Hello, nipple.

It's hard to imagine a time in life when a person is more vulnerable than when they are in the hospital. In real life, patients don't look like they do on TV hospital dramas. Hospital gowns don't stay nicely closed and arranged. Before you know it, you're helping someone stand for the first time after surgery and their nipple pops out of the neckline of the gown and nearly pokes you in the eye.

Patients snore and fart in their sleep. Their hair is a perpetual mess. Let's face it, laying in a hospital bed all day isn't great for your 'do. Some pee and poop in the bed. Some don't bathe for a few days, and they stink. They hawk up mucus and leak from various holes placed in their body. They throw up, sometimes spectacularly, and often can't reach the emesis basin in time.

And they trust you to take care of them when they look and feel their absolute worst. They trust that you've been around long enough (even if you haven't) that you won't bat an eyelash at something like helping them empty a colostomy bag or wiping their ass because they can't bend or twist after their surgery or holding their legs apart so you can make sure their catheter didn't get pulled out.

What a heady, frightening, and awesome burden.

Death and Taxes

I experienced my first patient death this morning. It was expected, so no crazy medical drama. But his family had left the night before, and he was alone, and I found myself spending a lot of time in his room, measuring his breaths, watching them become further apart as his O2 sats dropped and his pulse got weak and thready. I was with him when he took his last breath. I turned off his oxygen and removed his mask, washed his face and combed his hair, and straightened his blankets. I placed boxes of tissues in his room for his family to use when they arrived. It was a strange experience, humbling, extraordinary and mundane all at the same time. It felt like such an exceptional moment, but outside his room, life in the hospital went on as normal.

Another patient was suffering from unexplained nausea and vomiting, and had spent the night hurling his guts out. He was obviously miserable and scared. He asked for his nurse, and I told him she was with another patient but would be with him as soon as she could, and he said, "I should be her number one patient; I've got to be the sickest person here." My other patient died less than thirty minutes later.

In unrelated news, I realized later in the morning that April 15 was two days ago, and I haven't paid our state taxes yet. All things considered, I've decided not to freak out about it.

I'm just a tech, but I know you're not going to die.

Patient: I wish my family had stayed with me. I don't want to die alone.

Me (looking at chart): It looks like you just have a few broken bones. I know it's painful, but you're not going to die from these injuries. Is something else bothering you?

Patient: No, that's it. Have you ever had anyone else with injuries like mine?

Me: Yes.

Patient: Were they in as much pain as I am?

Me: Yes.

Patient: Did any of them die?

Me: No.

Patient: Well, then I'll be the first.