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