Hell in a Handcart
Nurses are, as a rule, the strangest of creatures. After a long period of close-up observation of the Gorillas in the Mist variety, I have come to the conclusion that a nurse's personality might come in one of two basic flavours. Either they have all the independence and problem-solving abilities of a 2 month old baby or, alternatively, they are sadistic mini-Hitlers whose sole reason for entering health care was so they could get closer to the misery and suffering that feeds them. Mini-Hitlers tend to be found in high-dependency or intensive care units where they think that just because they know how to look after an arterial line or turn up the PEEP on a ventilator they have mastered all there is to know about medicine and could run the entire unit with their eyes closed. Some mini-Hitlers have been given the freedom to seek out victims for their powerplay all over the hospital: these are the nurse specialists and the site practioners. Only last week I got into a showdown with tissue viability nurse because I refused to start anti-pseudomonal antibiotics on her orders:
"The ulcer's infected with pseudomonas"
"Really? Have micro grown something already."
"No. But I can see that it is. You should start tazocin"
"I think we ought to wait for the swab"
...Stony silence....tumbleweed rolls past...
"I know what pseudomonas looks like and this is pseudomonas."
"All the same..."
And when three swabs in a row came back negative did she apologise? Did she fuck! Nor did mad Sandra with her mad thyrotoxic eyes in her mad hysterical head who kept bleeping me constantly through the night because some chaps blood pressure was either a couple of millimeters too high or a couple of millimeters too low. Don't you understand - I felt like screaming down the phone - I don't fucking care...call me when he's dead! I imagined her index finger blistered and red from hammering out my bleep number every five seconds. Bitch.
Anyway, all that is finished for a little while at least and the weekend beckons. I go into it a little under par unfortunately after a routine drinking session last night got out of control and the Pink Psychiatrist and I ended up swaying glass-eyed on the dance floor of the Shadow Lounge. The Pink Psychiatrist was sufficiently intrigued by a Death-In-Venice style blond waif with a preposterous mountain of thick hair on his head that he forced us to go and talk to him. Unfortunately, he had either had his brain wisked in utero or was on a huge quantity of drugs as nothing he said actually made any sense and his affect was so euphoric as to be pathological. We decided it best to leave Tadzio alone with his hallucinations.
We ended up hitting the sack around 3:30am. I felt sorry for The Pink Psychiatrist when I heard him get up at 7:30am. Medicine is such a cruel task master.