Reactionary

I was talking to my doorwoman the other day about how my little old grandma is turning 96 next month (or a month soon in our future; I don’t know anyone’s birthdays so deal with life). She made some comment about this old generation being long-lived and about how people now don’t make it to those ages anymore. I don’t know true that is, I don’t know the facts. But there is one thing I for one have to deal with and other people like me and what’s become so common, it’s canceling out a lot of advances in science and health care– stress.

I don’t think my grandmother ever had to pay rent> I don’t think she ever had a day of work like I did today. I’m probably like 5 years older and with a new ulcer the size of a silver dollar but there it is. It all started when I walked into the office this morning and there I was, in the Torture Chamber with the boss and accompanying me were one new guy and a girl who works in another service. Guess who was the ranking OR nurse for one and the sole specialty nurse in the room? I’ll give you three guesses. To make it worse, there were three of one procedure and I had only ever done one before in the history of the world ever. And it was with the boss. When you’re in the boss’s room, you’re a world unto yourself because no one else wants to come in there and help you or even make sure you’ve had lunch. He has new people and off-service people for breakfast. There’s an ongoing joke that if you’re not in The Club, he won’t even look at you. It’s not too far from the truth.

So there I was, knowing I’d have to scrub all day and dredging up every memory I had of this case and what I knew from other people do it. My memory has saved my life more than once. He comes in, looks around, sees no one from The Club, talks to the anesthesiologist and leaves. Great. I set up, try and coach the other two people on what they should get ready, and set up. There’s already a rustling in the breeze that we’re short on instruments, stupid things like wire cutters and needleholders. There’s suture missing. I tell my work partner to check the transplant room and miraculously there’s some there. And then I noticed we needed a special tubing. The buckets in the hall are all empty. But we need it. There’s nothing we can use as a replacement. We have to have it. He doesn’t like to wait. I try to channel my inner Brit and remain calm, but I’m sweating bullets. He comes in and I see he’s looking over my table as I gown him. I hate how he micromanages everything you do and how he refuses to acknowledge anything you say or ask. He expects you to know it and will not entertain any doubt or uncertainty on your part. He can find nothing to criticize but as we say, “Big Daddy, he doesn’t miss a one.” I suspect he’s noticed we don’t have the tubing he’ll need fairly early on. The case starts, and as he’s cutting down, I’m arranging the camera and out of the corner of my eye I can see one of my work partners scrambling around looking for this tubing, paging people who aren’t calling back, nearly frantic. Just as I’m getting the port on the mayo, at the last possible second, she comes bursting back in with some tubing. It looks a little weird, but the connectors at both ends seem to be alright and I hook it up quick, not even a millisecond too soon. It works. I bless her to the nth generation and curse those people whose job it is to keep the supply stocked. How come first thing in the morning we’re missing a commonly used piece of equipment? Why wasn’t it picked the night before as it should have been? WHY?

We get through the first case and I’m not off or slow at all. That one case I did months ago reminds itself to me and he actually thanks me when we’re done. I think I’m off the hook, despite the recurrent no wire cutter, no needleholder problem. But it’s too good to last.

What happens for the last case of the day? Oh, there’s a hole in the last and sole remaining implant pan. We can’t use it. It needs to get flashed and tested before we can use it. It’ll be over an hour. At least we haven’t put that kid to sleep yet. We have to take him back out but that’s better than waiting under anesthesia. Big Daddy calls the room and my work partner tells him what’s happening. Minutes later, he’s upstairs himself, interrogating us. First, he begins to ask her what’s going on and what we’re doing about it when he turns around on her midsentence and comes over to me. Remember I’m the senior nurse in the room and the person he works with the most, given the people there. It’s like being interrogated by the Gestapo. But I know what the protocol is and we’ve done everything right even if it’s delaying him and the kid. But he’s asking me as if to make sure our stories match. He talks to processing and then thanks us for finding the hole and goes out to talk to the family which is a task I don’t begrudge him at all. My work partner and I look at each other. We did the right thing, right? There’s nothing else we could do, right? No, there’s isn’t and yes, we did. But the anxiety is burning a hole through my stomach wall.

Singed and exhausted, our time comes to leave and I can’t get out of there soon enough though I worry for the people coming in. Neither one of the them is one of the regulars. He’s my service, he’s my problem. I just hate when other people get shot down.

Posted on June 20th, 2007 under Life •  Print •  Email • RSS 2.0 feed • Leave a response, or trackback