The Flu

Wiz is still missing. He's just evaporated. Everyone asks me where and how he is. Like I would know? I just shrug. "He's okay." I say. I was certain he'd be back by now. Then they start talking. It's interesting--people rarely talk to each other or with each other; they talk for themselves. I heard about 8 little monologues yesterday--themed "Wiz"--and they were all fictional. Geraldine, our unit clerk, whose sharp goose voice I hear even in my dreams, asks me once, gives me a look when I shrug her off. "I'm very worried about him." She says. "He don't have no flu, do he?"
I told everyone he had the flu. I figured that would explain the extended absence. I told them his whole family had it.
"Sorry."
The problem with Wiz being gone is that people pull things with me they never would dream of with Wiz. Sally, the House Mom sends patients to me and expects me to be able to take them immediately, without staff. "You just need to do this." She tells me.
"Then I need a nurse." I tell her.
Two hours later, after the patient has been wheeled in while I'm still getting report over the phone. I get one. Not ok. This is the third time this has happened, a patient rolling in almost unannounced. Wiz has told me in the past to do whatever Sally asks. "Your job is to make her job easy." I think they have a long friendship. I've seen pictures of her. She was once immense--easily over 300 pounds. She was in a terribly abusive marriage. Now she's thin and dry and wary. I like her, mostly, because she is always honest. But she can't stand being challenged. So this time, I simply printed off the record of every page I'd sent and received from her and handed it to her when the bed came in. "I told you about this." She said. "No, Sally, I'm really sorry," I said, very nicely (not fake nice), "you really didn't." No apology, but I know that in the endless hospital game of tit for tat talleys we all keep, I've earned some points. Maybe she's getting the flu.
Wiz's quote: "She's an oasis." I don't know about that, Wiz.
My staff are like little puppies. They crowd around me over every decision, every conversation. They look over my shoulder when I make notes and figure out staffing or send emails. I guess this is the downside of being accessible. I haven't decided whether this is good or bad. I think it's good.
"That's just bullshit," Marcy says, as the patient rolls in. "You need to call her and tell her we're not the fucking MNICU's dumping ground."
"Yeah, ok, Marcy, I'll delegate that to you. Be sure to use the word 'fuck' a lot."
Then my attending lurches in for rounds, looking just terrible. He hands me a folded paper towell upon which he's written a list of items and instructions. "Please do this for me," he rasps. "I'll be in room 12. Get the residents." He staggers into the room, sits down in the chair.
I look at the paper towell. "Are you serious? You need to go home."
"I need to round" he croaks. "Just do it. Please. Don't commit fraud, of course. Don't tell anyone."
I go to the OR, pilfer some D5LR and zofran. Start an IV on him. "Can't you do it somewhere besides the AC?" he whines.
"Listen," I snap, "starting an IV on my attending is nerve wracking enough. I'm a wretched stick. I'm going for easy here."
"You're getting blood all over everything."
I just focus. And say a prayer to the IV fairy (who really exists). And I get it! Hooray. "You can stand across the room and hit my veins," he croaks."When I was an EMT I used to let people practice on me. No, I'm sorry. You're a saint. I've been throwing up since 3 am this morning. This will get me past that. I mean, you're really a saint. Like Mother Teresa."
"She's not a saint yet. You know, " I tell him, just to make conversation while I sit there and watch the IV go in, and make sure he doesn't pass out or anything, "there's like a whole clinical ladder of sainthood. Takes years."
"Really?"
"Yes. You have to have three miracles--witnessed, and some other stuff. There's all sorts of points you have to earn. Takes centuries. It's very complicated."
"I'm Baptist. We don't go for all that."
"Yep. Leave the catholics to handle all the paperwork. You were an EMT--do you want a basin?"
"No," he urps.
"Do you have a fever?"
"No."
"Mind if I check?"
"Fine."
No fever.
"I told you so. Yes, I was an EMT. 14 years."
"Really? What made you become a doctor?"
"I hated doctors and one day one of them told me to quit my fucking whining and become one if I thought I could do it better. I still fucking hate doctors."
"You should have become a nurse."
"No fucking way. Am I saying fuck too much?" He says this because I have made a habit of handing him a bar of soap every time he says "fuck" I carry them in my pockets during rounds.
"That's going in too fast."
He's opened the clamp all the way.
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is." I tighten the clamp.
"Fine."
"I'll check back on you in 15 minutes."
"Fine."
He's a lot better. Color's better, and he's sitting up straight. "Good. Go get the residents."
He finishes rounds with the IV in his arm. I give him another bag.

That's my 1/2 hour.