Do You Want To Be A Nurse - Christ Hospital: Fill & Download for Free

“Please remove the suspenders, now place your arms straight out, feet on the footprints on the mat”, said the guard with the metal detector paddle.I asked, "Can we do one hand at a time?" Since I was obviously holding onto my pants to keep them up, I thought this would be a reasonable accommodation. I was in the line with a bunch of families heading out to Florida.“Sir, please place your arms straight out, feet on the footprints on the mat,” repeated the guard with the metal detector paddle.That's when I said, “You gotta be kidding me!"Now he was feeling challenged, "SIR! PLEASE, place your arms straight out, feet on the footprints on the mat!”So, I did. My loose cargo shorts hit the floor around my bare feet, and the first thing the mom in the family behind me did was scream, “Jesus Fucking Christ!" I thought this was weird since they all had religious T- shirts on.In fairness, I'm about 280, 5′ 7” tall, in my 60s and I'm missing my left testicle. You younger guys won't know this but the longer you live the lower your scrotum seems to hang. There was a pendulum effect going on, and I might have been helping that along a bit. I'm not a pervert so there wasn't any unseemly turgidity, but for some reason Guard-boy got flustered. I just stood there while he was getting a lot of screaming mother’s advice about what they thought of his search technique.I was just standing there waiting for further orders. It was getting pretty freaking creepy. As I'm looking around, watching the scene around me turning pretty chaotic, the only thing that popped into my mind was, “I wonder if I'm going to be safe sitting with these people for the next three hours?”About that time some sort of anti-terrorist mall-cop-SWAT-team comes running up. I'm still standing there, arms out, feet on the footprints, single testicle swaying gently to and fro. One of the new guys grabs my arms and pulls them up behind my back, sort of painful. They are loudly questioning the young Guard-boy, who still hasn't found the ability to speak, and now somebody is seriously searching my hidden areas while loudly demanding to know, “Where is it?”Now is a good time to let you in on a well-kept secret. Short, fat older men in a very tense, and possibly dangerous situation, could easily have a heart attack. I didn't, but when I dropped to the floor holding my chest and scrunching my face up while gasping out demands for somebody to give me my pills, it made the situation much more relaxing for me. I simply relaxed everything in fact. I was mumbling in phony incoherence asking for my mom and babbling a bit. At least I was lying down and the other passengers weren't screaming at me anymore. Nobody was assaulting me either.That's when they started asking questions of Guard-boy. He started out seeming to be a bit confused so I started coming back around, waking up if you will. First thing I did was ask Guard-Boy where he had taken my pants. That's when he said he just told me to put my hands up and when I did I pulled my pants down. I laughed, put my hands straight out from my side, I was lying down, remember, and I looked at each of my hands and asked, “How?"Guard-Boy now looked like the bad guy at this point. Somebody handed me my shorts, which I plopped on my privates. Oh, not very private anymore. They tried to help me up but I actually yelled a bit and said my shoulders really hurt. One of them really did jack my arms way up behind my back. I figured that shouldn't be forgotten. So I just laid there while they questioned me. One lady did roll up a jacket for me to use as a pillow.That's when I told them exactly what I told you guys. They looked at Guard-boy, and he shrugged and nodded while staring at his toes. About this time I saw some EMTs coming over with a gurney. The lady who put her jacket under my head asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital.I thought about it for a second with my eyes closed. A second is actually a pretty long time in some situations. When I opened my eyes I said, ”I probably missed my flight home already, I think my wife would want me to go get checked out”. Then I added, "I'm sure my lawyer would.”So, while the EMTs cranked me onto the gurney and rolled me out of the way so they could reopen that line, the TSA lady got me all my belongings. Well, not my bags, they were already headed toward Orlando. While the EMTs were checking my vitals and getting my history, medications, allergies, current health issues, I noticed all those SWAT-ish guys talking to a couple of guys in suits and another guy in a much fancier uniform. I also noticed that Guard-boy was standing about 15′ away from them, still fascinated by his shoes.The suits and fancy uniform guy came over and asked me a couple of questions. I told them before they got started, though, that this was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me. I went through the issues they left me with. I was now physically feeling sick, I was heading to a hospital in a strange city and I had less than $50 in cash, a T-shirt that is now dirty, crumpled cargo shorts, suspenders, Vibram Fivefingers shoes, my driver's license and debit card, my key ring with three keys (house, car, luggage), and a cell phone. The news said to carry the bare minimum onto the plane. I believed them.I explained that my luggage was gone, my plane had left, my ticket was probably not going to be honored, and frankly, I was sort of scared about coming back to this airport anyway. I told them the one guy really hurt my shoulders when he pulled my arms down from right where Guard-boy made me put them, and refused to give me permission to drop them to pull my pants back up. That guy who grabbed them really did pull my arms way farther than he needed to for an old guy who had done nothing wrong. Then I told them, loudly, “Public Strip Searches are not making us safer.”The EMTs were great. They got me into the ER and helped get me some decent help from a nurse who got the whole story. I got a basic workup, asked for and got a couple of Alprazolam pills, I had my current med list on my phone along with all my doctors and diagnoses. I had a prescription for them because I have some trouble with anxiety. They decided I hadn't had a heart attack but probably had had an anxiety attack. My shoulders were hurt, possible that one side was dislocated. They also knew I didn't have a place to stay so the nurse had me admitted for observation. I got a late dinner, a great breakfast, all my meds, an MRI, and got released with pain meds and a couple of anxiety pills to go home with.My wife had talked with the airline, a lot. She had also called the airport management and talked to one of the suits who talked to me. She had transferred some money to my debit card and I had a flight out at 4:00 pm. She said the suit guy was going to meet me when I called him, and buy me lunch at the airport. I took a cab to the airport from the hospital. I was wearing a brace for both shoulders. I was not in a good mood but I wasn't feeling all that bad.I called the guy like my wife told me to. He was waiting for me in a golf cart. He had a new golf shirt for me, in my size, which probably required a big and tall store. He took me to a really nice restaurant in the airport and bought me a great meal. He was pushing booze too but I don't drink. After lunch he brought me to my airline and talked to somebody who got me into the VIP lounge. That was great.Then he brought out a paper that turned out to be a waiver of some sort. I started to read but honestly, I just couldn't do it. I explained that I had been taking the anti-anxiety pills and pain killers the hospital gave me and I couldn't even read it right now. He looked downtrodden at that point. I realized he had failed in his assignment. I explained that I was only going to ask for what would make me whole. TSA isn't his fault but I did have some expenses and I wasn't sure how much my evening in the out-of-network hospital was going to cost.I promised him that my one request would come directly to him. If they went for it, that would be the end of it. Otherwise it was just going to be whatever the lawyers could get. Six weeks later I got a check for about $1300 that I had asked for (the hospital was in my network), and I signed the release. I got a nice letter from suit guy and a few nice chain restaurant gift cards in the envelope and I have a cool story for it. The $1300 covered the money I was out, nothing more. My right shoulder was very sore for a couple of months but it's fine now.I haven't taken a commercial flight since. Probably won't ever again. Nothing against the airline. They upgraded me to first class for the ride home. I'm retired now though and I just don't need the hassle. If I can't drive I don't go.

I wrote this several years ago in my Quora blog: The Cuckoo's NestThere are several gross encounters in it.It was a normal day on the unit. It was late evening and things were wrapping up for the day when Justin came up yelling."Bianca! Aren't you going to do anything about it? You're just going to let this motherfucker sit here in the hallway drinking piss?"I'd been working behind the nurses station and glanced down both ends of the hallway. Nothing amiss. I looked back at Justin."Who?"He pointed right in front of the nurses station.Our nurses stations were purposefully tall. It was supposed to make it harder for the patients to "jump the counter" and attack us. Since I couldn't look over to see who he was pointing at I had to walk back through the back nurses station, out through the side door, and out into the hallway. And there, laying like a drunk in an alley, was Kermit, propped up against the nurses station. He was holding a Mountain Dew bottle so I immediately assumed that Justin had mistook the yellow fluid in the bottle for urine."Kermit, sitting in the hallways is not allowed. Stand up."He did."Now. Give me the bottle. You aren't allowed to carry beverages on the unit after snack time."Instead he pulled the bottle behind him."Kermit, I'm going to need you to give me the bottle. As I said before, patients are not to have beverages on the unit after snack time."He stood his ground, looking at my hand."Kermit, if you don't give me the bottle then I'm going to have to call campus police and they will make you give me the bottle."Again, he stood there with the bottle behind his back. He knew I'd call the police. We didn't just threaten to do that there. He'd seen the police on that unit a hundred times before and knew what to expect.I walked back into the nurses station and called the campus police, requesting their help. By the time I went back out there several patients had gathered around."Everybody clear the dayroom," I said sternly. They all started to their rooms or the dining room, very slowly may I add. None of them ever wanted to miss out on any commotion.They'd all been through this before. Every day someone chose to stand their ground and belligerently defend some minor thing that everyday people would just throw away. There was no room for flexibility there. If the patients saw you bend rules for one you had to bend rules for all."Kermit, just give me the bottle and we'll be done with this," I said gently, trying to end the trouble before it started, but he stood his ground. He kept looking over my shoulder to the door where the police would enter. I just stood defeated, again... until the door opened.The police all entered the door down the hallway and started walking towards us. Hurriedly, Kermit unscrewed the top to his bottle and gulped the remains down. Then he quickly handed me the bottle minus the lid. The stench of concentrated urine was overwhelming and I felt my face clinch involuntarily in disgust. By that time the police were standing behind me. I turned around to them."Kermit has kept this bottle since I don't know when and filled it with urine. I'm sure you just witnessed him finishing off the bottle. We're going to have to search his room."While one of the police officers stood with Kermit the other officers and myself went on to Kermit's room. He shared the room with 3 others and we had to make them leave before we could start the search. That was never fun. Searching their rooms always turned hostile. No one enjoys other people looking through their belongings and even if they weren't the ones who were getting their things rummaged through there was always the suspicion that we were just going to keep on looking until we'd going through everything in the room. *We did have to do that sometimes but it rarely had to happen.After we'd cleared the patients from the room the police start going through Kermit's dressers. They lift his mattress, take his pillow case off, strip his bed, look in his hamper, and then his garbage can. Having found nothing they finally pulled out the drawers under his bed. The police officer pulled back in disgust."Jesus fucking CHRIST!" His hand was up over his nose and mouth now.I walked over and peeked into the drawers to see 2 pink disposable cups filled with poop. There was a toothbrush jammed into each cup and you could see on the sides where Kermit had used the toothbrushes to stir the poop around in the cup. I leaned out of the door and motioned for the police officer that was standing with Kermit to bring him over to us."Kermit. What are you doing with cups of feces in the drawers under your bed?""Eating it at night."I stood there contemplating what the most professional thing would be to say in this situation. I'm a nurse, not a psychiatrist and I always work on shifts where we don't necessarily HAVE a psychiatrist or psychologist on duty to help me out in these circumstances."Kermit, do you know how unhealthy eating feces and drinking urine is? Do you understand how unsanitary it is storing feces under your bed is?"And then Kermit said something that I'll never forget. I wish I could have taped it because the WAY he said it was creepy in itself. Monotone. Unashamed. Matter of fact."Bianca. There are things you can change about me here at the hospital. I admit. But something you can never change... you can never make me stop eating my own shit."

“You don't think I'm going to make it, do you?”I took a deep breath, “No, Dad, I don't think you will.”Nine months before that phone call, I had a different phone call from my sister. She was sobbing at first, but managed to get out, “Dad has cancer. The doctor said he needs to start chemo today, or start making funeral arrangements.”After some calming and coaxing I got her to tell me more. My Dad had been having trouble breathing. He had long suffered from an aggressive Rheumatoid Arthritis along with a variety of other debilitating medical conditions. So trouble breathing wasn't a cause for concern. But what the x-ray revealed was that he had stage 4 Lung cancer. The doctor initially gave him a two weeks to live.Hearing that felt like being underneath a tidal wave. It felt enormous, inevitable, inescapable, and filled me with a deep dread. That night I looked up the survival rates for stage 4 lung cancer. Less than 5% made it to 5 years.So I immediately made arrangements to travel from Germany to California, taking my then youngest child with me. From everything I had been told over the phone, I believed I was going home to say goodbye. I planned on spending a month, and I packed my black dress.When we landed, I was met with tears and a hopeful update. Now that Dad had agreed the chemo, the doctor estimated that he could live another few months. Not once did the doctor give the impression that Dad had a chance at all to beat it. So it surprised me to hear my mom say, “Dad doesn't believe he's going to die from this. He doesn't want to talk about it, so please, please don't bring it up.”I was speechless. Were we all going to pretend that he wasn't actually dying?When I saw him, I was shocked by how altered he already was. I hadn't seen him face to face for two years, but he looked like he had aged 10 years. “Hey, Dad,” I greeted him weakly behind a surgical mask, trying not to let him see me tear up. “I'm so glad to see you.” He acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He talked about the diagnosis, and the treatment plan, but he acted as though it wasn't any different than his RA, or his occasional pneumonia.My mom couldn't take time off of work. She knew there would be medical bills, and I think she wanted to focus on something other than her husband's impending death. Besides, if she stopped working then it would be like this was a very serious situation, and Dad wasn't about to let anyone make a fuss over him.So for those four weeks, I became his nurse. I kept careful track of his medications. I made his meals, and tended to his port. I watched his strength deteriorate. I watched him grow thinner and thinner. I watched him succumb to chemo brain. I slept on the couch, and one night I heard him get up to go to the bathroom. After awhile, I went to check him. He was slumped over on the toilet seat, having fallen asleep. After he agreed to having his hair shaved he looked more sickly than I had ever seen him. It was torture to watch the man who always represented strength to me, crumble before my eyes.It didn't make it any easier that we all had to ignore the gravity of what was happening. Only when we stepped out of my parents’ house could we even broach the subject.My mom and siblings seemed to know it was bad, but they didn't want to believe it was that bad. I felt alone in my grief.I tried to talk to my Dad about it as gently as possible. But what he did want to talk about made it very clear that he was afraid to die. That was the worst part. I didn't want my Dad to die being afraid.So instead we talked about God. We talked about Christ, and Repentance, faith and redemption. The few moments of comfort I felt were connecting with him on the grounds of our mutual faith.When those four weeks were spent, I said goodbye knowing it would be the last time I could feel his arms around me; the last time I would look into his pained but tender eyes. I told him I loved him and how grateful I was that he was my Dad. He told me he loved me too.The chemo kept him alive months longer than the doctors predicted. I would talk to my mom on the phone most times because Dad was too tired to talk. My mom would confide in me that he was slowly getting worse. She said he finally agreed to be on hospice, and was willing to talk about final arrangements. But he insisted that it was only precautionary. He was still going to beat it.A week before his 64th birthday, I had a dream. In my dream my Dad and I layed side by side in hospital beds, both hooked up to machines. I looked over at him and cried. “I'm sorry that I'm leaving you,” I said to him.I called him on his birthday. My mom said that he had slept the whole day so he could have enough energy to leave his bedroom and have everyone sing happy Birthday to him. I caught him before he was going back to sleep. I told him about my dream, and at first he scoffed. “I think you're being overly emotional about it.” But then he got quiet. “You don't think I'm going to make it, do you?”I took a deep breath, “No, Dad, I don't think you will.”I could almost feel his resignation on the line. It broke my heart, so I quickly added, “I'm not afraid for you. I know there is nothing but joy where you are going.”A month later, two days after my 34th birthday, I got a phone call from my mom. “Sarah, we need to get you out here, he doesn't have much longer.” an hour after that, I got another call. “He's gone, Sarah. He's gone.”My mom told me how he passed. Everyone seemed to feel the end was near, and all were at the house. He had been in a lot of pain and the hospice nurses told my mom to just give him morphine until he didn't feel pain. My mom got this overwhelming urge to send two of my sisters on an errand. After they left, my Dad became very peaceful as his breathing slowed. He looked to my mom and said, “I love you.” He looked to my brother, Solomon, “I love you.” My massive brother, Sam, squeaked out, “I love you, Dad.” My dad feebly put his hand on Sam's arm. “I love you, too.”Then he breathed his last breath.Even through the pain of losing him, one of the things that brought me comfort was knowing that he died not in fear, but peace, and surrounded by love.