with an outburst
Of evil dispensation,
Accusing their nurse
Of prejudicial intonation.

They want a Supervisor
To reprimand that horrid nurse,
Claiming insults were flung
And her caregiver cursed,
They’ll say, “My nurse had no compassion
And I’ll write it in a letter,
I know the CEO…………….
I guarantee, that he’ll get her”.

Oh, the biggest of problems
Have little to do with sickness,
With personality disorders
They manifest with a quickness,
Irritating as hell
Some people vex and annoy,
Virtual walking inflictions
Always ready to deploy.

Fibril_late;10/17/08

Being sleepy has nothing to do with getting old. Just ask a veteran worker of the night-shift. This morning, after working a 12 hour easy shift, I could barely stay awake to drive my sort-of-short 15 mile trip home. OK, it is tough to deal with the customary morning freeway slowdown and the blazing sun at eye level, but come on, why can't I stay awake?

Let's do the instrument checklist:
Radio blasting, window rolled down, moon-roof open, slap my face briskly, scream, bite my finger.........no, that's not working..............what I really need is a 100th second mind drift, didn't notice the abrupt slowdown, brake-slamming-almost-rear-ended the guy in front of me, holy-crap!!! moment, to blast 17 micrograms of adrenaline, mainlined into my sinus-node, precipitating a burst of atrial tachycardia and HOOYAH, I'm AWAKE!
A half a minute later, I'm drowsy again. Go figure!

Can't Stay Awake

It's amazing how sleepy I am
Like I've been snacking on drug-enhanced Spam,
At some point in its creation
There was chloral hydrate migration,
And voila', I'm the stuporous man.

I'm astounded that I can't stay awake
Even during a California earthquake,
Heck, I noticed when I'm driving
It seems that sleep is arriving,
Perhaps being on the road is a mistake.

Yet when I get home, I awaken
It might be the smell of the bacon,
And when I finally lie down
I'm an insomniac clown,
I need a potion for sleep, I'm not fakin'!

No one believes me, I'm sure,
Otherwise, I might find a cure,
There is a lot here, at stake
To prove my drowsy is no fake,
And my reputation is truthful and pure.

I called upon an expert of sleep
But then I fired him, that dude was a creep,
He charged by the hour
To some exponential power,
He dug a hole in my bank account, deep.

Now I'm panhandling, at the corner of Ambien and 3rd
Can you spare me a dollar, I wonder if you heard,
My old friends run the gap
Because I look like crap,
And I'm snoring before I chance to hear a word.

Fibril_late;
10/14/08

I shudder to consider the ramifications of this; in fact, if I had not been there as a witness, thus being one of several witnesses, I would doubt the veracity of the story.

Picture this:

A busy hospital in a busy city. Beds are at a premium; patients are stacking up in the ED, like planes at O'Hare in Chicago, in the midst of a "Nor'wester" blizzard. The call from "Admitting" comes in at 0500, regarding patient in critical-care bed #A, that they may transfer to Floor bed #D. The patient in bed #A is a female, isolated for MRSA. The available bed #D, is in a room with a male patient and he is colonized / isolated for a strain of klebsiella.

Lordy be! What in the tarnation is goin' on?!? (This is where we collectively said, "Duh, why can't they see what is wrong with this picture?") The most shocking thing is this: This is Sister Euphemia's place!

Luckily, the nurse for Ms. MRSA, put her feet down, chomped the bit, blew a gasket, raised hell, and said, NO!
So the transfer fell out of favor........

Naturally to me, the whole thing had a humorous side to it:

Euphemia's Clinic

We're totally integrated
No longer segregated,
Men and women united
And finally cohabitated,
Where even infections
From different families,
Can bed to bed comingle
Like pear and apple trees.

Fibril_late;
10/9/08

Regarding the songs of death.

Singing Harmony

You were right
But I wasn't wrong,
We two, were humming harmony
In the death-prediction song.

The lyrics of this song
Are expressed in many ways,
Sometimes shreiked like a bloody banshee
Or whispered a fortnights day.

Hundreds of different cultures
With rituals and such,
Many convoluted expressions
I don't understand very much,
That's why I like to hide in the corner
Mumbling and humming a tune,
Praying the shreiking and wailing
From that family will end pretty soon.

Fibril_late;
10/9/08

Being present at the time of many deaths, one acquires a sense of the impending moment of departure..............

Death is Coming

The qualified, competent, experienced Nurse
Knows when death is approaching the bend,
We can feel the subtle vibrations
We sense where the cord will end.

It comes after thousands of hours
With practice, then mastery of skill,
Hanging around in the shadows
Close to the edge of Boot Hill.

Gleaned from years of observation
Clues of impending death,
Delicate variations
Of the heart beat and the breath;
Changes of demeanor
At times, a peaceful calm,
After weeks of fretful anxiety
Now a measurement of balm.

Rarely, are we caught off guard
It takes significant subterfuge and guile,
Though occasionally the suicide player
Goes out with a bang and a smile,
Otherwise we are the experts
Judgment Day deliverers of care,
Worry not, patrons of pathos
Upon departure, a Nurse will be there.

Fibril_late;
10/9/08

I was inspired to some degree by one of those end-of-life for "Aunt Mary" dilemma's, that cross our threshold frequently.

If only John Q. Public would get a clue: Look, when you're over 50, you have the "big-three" of CAD, Diabetes and HTN, and you're in piss-poor every-day health, and then you drop over dead, CPR x 1 hour, portends no more than a 1% likely-hood of survival. And even then, that's probably a very generous outlook. But, during that aggressive hour of resuscitation (and just why?!? did it last that long?) you do receive a boatload of powerful chemicals that just might.........initiate some last-ditch electrical activity in your heart. Well, it's tough for a physician to stand around and wait for the heart to stop (again). So, put Aunt Mary on a respirator and treat her as though she has more than a snowballs chance in Hell to survive. Believe me, even the all-powerful Sister Euphemia can't intercede at this point.

The only hope is that JESUS, will intercede, and raise the dead.

Frankly, I feel kind of sorry for that dude. There he was, hanging around in the ER, with his arms outspread to hug and welcome Aunt Mary, into his heavenly fold. And then, damn, there is that freakin' strong epinephrine stuff coursing in her nearly dead veins, and there is nothin' he can do about it! This is a moral dilemma for Jesus. He and Aunt Mary had this pact, that if she were to ever have a cardiac arrest, he would be there at a moments notice, to usher her to the other side. Now, it's as though she is being held back by some puny little humans, and it is outside of his job description to kill her, to be able to keep her, so to speak!?!

Now he is definitely between a pillar of salt and the dead sea. We caregivers are just following directions. We and the doctors have that Hippocratic Oath to "do no harm". So, we forge ahead and follow the family wishes (no matter how bizarre), because Aunt Mary, no longer can speak for herself. By this time, Jesus has split, and just maybe, he has told one of his groupies to hang around the hospital room, and keep him posted with daily updates. However, once Jesus takes off for other more pressing demands, that is when the Grim Reaper starts hanging around. Who knows what his intentions are?

And that's how I got here:

The Work of Jesus

I'm ever more astonished
At the work, Jesus is expected to do,
Forecasting that he will heal
When really, death is due.

Take this patient in the corner
As example number one,
Her heart, her lungs and kidneys
Were very nearly done,
When a cardiac arrest
Knocked her to the floor,
Giving her tired soul a chance
To slip right out the door.

She had CPR
For well beyond an hour,
Where the medical team performed
Everything within their power,
But they finally reached consensus
That there was nothing more to do,
When lo and behold, her heartbeat
Went from straight-line to forty-two.

Now she’s grazing in our unit
Life-supported to the nines,
Seven vasopressors
And thirteen central lines,
An ET tube, an NG sump
And the Foley-Temp-Deluxe,
And while it seems we're doing everything
She's a DNR, oh shucks.

We finally get to Jesus
His role in this whole caper,
The family expects a miracle
According to the paper,
Written by some disciple
Two centuries post-resurrection,
How Jesus will raise the dead again
Like some cosmic lottery selection.

There are just too many people
Who need that Lazarus link,
Jesus can't heal every one
So do not even think,
That your sweet old Aunt Jemima
Is on the Jesus list today,
She tried to depart a week ago
Till epinephrine, made her stay.

The truth regarding dear old auntie
Is that she'll never get restarted,
Her body is here, and her brain is dead
While her soul has already departed,
The resident of this ICU bed
Could be likened to an empty shell,
Auntie is firmly ensconced in heaven
While her body remains here in Hell.











Fibril_late;
10/7/08

The level of professionalism is daunting where I work, and how I suffer through it, I do not know.
And now enjoy Part - 2, "Tear Drop Tissues".


Professional

She's a professional practice
Committee nurse,
She keeps all the bylaws
In her purse,
When it's time to practice
She's the go-to lady,
She knows what's right
And what is shady.

Don't even try to pull
The wool upon her eyes,
Others have attempted
Perhaps you heard their plaintive cries,
Because the PPC nurse
Surely, never wavers,
Sticking to the rules
Is the sum-total of her flavors.

She's a pillar of our community
The lightbulb of our lamp,
Like that famous Disney movie
She's the lady and I'm the tramp,
I get a biscuit now and then
If I properly fetch and heel,
Of course, she's happier than snot
If I also bow and kneel.

Fibril_late;
10/5/08
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Tear-Drop Tissues

When I grow up
I want to be,
A Confessional Practice
Nurse, you see;
Everyone will tell me
About their "issues",
And I'll make a buck
Selling tear-drop tissues.

As Nursing is predominantly
A female career,
(Men, don't be insulted -
Remember, I'm a peer),
And I'm covering the topic
Of the female outlook,
It reads like the typical
Romance book;
You know, "she said, blah"
And, "she, responded",
And before you knew
The two had bonded,
Taking down Mary
With a tattletale rumor,
Giggling whispers
Like schoolyard humor.

That's where the Confessional
Practice Nurse,
Pulls the teardrop tissues
From her purse,
Because, Mary the wronged
Is seeking restitution,
She's jumping up and down
Regarding workplace persecution,
And if she's not heard
She'll take the quitters route,
Find a lawyer and file
A whistle-blower suit.

As the Confessional Practice
Purveyor of truth,
It's my responsibility
To rectify the uncouth,
Behaviors and insults
And the backyard rumors,
Pluck those suckers out
Like a malignant tumor,
Then I'll offer a penance
To the goddess of nursing,
To reverse the ill effects
Of 14 females cursing,
Each other, for the petty
Day to day imperfections,
As the Confessional Practice Nurse
I'll define new directions,
For all persons and peons
Who populate this plane,
And if you don't like that
You can hop the next train.

Fibril_late;
10/6/08

I'm in that altered reality called, "worked all night, and still awake". As a result my story is all over the board, but seems to hit some high points regarding cancer, old age, Sister Euphemia, bookies and good surgeons.

Neoplasm Necromancer What could I say about a person Who seemed like a breeding ground for cancer, Was it a case of living too long Or was she a neoplasm necromancer? First, she had cancer of the colon And then there was cancer of the breast, Followed by cancer of the stomach The intestine and all of the rest. For some people, it's seen as a wake-up call And for others, you could call it endurance, But she's 78 and two surgeries later I'm wondering, the name of her insurance. At Sister Euphemia's repair shop No customers are ever turned away, Age is not a factor for dismissal You can get an overhaul and a pretty bouquet, And we'll talk about payments tomorrow If we don't operate right now, you'll be dead, In terms of mortality and morbidity It's 1000-to-1 odds, on your head. The bookies on Broadway are happy After losing their shirts on the Kings, They've been scrambling to cover their losses By wagering on Beijing's gold rings, Now whether or not that was lucrative Is hardly a fact in this story, It's just an aside, that they'll bet on who died If you live, Ms. Euphemia, gets the glory. You can't argue with her spirit And you can't knock her goodness Euphemia, has a racquet for healing, In this sleepy old town Where the Guvnor gets a frown, Health-care is the game that she's dealing, Her dice might be loaded And the cards surely marked The bookies complain, "there are rumors", But the odds seems so favorable For no chance of survival For someone, who is chock full of tumors. The jury is still out Though the surgeons did their work After seven long hours on the table, How the client survives Like a cat with nine lives Just increases the strength of the fable, The bookies were busted They shouldn't have trusted A game that was set by Euphemia, Their dreams to get rich Are now in a ditch, Instead they just left with ischemia. This neoplasm necromancer novelty While a success story, is a medical mystery, And Sister Euphemia knowingly smiles It builds her legend and enhances her history. Fibril_late; 9/30/08

When you're 83 and have a handful of nasty diseases, you really need to watch your step......literally!

Too Risky

You're too sick, it's too risky
We can't operate,
Can you imagine those words
And ponder that fate?
He broke his femur May first
And now, it's September,
He walked so long ago
He can barely remember.

Heart disease and hypertension
Diabetes and CVA,
Add a pinch of lung disease
And baby, you can't play,
In the league of operative candidates
You struck out, long ago,
But now your aortic aneurism
Is threatening to blow.

Dr. V, a vascular surgeon
Is a brave and serious dude,
He describes a very risky plan
Saying, without this, you are screwed,
Something about an endograft
He can place without an incision,
Who am I to argue?
With his death defying decision.

Now, since we'll have you on the table
We'll invite our Dr. Crip,
He used to be a gangster
Before he specialized in hip,
He'll revitalize your femur
With a carbon fiber head,
And a couple weeks from now, sir
You'll be leaping out of bed

With comorbidities like mine
I couldn't take this lightly,
I had prayed to fourteen deities
And made sacrifices nightly,
But the shadow of the reaper
Had been looming ever near,
As a veteran of the second war
I have familiarity with fear,
And the antidote for that, my friend
Springs from hope and faith in living,
Gratitude for every moment
And the capacity for forgiving.

Oh what the heck, I'll take the shot
Though it seems a risky proposal,
Without the surgery, I think
I'd be ready for disposal;
So when Dr. V, comes around again
I'll look him in the eye,
Saying, "Nothing is accomplished, sir
If you never-ever try".

Fibril_late;
9/28/08

I get pretty excited when someone posts a comment:

Trickle

I'm surprised, lo, I'm honored
When a reader responds,
I feel like Jesus on the donkey
With folks waving palm fronds,
Returning to his home town
One week before the end,
Or was it just a mistake?
They meant delete and not send.

Who knows, but I like it
Because the blog-world is huge,
Letters and replies trickle
They do not deluge,
But if one reader stops
And nudges a friend,
I'll keep writing and blogging
Till my very end.

Fibril_late;
9/28/08

It happens over and over; old age, a big MI in a beat up heart, confusion and one last trip down memory lane.

Leaping Larry

Leapin' lizards, said Larry
I feel like I'm in jail,
They've got me in handcuffs
And tied to a rail,
I can't reach my water
And I can't take a pee,
Won't somebody out there
Take pity on me?

Leaping Larry, in his lemon leotard
Slipped through the rails,
It was a move he had perfected
Escaping from jails,
During his peppery life
On the lam, on the run,
Leaping Larry robbed banks
But he never used a gun.

It was a hell of a dodge
For a man in his condition,
And for a fellow in a posey-vest
'Twas a Houdini rendition,
Yet, when all was said and done
He didn't really fall,
His legs just couldn't hold him
Like toothpicks, they were small.

Leaping Larry's condition?
He had a big, damaged heart,
He even had chest pain
Each time he would fart,
He was panting and wheezing
Just laying in bed,
But who would predict
That tonight, he'd be dead.

Leaping Larry's situation
Was really, quite common,
We discussed him at lunch
Over two cups of ramen,
Bemoaning our situation
About this crazy old man,
It's tough to be caregivers
When confusion is the plan.

Leaping Larry in his lemon leotard
Was confused to the last,
Like a retired fisherman
Who had made his last cast.
And with his body so weakened
He just sat there on the floor,
One look at his sorry countenance
At once, we knew the score;
That this was one Larry
Who would leap, nevermore.

Fibril_late;
9/24/08

Unnamed sources..............

Sister Euphemia

Unnamed sources
Close to the fount,
Lay a mighty hefty price tag
A multi-million amount,
On that shiny new cadillac
Of our CareConnect system,
Donald Trump is our advisor
I'm sorry I missed'em.

But it wasn't just a million
My sources would claim,
Sister Euphemia
Is a very rich dame,
And she's splurged on a computer
With a bundle of tools,
We'll either look really smart
Or like a community of fools.

Fibril_late;
9/22/08

Having just finished my two weeks of "super-user" computer training for the brand-spanking-new, computer charting and electronic medical record, I can foresee that there are going to be some major glitches come December 2nd, the day the system goes "live".

Right now let it be known, that I want to collect some hazard-pay for that week.

There's going to be a pile of people who didn't get enough training, or perhaps they avoided it altogether, like I avoided public-speaking in 9th grade. Come time for the final exam............meltdown!

Computer Slowdown

I took a week, off of work
For computers,
Late night keystrokes
And frequent rebooters,
Crashing the hard-drive
Every three out of four,
When I asked for some overtime
I was kicked out the door.

I entered strings of nonsense
And logged-on in code,
They said, do it this way
And stay on our road,
But I crashed all the guardrails
Like Mr. Toad's wild ride,
Good thing it was a computer
Or I surely would have died.

When the instructors slowed down
So the class could advance,
I fell asleep counting the threads
In my seersucker pants,
Until the collective complaints
Of the students in that room,
Cleaned my mind of it's cobwebs
Like the sweep of a broom.

Well, I have to admit
That I learned some new stuff,
And I understand that the Luddites
Will have it pretty rough,
When, ye olde computer system
Comes to life, December 2,
If you can't point, click and dropdown
More pity on you.

Fibril_late;
9/21/08