I've moved the blog to http://reneemaynes.com/
Please visit me there for medical related topics on Tuesday, lifestyle related topics on Friday, and random posting on other days.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
He and the Boys Aren't Playing (Instruments) All Night
You have to love Canobie Lake Park in New Hampshire. In October, a month not known to be kind to New England amusement parks, Canobie Lake keeps the grounds filled by having two events: Screemfest and Oktoberfest. This year I returned, once again lured by the presence of Mini Kiss, a KISS tribute band, at the Oktoberfest tent. (Well, also lured by the haunted houses and rides, but Mini Kiss is a consideration.)
Mini Kiss is always a great time. They cover Kiss songs as well as some other notables such as "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns and Roses. I'm not sure if it's the quantity of beer being served or the novelty of having these mini men singing, but the audience joins in on every song. While singing along with the song "Beth," I pondered the reality of the events in contrast to the sanitized, love ballad version.
At the time Beth was recorded in 1976, cell phones didn't bulge in every pocket. Beth was relegated to (probably) standing in her kitchen on her landline phone hoping someone would answer the payphone at the recording studio. Since there was no caller ID, there wasn't a foolproof method to duck the calls of curious, demanding girlfriends or wives. Some poor sap, a roadie no doubt, would have to physically pick the phone up and figure out who was on the other end of the line. Then he'd have to holler into the recording studio to call Beth's boyfriend to the phone. I can only imagine the reaction of the band to Beth's calls looking for an estimated time of arrival on her beau.
And, as if his staying out late and not giving her a heads up didn't rankle enough, listen to his excuses in the lyrics:
"Beth, I hear you callin'
But I can't come home right now
Me and the boys are playin'
And we just can't find the sound
Just a few more hours
And I'll be right home to you
I think I hear them callin'
Oh, Beth what can I do?"
You can almost hear his band mates crack imaginary whips and call out rude comments as Beth's man frantically tries to shush them.
And what's with Beth? He asked "what can I do?" He didn't mention he was handcuffed to his instrument or being held at gunpoint. It's his choice to stay with his friends "a few more hours." Instead of listening silently through her tears, Beth could have said, "Come home in the next fifteen minutes or I'll throw your stuff out on the street." It's domestic warfare, baby, sometimes you have to make threats. But not Beth, the date-able doormat.
When she calls again hours later, her boyfriend can't even come up with a new excuse. Now, maybe he isn't very smart or maybe he's impaired by drugs and alcohol, but at least try. If I was Beth, I'd be happy to hear your absence was because one of your band mates overdosed on drugs or two of them had a fist fight over writing credits and now you're waiting for the cops to show up. When it comes to relationship lies, I believe go big or go home. But no, instead he tells her:
"Just a few more hours
And I'll be right home to you
I think I hear them callin'
Oh, Beth what can I do?"
I'm calculating it's around midnight at this point. If you've ever taken one of these calls in a relationship, you know he has no intention of coming home until he's ready to pass out. The best thing Beth could do for herself now is to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Be fresh for the big fight when he staggers in at daybreak. But no, she continues to burn up the phone lines.
By 3 AM, the band has had enough. No one else's girlfriend is calling. No one else is ruining boy's night out. Time for the truth. Now he tells her:
"Beth, I know you're lonely
And I hope you'll be alright
'Cause me and the boys will be playin'
All night"
Because at this point he realizes that Beth isn't going to get dressed and come down to the recording studio and she isn't going to stop calling. Telling her he won't be home tonight might not stop the phone calls, but it will put an end to the whip cracking sounds from the band. Anyway, after he hangs up a helpful roadie will leave it off the hook and Beth can listen to a busy signal for the rest of the night if she desires.
The next morning, boyfriend crawls home, hungover and tired, expecting a nice breakfast from Beth before he drags himself to sleep. She probably makes it for him because back in 1976 that's the price you paid to be with the band.
I don't miss 1976 that much. Now songs empower us to get our Louisville Sluggers and let our men know exactly what we think. I'd love to hear Kiss sing a song about how quickly the studio empties out after that.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
I've Moved Away
I've moved over to Wordpress at http://reneemaynes.com/
Please come visit and leave your questions and comments at my new home.
Please come visit and leave your questions and comments at my new home.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Yelling is Always Optional
Sometimes things get screwed up. You plan on a sunny day and it rains. You want a laptop for your birthday and you get a vacuum. You think you're dog's well behaved enough to leave out of the crate and he eats your favorite pair of shoes. Shit happens. It's not always someone's fault and it's not always repairable, but life goes on.
Which is why I'm always confused when I get a phone call from an unhappy, pissed-off person who thinks that yelling at me will solve the problem. Wrong. And, I mean, they have to know that on some level. I am not the Queen of the Universe nor am I She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. The best you'll get from me is an "I'm sorry" and maybe a promise not to do it again.
But lately I feel that people don't want apologies or excuses. They want to yell at someone, stomp their feet, threaten physical violence, make a scene. Since those are the things guaranteed to make me either walk away or hang up, there must be some other reason why people use these tactics.
Remember when daytime television consisted of Jerry Springer, Maurice, Jenny, and Montel? For many of us, it was our first glimpse of people who didn't follow the rules of polite society (well, the first glimpse of people out of diapers who didn't follow the rules). Screaming, interrupting, throwing things, and fisticuffs were all part of the spirited debate. It got to the point where, even with closed captioning on, it was impossible to figure out what was being said as everyone yelled over one another.
When the yelling stopped, the physical fights began. We were introduced to press-on nails, weaves, and the concept of kicking off one's shoes to signal a readiness to punch someone (though Jerry eventually added the dinging sound of a boxing match bell). We quickly went from expecting a fight, to demanding one.
Eventually, like Jimmy Choo shoes and Coach handbags, the rest of society coveted what they saw on television. If the former baby momma could lay hands on the current one, why couldn't we take out our aggressions against the neighbor who always parked in our spot? If someone cut us off in traffic, why take that silently when we could chase them down and trade gunshots? Instead of a nation of polite discourse and problem solving, we became a nation of loud-mouthed wannabe gangsters and thugs.
And then it was only a hop, skip, and jump til we got to the point where yelling, threatening, and even physically assaulting people became commonplace. Fights don't need to be settled with words when fists and guns are available. In Kentucky, a 12 year old boy was shot in the back after playing ding-dong-ditch at the home of a 56 year old with a shotgun. McDonald's drive thru patrons assault the occupants of the car in front of them when the line doesn't move fast enough. Someone cut you off at the deli counter? Ram their cart and tell them what you think of them.
We are no longer afraid or ashamed to raise our voice or our fists as a first response. And that's not a good thing. Because aggressive behavior doesn't help, it only shuts down the conversation.
So I challenge you the next time you're in the express lane and the person in front of you has more than the allotted number of items, be quiet. The next time someone cuts you off in traffic, keep your hands on the wheel rather than on the horn. The next time a scared fifteen year old screws up your McDonald's order, take a step back and suck it up. There's no rule that says we have to go over the top. We can become polite, courteous human beings again. It's really not hard as long as we're willing to act like adults rather than pissy-panted toddlers.
And who knows, maybe you can attract more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Which is why I'm always confused when I get a phone call from an unhappy, pissed-off person who thinks that yelling at me will solve the problem. Wrong. And, I mean, they have to know that on some level. I am not the Queen of the Universe nor am I She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. The best you'll get from me is an "I'm sorry" and maybe a promise not to do it again.
But lately I feel that people don't want apologies or excuses. They want to yell at someone, stomp their feet, threaten physical violence, make a scene. Since those are the things guaranteed to make me either walk away or hang up, there must be some other reason why people use these tactics.
Remember when daytime television consisted of Jerry Springer, Maurice, Jenny, and Montel? For many of us, it was our first glimpse of people who didn't follow the rules of polite society (well, the first glimpse of people out of diapers who didn't follow the rules). Screaming, interrupting, throwing things, and fisticuffs were all part of the spirited debate. It got to the point where, even with closed captioning on, it was impossible to figure out what was being said as everyone yelled over one another.
When the yelling stopped, the physical fights began. We were introduced to press-on nails, weaves, and the concept of kicking off one's shoes to signal a readiness to punch someone (though Jerry eventually added the dinging sound of a boxing match bell). We quickly went from expecting a fight, to demanding one.
Eventually, like Jimmy Choo shoes and Coach handbags, the rest of society coveted what they saw on television. If the former baby momma could lay hands on the current one, why couldn't we take out our aggressions against the neighbor who always parked in our spot? If someone cut us off in traffic, why take that silently when we could chase them down and trade gunshots? Instead of a nation of polite discourse and problem solving, we became a nation of loud-mouthed wannabe gangsters and thugs.
And then it was only a hop, skip, and jump til we got to the point where yelling, threatening, and even physically assaulting people became commonplace. Fights don't need to be settled with words when fists and guns are available. In Kentucky, a 12 year old boy was shot in the back after playing ding-dong-ditch at the home of a 56 year old with a shotgun. McDonald's drive thru patrons assault the occupants of the car in front of them when the line doesn't move fast enough. Someone cut you off at the deli counter? Ram their cart and tell them what you think of them.
We are no longer afraid or ashamed to raise our voice or our fists as a first response. And that's not a good thing. Because aggressive behavior doesn't help, it only shuts down the conversation.
So I challenge you the next time you're in the express lane and the person in front of you has more than the allotted number of items, be quiet. The next time someone cuts you off in traffic, keep your hands on the wheel rather than on the horn. The next time a scared fifteen year old screws up your McDonald's order, take a step back and suck it up. There's no rule that says we have to go over the top. We can become polite, courteous human beings again. It's really not hard as long as we're willing to act like adults rather than pissy-panted toddlers.
And who knows, maybe you can attract more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
My Grandmother's Abortion
My grandfather told me about my grandmother's abortion long after her death.
A bit of history. My grandmother was mentally ill. Though I have memories of homemade oatmeal cookies and games of Go Fish, I have more memories of profane outbursts, outrageous accusations, and bizarre behavior. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, my grandmother cycled in and out of treatment, tried and failed numerous drugs, and, at times, terrified me with her mood swings.
All the while, my grandfather stood by her.
As she approached her sixties, the good times became more infrequent. By the time she was in her seventies, they stopped. There was no mistaking something was wrong with her. She became a bright-eyed, bird-like woman who twitched constantly and did the Thorazine shuffle within the confines of their single-wide mobile home. Taking her out in public was an unpredictable experience. One day she could be smiling and eating happily. The next, she'd be pinching men in the buffet line and making inappropriate comments to the waitress.
My grandfather endured all of this because he loved her.
For many years I didn't know what had happened to trigger her mental illness. I knew she'd been in Bellevue Hospital in the early stages of her disease. Fifty years later and my grandfather would still get tears in his eyes describing how the orderlies would tie her up, put her in ice baths, treat her cruelly. Prompted by the bruises he saw, he bribed the staff in hopes of better treatment. When she finally was released, he vowed never to put her in an institution again. He tried to keep that vow.
He told me about the abortion only when I'd finally summoned up the courage to ask why she'd been in Bellevue in the first place.
According to my grandfather, she had always been prone to worry and anxiety. She got worse during her pregnancy. The day after the birth, the nurse found my grandmother, with her infant son in her arms, attempting to jump out of the hospital window. She was diagnosed with postpartum psychosis. Whether she had command hallucinations telling her to kill herself and her child or delusions that the baby was possessed, I don't know. Either way, the outcome was the same. Instead of going home with her husband and firstborn, my grandmother was committed to Bellevue Hospital.
My grandfather visited as often as he could. He gave the orderlies as much money as he could spare. He raised my father for three long years before she was released. Life slowly returned to normal.
And then she got pregnant again.
My grandfather, an Irish Catholic, and my grandmother, a Protestant, found themselves in a heartbreaking position. The doctors told them continuing the pregnancy would result in another psychotic break. This time, they told the couple, she wouldn't recover. She would most likely spend the rest of her life in an institution.
Fifty years afterwards, my grandfather still agonized over the choice they'd made. Not the choice to have an abortion. He never wavered in his belief that continuing with the pregnancy would have robbed his son of a mother and put his wife in a hellish place. He agonized because instead of taking my grandmother to a clean, sterile place to have the procedure performed, he was forced to find a back alley abortionist, forced to choose between losing the woman he loved to mental illness or to the possibility of post abortion infection or death.
It was a decision they didn't take lightly. It was a decision made by the two people most aware and most impacted by the consequences.
Today the politicians talk about abortion and, in the case of those who wish to outlaw the procedure, they talk about the parameters that should be used to decide if an abortion can be performed. If, as has been suggested, abortions should be allowed in cases of rape, incest or if the pregnancy puts the mother's life in danger. But who gets to make these determinations?
Will rape and incest victims be forced to provide police reports, medical exams, and sworn statements attesting to their rape?
If the mother's life is in danger, how will that be defined? Will someone compile a list of acceptable medical reasons with rationale? If the mother suffers from mental illness, like my grandmother did, would she be able to argue for the exception or is there some level of certainty that will need to be applied to meet the criteria. For example, if there's a 30-50% chance of a woman having another psychotic break, is that enough to justify an abortion or will the woman be forced to complete the pregnancy and hope she beats the odds?
Because every time the politicians and the right to lifers talk about their anti abortion strategies, I think about my grandparents, a husband and wife who made a personal decision about their lives. The people who must live with the consequences of their actions should be the ones to decide. Not a committee. Not a politician. Not the courts. The people involved.
I'll end with a quote by Frederica Mathewes-Green, a pro-life author and speaker who thinks society should work to prevent the situations that lead to abortion, rather than demonize the women who need one. She said, "No woman wants an abortion as she wants an ice cream cone or a Porsche. She wants an abortion as an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg."
I'm sure my grandmother didn't want an abortion, but when she needed one, I wish she'd had the option of a safe and legal one.
A bit of history. My grandmother was mentally ill. Though I have memories of homemade oatmeal cookies and games of Go Fish, I have more memories of profane outbursts, outrageous accusations, and bizarre behavior. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, my grandmother cycled in and out of treatment, tried and failed numerous drugs, and, at times, terrified me with her mood swings.
All the while, my grandfather stood by her.
As she approached her sixties, the good times became more infrequent. By the time she was in her seventies, they stopped. There was no mistaking something was wrong with her. She became a bright-eyed, bird-like woman who twitched constantly and did the Thorazine shuffle within the confines of their single-wide mobile home. Taking her out in public was an unpredictable experience. One day she could be smiling and eating happily. The next, she'd be pinching men in the buffet line and making inappropriate comments to the waitress.
My grandfather endured all of this because he loved her.
For many years I didn't know what had happened to trigger her mental illness. I knew she'd been in Bellevue Hospital in the early stages of her disease. Fifty years later and my grandfather would still get tears in his eyes describing how the orderlies would tie her up, put her in ice baths, treat her cruelly. Prompted by the bruises he saw, he bribed the staff in hopes of better treatment. When she finally was released, he vowed never to put her in an institution again. He tried to keep that vow.
He told me about the abortion only when I'd finally summoned up the courage to ask why she'd been in Bellevue in the first place.
According to my grandfather, she had always been prone to worry and anxiety. She got worse during her pregnancy. The day after the birth, the nurse found my grandmother, with her infant son in her arms, attempting to jump out of the hospital window. She was diagnosed with postpartum psychosis. Whether she had command hallucinations telling her to kill herself and her child or delusions that the baby was possessed, I don't know. Either way, the outcome was the same. Instead of going home with her husband and firstborn, my grandmother was committed to Bellevue Hospital.
My grandfather visited as often as he could. He gave the orderlies as much money as he could spare. He raised my father for three long years before she was released. Life slowly returned to normal.
And then she got pregnant again.
My grandfather, an Irish Catholic, and my grandmother, a Protestant, found themselves in a heartbreaking position. The doctors told them continuing the pregnancy would result in another psychotic break. This time, they told the couple, she wouldn't recover. She would most likely spend the rest of her life in an institution.
Fifty years afterwards, my grandfather still agonized over the choice they'd made. Not the choice to have an abortion. He never wavered in his belief that continuing with the pregnancy would have robbed his son of a mother and put his wife in a hellish place. He agonized because instead of taking my grandmother to a clean, sterile place to have the procedure performed, he was forced to find a back alley abortionist, forced to choose between losing the woman he loved to mental illness or to the possibility of post abortion infection or death.
It was a decision they didn't take lightly. It was a decision made by the two people most aware and most impacted by the consequences.
Today the politicians talk about abortion and, in the case of those who wish to outlaw the procedure, they talk about the parameters that should be used to decide if an abortion can be performed. If, as has been suggested, abortions should be allowed in cases of rape, incest or if the pregnancy puts the mother's life in danger. But who gets to make these determinations?
Will rape and incest victims be forced to provide police reports, medical exams, and sworn statements attesting to their rape?
If the mother's life is in danger, how will that be defined? Will someone compile a list of acceptable medical reasons with rationale? If the mother suffers from mental illness, like my grandmother did, would she be able to argue for the exception or is there some level of certainty that will need to be applied to meet the criteria. For example, if there's a 30-50% chance of a woman having another psychotic break, is that enough to justify an abortion or will the woman be forced to complete the pregnancy and hope she beats the odds?
Because every time the politicians and the right to lifers talk about their anti abortion strategies, I think about my grandparents, a husband and wife who made a personal decision about their lives. The people who must live with the consequences of their actions should be the ones to decide. Not a committee. Not a politician. Not the courts. The people involved.
I'll end with a quote by Frederica Mathewes-Green, a pro-life author and speaker who thinks society should work to prevent the situations that lead to abortion, rather than demonize the women who need one. She said, "No woman wants an abortion as she wants an ice cream cone or a Porsche. She wants an abortion as an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg."
I'm sure my grandmother didn't want an abortion, but when she needed one, I wish she'd had the option of a safe and legal one.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Politics of Healthcare, Post Debate Edition
First off, I have no issue with anyone who uses their faith to inform their personal life and decisions. I do it. I believe you should, too.
Paul Ryan's faith believes life begins at conception, therefore abortion is murder. But, if we're going to allow religious faith to play a role in healthcare, let's consider all religions and their beliefs.
Jehovah's Witnesses can legislate against blood transfusions.
Christian Scientists can legislate for prayer instead of medical treatment.
Scientologists can legislate for introspection rundowns instead of antidepressants.
The bottom line is every religion has traditions and prohibitions that impact the healthcare experience of their followers. These items don't need to be legislated, they are a choice. The Catholic Church and Paul Ryan has no more business making my healthcare choices than my employer does.
Wait. Ryan and the faithful believe that employers should be able to financially restrict an employee's access to birth control, sterilization, and abortion in the name of religious freedom. Guess religious freedom means religious employers can make the decisions usually best left to a patient and doctor. Today, birth control and sterilization; tomorrow, restrictions on blood transfusions or psychiatric care?
Because if we want to allow faith to legislate healthcare, let's not stop with the Catholic Church's agenda. Let's champion the beliefs of all religions. Sounds good, doesn't it?
But, taking away healthcare choice from the individual and investing it in the hands of a religious organization is akin to setting up "death panels," except instead of deciding if an individual is worthy of medical resources, these panels would decide what medical resources are worthy of being used.
As much as I believe in religious freedom, I don't think your faith should impact my ability to access medical care and procedures. Do you?
Paul Ryan's faith believes life begins at conception, therefore abortion is murder. But, if we're going to allow religious faith to play a role in healthcare, let's consider all religions and their beliefs.
Jehovah's Witnesses can legislate against blood transfusions.
Christian Scientists can legislate for prayer instead of medical treatment.
Scientologists can legislate for introspection rundowns instead of antidepressants.
The bottom line is every religion has traditions and prohibitions that impact the healthcare experience of their followers. These items don't need to be legislated, they are a choice. The Catholic Church and Paul Ryan has no more business making my healthcare choices than my employer does.
Wait. Ryan and the faithful believe that employers should be able to financially restrict an employee's access to birth control, sterilization, and abortion in the name of religious freedom. Guess religious freedom means religious employers can make the decisions usually best left to a patient and doctor. Today, birth control and sterilization; tomorrow, restrictions on blood transfusions or psychiatric care?
Because if we want to allow faith to legislate healthcare, let's not stop with the Catholic Church's agenda. Let's champion the beliefs of all religions. Sounds good, doesn't it?
But, taking away healthcare choice from the individual and investing it in the hands of a religious organization is akin to setting up "death panels," except instead of deciding if an individual is worthy of medical resources, these panels would decide what medical resources are worthy of being used.
As much as I believe in religious freedom, I don't think your faith should impact my ability to access medical care and procedures. Do you?
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
The Moments That Define Us
Last week Nurse K posted on her blog about a patient's last phone call. Read it here.
After wiping away some stray moisture from my eyes and clearing my nose (allergy season, you know), I thought about the moments that define us in our healthcare role.
Hospitals seek out touching stories to bolster their application for Magnet status or adorn their website. Their stories of how the healthcare staff went above and beyond to help a patient usually end up being fairly run of the mill. More in the vein of "the nurse took the time to ensure I knew how to make the bed go up and down" and "the food service staff cheerfully exchanged my tray to accommodate my gluten-free diet" than "someone did something totally unexpected and above/below their pay grade that mattered." In my hospital experience of being on the receiving end of management's praise, I've found the successes I've been credited with are the ones that least define who I am as a nurse.
I was acknowledged once for my help in cleaning up flooded exam rooms after someone left a faucet running over a weekend. The sad truth was administration had made deep cuts in the housekeeping department and there was no one available to clean up the mess. I picked up a mop and started in because we had a waiting room of patients to be seen. Eventually the housekeeping supervisor, embarrassed at his lack of employees, showed up to help. Administration congratulated our team effort to fix the problem. I got official recognition for going above and beyond and a free lunch in the cafeteria. Rather than being thrilled with the "honor," I was incensed. Of all of the things I did in my job that were truly worthy of recognition, I got an attaboy for pushing a mop for two hours. Two hours I wasn't available to triage or educate patients. Two hours I didn't use any of my nursing skills. That is what administration deemed worthy of recognition. It didn't go over well when I told them instead of praising me, they should be asking themselves why they didn't have enough housekeeping staff to handle emergencies.
Instead of addressing the underlying problem many of us face, too much to do with too little time and staff to do it, hospitals try to boost morale with meaningless honors and remain oblivious to the day to day things that really matter. And though we are more than willing to share our crazy stories, commiserate over the sad ones, and bemoan the incompetence of administration, we're not willing to let down the walls and talk about the parts of our job that hit us in the gut and the situations that make us turn our heads so the patient can't see our tears. We're professionals. That stuff isn't supposed to get to us.
But, it does. It stays with us.
And they are the moments I don't offer up to the public relations machine of the hospital and I suspect many others do the same. Moments that remind us there is more to our job than tasks and checklists and documentation. Moments when we know that our lives will go on, but our patient's will be changed forever. Because sometimes, in the confusion, turmoil and noise of our professional lives, we take a step back and do the right thing.
Those are the moments that define us.
After wiping away some stray moisture from my eyes and clearing my nose (allergy season, you know), I thought about the moments that define us in our healthcare role.
Hospitals seek out touching stories to bolster their application for Magnet status or adorn their website. Their stories of how the healthcare staff went above and beyond to help a patient usually end up being fairly run of the mill. More in the vein of "the nurse took the time to ensure I knew how to make the bed go up and down" and "the food service staff cheerfully exchanged my tray to accommodate my gluten-free diet" than "someone did something totally unexpected and above/below their pay grade that mattered." In my hospital experience of being on the receiving end of management's praise, I've found the successes I've been credited with are the ones that least define who I am as a nurse.
I was acknowledged once for my help in cleaning up flooded exam rooms after someone left a faucet running over a weekend. The sad truth was administration had made deep cuts in the housekeeping department and there was no one available to clean up the mess. I picked up a mop and started in because we had a waiting room of patients to be seen. Eventually the housekeeping supervisor, embarrassed at his lack of employees, showed up to help. Administration congratulated our team effort to fix the problem. I got official recognition for going above and beyond and a free lunch in the cafeteria. Rather than being thrilled with the "honor," I was incensed. Of all of the things I did in my job that were truly worthy of recognition, I got an attaboy for pushing a mop for two hours. Two hours I wasn't available to triage or educate patients. Two hours I didn't use any of my nursing skills. That is what administration deemed worthy of recognition. It didn't go over well when I told them instead of praising me, they should be asking themselves why they didn't have enough housekeeping staff to handle emergencies.
Instead of addressing the underlying problem many of us face, too much to do with too little time and staff to do it, hospitals try to boost morale with meaningless honors and remain oblivious to the day to day things that really matter. And though we are more than willing to share our crazy stories, commiserate over the sad ones, and bemoan the incompetence of administration, we're not willing to let down the walls and talk about the parts of our job that hit us in the gut and the situations that make us turn our heads so the patient can't see our tears. We're professionals. That stuff isn't supposed to get to us.
But, it does. It stays with us.
And they are the moments I don't offer up to the public relations machine of the hospital and I suspect many others do the same. Moments that remind us there is more to our job than tasks and checklists and documentation. Moments when we know that our lives will go on, but our patient's will be changed forever. Because sometimes, in the confusion, turmoil and noise of our professional lives, we take a step back and do the right thing.
Those are the moments that define us.
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