23.8.09

If we both cut our hands, the same depth, the same length... whose will hurt more?

There's something that's been troubling me for quite some time now. Since I'm working on a predominantly (and technically) surgical floor, prior to surgery patients will commonly ask how much it will hurt afterward. And fair enough-- it's a legitimate concern when you're about to submit to a complete stranger cutting you open and fiddling with your insides. I usually give a safe and appropriate response which is that there will of course be pain, but that we're usually very good at keeping it under control with appropriate pain medications as ordered by their doctor. What they hear is they'll be drugged and not feel anything. But really what I mean is just that-- under control. Mitigated. Diminished. But not always (usually?) eliminated. There will be pain. How much? I have no clue. I've never experienced it. And even if I had, I still couldn't tell you. I understand why people insist on asking about something so ridiculously subjective and relative, but why do they insist on asking about something so ridiculously subjective and relative?

I don't mean to be insensitive. But removed from the situation of another person in distress or pain, the sensitivity feelings don't come so readily. I'm a reactive person. And there's no stimuli to react to right now. I'm just trying to be upfront about a tricky topic called pain. And pain straight up sucks to begin with: and it's a nightmare when you get all emotional about it.

But back to my troubling. One thing I've pretty much universally observed is that young people are way more intolerant of any shadow of pain than older adults. A 90 year old wisp of an old lady can have the exact same surgery as a prime, sturdy 28 year old man, and yet she'll be smiling and thanking you, and he'll be sobbing and using you as his verbal whipping-boy, hating to his core every fraction of your being simply for being present and a representative of the institution that has traumatized his innards (despite the necessity, and overlooked life-preserving qualities of the procedure). And then of course later on when he's at the max dose of vicodin and a morphine drip he'll still be whimpering, though pretending his earlier abuse never happened.

Now my question about that is this: Do younger people in general just have lower pain thresholds due to higher physical sensitivity (pain receptors presumably encounter some degree of deteriorating with age like the rest of the body), greater general use/abuse of pain killers, or what have you, or are they just more self-consumed and less capable of gratitude towards others or being aware of themselves as being part of something bigger, rather than a whole unto themselves?

Don't get me wrong. Gratitude is not a requisite for me at work as a caregiver. Most of the time I couldn't care less; it makes my job easier on a personal level, but doesn't change all that much in terms of what I do or what I need to say. I have to set more boundaries with ungrateful people-- mainly because they tend to be more abusive and needy to their detriment. But I still need to do the same things regardless of their attitude, because that's my job. I have clearly defined responsibilities and standards of care. (Ugh. When will I stop "being careful" and feeling the need to explain myself when talking about this stuff. WHEN will my readers stop doubting my professionalism!! ;))

But that being said, does anyone else see how ingratitude and being self-consumed, self-pitying, could play into this whole pain relativity thing? It just sets the standards so high, and therefore the pain threshold so low. If that makes any sense. But yeah. Just something I was wondering about in relation to how older adults are so much more capable of handling pain than younger adults. The more I observe it, the more it seems like it's not just a matter of the physical (pain receptors, drug ineffectiveness due to overexposure), but a matter of attitude. And well, older people in general just seemed to have learned that there's more to the world then themselves and their tribulations, and reflect that in their attitude-- not just their attitude towards others, but their attitude when thinking about and perceiving themselves in the context of that greater world.

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17.6.09

Reality check

So I was a sitter at work the other night. When the Old Lady I was keeping an eye on 1-on-1 woke up in the middle in the night and was clearly disoriented, I asked her a couple questions to determine just how much so. Her responses were as follows:

M: Do you know where you are?
OL: Halloween.
M: ... Do you know what year it is?
OL: .... *long pause, trying very hard*... the year 32 hundred...
M: Do you know what month?
OL: Christmas!
M: Can you tell me your name?
OL: Mary.

Her name was not Mary. Straight up 0 for 4. She was cute, though.

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23.2.09

Firsts

Since this is my First post of '09, I think I'll dedicate it to this year's firsts so far:

I spent the first minute of this year (and beyond) supporting a whispy leukemia patient while he puked his frail little guts out. Then after he recovered he looks over at me sidelong and says "well happy new year anyway", completely flat affect.

I took my first formal vacation in a LOOOOONG LOOOONG time. Just nothing to do but spend time with My Favorite, swim in the pool, soak in the jacuzzi, and shudder in the snowy cold on the way to the bar and grill.

I went to Door County for the first time. It was great. See above.

I had my first real in-the-hospital clinical as a nurse (-ing student). And a bunch more since then. And they're awesome. This semester I'm working with new mommas and babies for the first half, and then psychiatric patients for the second.

I went to my first hockey game. And I am SOLD. I never thought of myself as a potential sports fan, but I'm really digging going to Admiral's hockey games. Milwaukee fans are total hams. (rhyming's fun. :)) And Hockey is the manliest sport ever. Our boys really should play hockey.

I gave an infant her first bath for the first time at the hospital during clinicals. It was fantastic-- babies love a good soak. So do I.

I witnessed my first surgery-- a C-section. We got all dressed up in surgical scrubs and booties and caps and masks and everything and were watching just a couple feet away from the gaping whole of gore that was her tummy. It was INTENSE. I'm still in shock and awe from it. And the baby was absolutely perfect...

I touched a placenta for the first time. What an amazing organ. The arteries are as big as my pinky!! No wonder there's so much bleeding...

I performed my first Assessment on an actual patient. A post-op (c-section again) momma. It was smoothly executed, thanks to the litany of prayers I said prior. :) (My second assessment was on her 3-hr-old newborn... dreamy sigh)

I was slapped in the face and shoved against a wall by a patient for the first time (at work, not clinicals). He was very confused and aggressive from all the medication. So I'm not too bitter.

I watched a patient die of lung cancer for the first time. Massive amounts of blood, and blood clots, were coming out of his mouth... I guess an artery burst in his lungs or something... it was pretty horrific. His wife was present. Called STAT team, but it did no good.

Saw someone intubated for the first time. It didn't help. See above.

I took someone to a morgue for the first time. (Also, same man.) It was a long hall that you had to call on a phone to be let into. Once in, there was absolutely no one there. Just a long empty hall with Autopsy rooms lining it. At the end of the hall there was a walk-in cooler, suspiciously like those in restaurants, with another phone where you call someone remote to ID the body, check correspondence of toe tags and bodybag tags and whatnot and be buzzed into the freezer. It was creepier than I would have expected.

I was referred to the ER by a doctor for the first time. I didn't go. I'm no wuss. (And I don't believe in wasting medical resources unnecessarily.)

I worked/schooled my first non-stop (no breaks) 26 hr day... just straight from work to class to a work again. (Sadly they're recurring far too often...)

I washed 5 simultaneous loads of laundry for the first time. No sense wasting time.

I heard Christopher West speak about Theology of the Body for the first time. Theology of the Body blows my mind. And fills me with unspeakably shy joyfulness. Guess I'm not there yet.

For the first time I have a specific doctor I can call "my doctor".

I have awesome health insurance for the first time ever. It's so nice not to have to worry about doctors bills and copays and whatnot. I just make an appointment and go. Plus aurora has all these online profiles of their doctors so I can read up on them on their specialties, look at their pictures, see their mini intro-clip and whatnot. "No, I don't want the UGLY doctor with a lisp! Let's see that other one again..."

For the first time I'm actually doubting whether or not I can pass a class. I mean I know I could if it was all I had to focus on... but in this context... with this much going on.... I'm really not sure if I can do it all at once.

I got my first Littman stethoscope (thanks mom!).

I bought my first pair of Crocs (despite DESPISING Crocs) because it's easier to wash blood and pee and bile and whatnot off of them. It's a purely practical move on my part. And don't worry, I have the "medical version" without the holes. No one's bleeding on my toes.


And yeah. That's about all I can think of right now...

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18.12.08

Earnin' My Keep

This one old man at work really cracked me up. He was in his 90s, a WWII vet, former B17 Bomber instructor, and incredibly disoriented after his surgery. He needed a "sitter" (someone who stays in the room with him 24-7 to prevent him from pulling out his IV, catheter, etc.) so I got to spend a lot of time with him the week he was there.

Despite having a sitter, he also needed wrist restraints, because he was so nimble- and good for him considering his age. This was particularly unfortunate, though, because despite how soft our restraints are (padded wrist bands with straps attached to them), it's always still incredibly frustrating to be restrained, and especially so if you're disoriented.

On my first night there, he had no idea where he was. He would just yell "NINE. ONE. ONE." at the top of his lungs and at 5 second intervals. FOR HOURS. Granted, it got confused. Sometimes it would morph into "STAR. NINE. ONE. ONE." And occasionally you could coax him into talking about his life, so long as it wasn't anything recent. Like talking about B17 Bombers. I found if I said B19 Bombers by accident that would provoke conversation in a hurry. I also got him to tell me what year he was born in, and that changed the chant to "NINE. TEEN. ONE. ONE." Occasionally it would be "STAR. SIX. SEVEN." I asked him who he he wanted to call once, and he said he needed medical assistance and they should send an ambulance. I told him he was at a hospital- the same hospital the ambulance would have taken him to. He turned to glare. Silence. Then, "I meant the police. To arrest YOU, ya damn broad. Keepin' me shackled in here. What'd I ever do to YOU??" 911 chant resumes. All night. That was the most conversation I got out of him. He never stopped his chanting for more than 10 minutes. Later I asked who he was trying to call again, simply cuz I was starting to go insane from the chanting, and he responds, "uhh... EVVVERYONE!!!"

On my second night with him he had been on a hunger strike for 3 days. He thought he was in some sort of prison at first while he was really out of it on the meds, and not eating was his only way of 'fighting back.' But he caved my second night. He asked me for a ham and cheese sandwich. So I went and ordered him one from the kitchen 11 floors beneath us. It took forever to come, which is really sad cuz it was just ham and cheese slapped on some bread, y'know? But anyways, when it got there I heated it up for him because he made a huge point of insisting that nothing he ate or drank could be cold OR hot- it had to be "precisely room temperature." Okey dokey. So I brought it to him, he takes a bite, and then spits it out all over himself and says "you damn broad, some wife YOU'LL make, lady! Ya can't even make a decent sandwhich!!" and refuses to eat anymore. I tried switching up the temp, but it was no good. He'd already decided anything I did was worthless, and that set the tone for the that night.

Aside from "my cooking" another thing he was particularly displeased with were the hand restraints, that he referred to as his "shackles." He would oscillate between cursing me for shackling him, and imploring me to release him. At one point, he softly started calling out to me:

"Hey, lady. Laaaady. Lady?"
"Yes, Philip?"
"Why do you have me shackled like this?? I'm willing to cooperate with you"
"Well, your doctor ordered them because he kept pulling out your IV and catheter tubes--"
"But I'm not!! I never did that! I mean I wouldn't. I'm ready to cooperate with you now. Please, lady! Please let me out! Ya gotta help me!"

So I called his nurse and got permission to "unshackle him" temporarily so he wouldn't panic, as long as I stood immediately next to him ready to restrain him again should he go for his tubes.

So I "unshackle him". There's a moment's pause as he confirms his freedom. Then..

"SHACKLE ME WILL YA?!?? I'll teach YOU a lesson, Lady!! No one holds ME down!!" As he starts punching me in the side as hard as he could.. hahaha... I won't lie, I actually had bruises on my side from a man in his 90s, but damn was it worth it... it was bizarrely humorous, PLUS he got out all his angst.

I restrained him again.

Philip: Why'd you shackle me again?
Me: Uhh... you were just hitting me, Philip!
Philip: Hahha.. yeah. I showed you.
Me: Yes you did.

After that, we got along famously.

The next night the nurse repositioned him in bed at one point. He'd been insisting that his arm was completely numb and he couldn't feel anything in it-- but then he would complain about how icy her damn hands were. Once she left he started moaning, so I asked him what was wrong. He wouldn't answer. Minutes passed. Still moaning. Still wouldn't identify the source of his discomfort. So I asked him where it hurt again.

Philip: Down there. *nods towards groin*
Me: Is it internal, or how you're sitting?
Philip: HOW I'M SITTING!
Me: Do you want me to--
Philip: NO. No, no.. just move me, lady.
Me: Okay, how do you want me to move you?
Philip: Uhh... push on my feet.
Me: ? Err... okay.

As I push on his feet, he tries to raise his hips and free himself, something which I could have done in an instant, but he clearly was uncomfortable with that, so okay. He is wailing in pain. It's not working. And he starts SCREAMING "AHHH!!! MY TESTICLES!!" He gives me permission to "free" him. I do. Then, as he gasps for air, he goes "You're a damn fine broad. A damn fine broad." Nice.

We often asked people who are confused basic questions, like if they know where they are, geared at determining how alert they are.

Me: Do you know where you are, Philip?
Philip: *states full name of medical facility*
Me: That's right.
Philip: But can YOU tell ME this?? Who FOUNDED this hospital? Everyone knows what it's called, but not ONE of you people can tell me who founded it!!
Me: 'Fraid I don't know either.
Philip: *shaking his head in disapproval* No respect...


The next night he's out of restraints and eating when I come in.

Me: Hey, look at you!! You look like you're doing much better!
Philip: *smiling broadly* Yup! They took off my shackles!! (lowering his voice, in confidence) I'm earnin' my keep now!

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"Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole day long? From morn to night my friend."
--Christina Rossetti


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