Capitulations

It's hard to think on Monday mornings, after three days on the floor. I can't even type my password in correctly to log on. Then I forget my username. Or, I don't exactly forget it, I remember it but my fingers type the wrong thing.

I had two old men. One had a traumatic brain injury. One had Parkinson's and dementia. His bright black eyes, fringed with beautiful long lashes peered out at me, knowingly. He bristled with white hair. Neither would do anything I asked. At all. The one with Parkinson's couldn't enunciate. "OOOOHAAAAY!" he'd say. "OOOOHHHAAAAAY" He could only hold his head at a 45 degree angle back, staring at the ceiling with his gleaming black eyes. He held his hands close-in, stiff. I couldn't bend them. I wasn't about to force him. His daughter was one of those women who have never been able to be young and is a little put-out about it. Pretty, but burdened. No true laughter. I know just how she feels. Now. I asked her for her contact information. She gave it to me saying, "I'm the only one who didn't run away. You'll always be able to reach me." His wife was like a child. A little lost. She wore the same clothes the entire weekend--all three days--visibly dirty and torn. Grimy. You could see how pretty she'd been. Short buzz cut hair that was falling out. She smelled like the street--like piss and booze and smoke. The daughter kept rolling her eyes when she referred to her. The "wife" she called her. "Oh," I asked, "Is she not your mother?" Exasperated, exhausted sigh. "Yes. She's my mother." At one time, apropos of nothing, the daughter says to me, "I'll say this for our family, we come together in a crisis."
It was true. You could pick up the tension between everyone. But they weren't playing it out too much. They were all focused on the father, on his well-being. Even "the wife"
"We're very dysfunctional." The daughter informed me.
"You're behaving like champs here."
"You have no idea." She and her husband both start to giggle.

At lunch I reread Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters. I bought it for Lilly, but she wasn't interested. They had fried chicken. Second weekend in a row (it's usually every other Sunday). Our hospital makes some of the best fried chicken I've ever had. I sat on the little cement patio in the sunshine and ate. I have to get outside at least once a shift. Wiz never takes lunch, never goes outside. I used to follow his example--but then I decided that it wasn't a moral failing to take a 1/2 hour break in a 12 hour shift. I know he secretly sees this as a betrayal of the order, but I think a little sanity is called for. I make everyone else take lunch, too. He makes fun of me. "I think I'll go take a break now," he mimics.
"Go. You need one."
He grunts, waves me off.

Back in the room, I discovered that the OR had just absolutely botched my old man's arterial line dressing. They'd used non-sterile skin tape--the catheter was about half out--wonderful. Which meant that changing the dressing would pull the cathether out. The family had left the room. I've gotten into the bad habit of talking to myself in front of my patients--who are mostly gorked--I was working over his art line, the god damn tape sticking to my gloves, trying to save the line. Muttering to myself. "the god damn OR. What the hell. I mean, what the hell." And my patient, who'd been fighting me all day, looks at me and says, "wahheyoo?"
So I told him. "Well, look at this dressing on your arm." He lifted his wrist up and looked at it. "See? It's covered with sticky tape--right on the catheter that's going into your wrist. It's sloppy. It drives me crazy."
"I-orry."
"It's not your fault."
"I-orry." And, for the first time in three days, he relaxes his arm and turns his palm up so I can get to the dressing.
That's my 1/2 hour.