ER, a bunch of us decided to make up nicknames for ourselves that were both close to our real names and to a disease or disorder. As a result, Ricky became Rickets, faring a whole lot better than my good friend, Phyllis, who is now referred to as Syph for short.
“Hey, Rickets, are you the charge nurse tonight?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, Lupus is,” he says, referring to a nurse named Lucy. “But she’s tied up at the moment with a Five-Year-Old Head Lac in Room Four who is trying out for a role in the next Exorcist movie. You here for the PNB in Room Two?”
“I am.”
He hands me a clipboard containing the code sheets—a written summary of what happened during the attempts to resuscitate.
“Has the family been notified?” I ask.
“There’s a daughter who apparently found him and called it in. She was here when he first arrived but I don’t know if she’s still here or not. Check with Constance.” Constance, who was hired after the nicknaming session, has remained just Constance, probably a good thing since her last name is Pate and I’m pretty sure she’d be known as Constipation by now.
“Do you know where she is?”
Rickets gives me an apologetic look and shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s been a zoo here tonight.”
“Can you log me onto a computer so I can review the PNB’s chart?”
“Sure.” Rickets gets me into the computerized charting program and then leaves me to my own devices. After grabbing a notepad and pen, I glance at the data at the bottom of the code sheet and write down the man’s name—Harold Minniver—and his age, which is seventy-two. Next I look up his chart on the computer and start taking notes. A scan of his medication list shows that he was on several heart drugs as well as one for high blood pressure, and his medical history includes a three-vessel heart bypass surgery five years ago. So far so good, I think, since these facts make the likelihood his death is attributable to some type of cardiac event that much higher. I switch to the nurse’s narrative section but there is nothing entered there yet. This isn’t too surprising; charting sometimes takes a backseat to actual care when things get hectic. Stuff gets written down as it’s done, but sometimes the notes are scribbled on whatever’s handy—paper towels, the bedsheets, the palm of a hand—and then entered into the computer chart later. A quick scan of the code sheets tells me that Constance was the primary on the case, so I’ll have to wait to talk to her before I can get a thorough history of the night’s events.
I move into a section of the chart that contains documentation by Mr. Minniver’s primary physician. Here I see that the patient underwent a cardiac catheterization just two weeks ago following an episode of chest pain. Curious, I click on the tab that takes me to the cardiologist’s notes and feel my hopes for a quick resolution sink faster than the blood count on a hemorrhaging patient: the cath showed no blockage of any sort, meaning Minniver most likely died of something other than a heart attack.
Since the nurses are all still busy and I have yet to see Constance appear, I head for the room holding Mr. Minniver’s body. He is lying on a stretcher with a sheet across his pelvis and various tubes sticking out of his body. There is an IV in each arm, a breathing tube protruding from his mouth, and a urinary catheter snaking out from beneath the sheet. His chest is covered with little stickers from the cardiac monitors and the EKG machine, and there are also two large pads—one on his upper right chest area and one on the lower left—that are connected to the defibrillator. His skin is cold to the touch and reddish-blue in color, and I can see the edges of a darker purple hue indicative of lividity beginning to form along his back. His hair, which is sparse, white, and short, is sticking up in little tufts along the sides of his head. The top of his head is bald.
The door to
“Hey, Rickets, are you the charge nurse tonight?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, Lupus is,” he says, referring to a nurse named Lucy. “But she’s tied up at the moment with a Five-Year-Old Head Lac in Room Four who is trying out for a role in the next Exorcist movie. You here for the PNB in Room Two?”
“I am.”
He hands me a clipboard containing the code sheets—a written summary of what happened during the attempts to resuscitate.
“Has the family been notified?” I ask.
“There’s a daughter who apparently found him and called it in. She was here when he first arrived but I don’t know if she’s still here or not. Check with Constance.” Constance, who was hired after the nicknaming session, has remained just Constance, probably a good thing since her last name is Pate and I’m pretty sure she’d be known as Constipation by now.
“Do you know where she is?”
Rickets gives me an apologetic look and shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s been a zoo here tonight.”
“Can you log me onto a computer so I can review the PNB’s chart?”
“Sure.” Rickets gets me into the computerized charting program and then leaves me to my own devices. After grabbing a notepad and pen, I glance at the data at the bottom of the code sheet and write down the man’s name—Harold Minniver—and his age, which is seventy-two. Next I look up his chart on the computer and start taking notes. A scan of his medication list shows that he was on several heart drugs as well as one for high blood pressure, and his medical history includes a three-vessel heart bypass surgery five years ago. So far so good, I think, since these facts make the likelihood his death is attributable to some type of cardiac event that much higher. I switch to the nurse’s narrative section but there is nothing entered there yet. This isn’t too surprising; charting sometimes takes a backseat to actual care when things get hectic. Stuff gets written down as it’s done, but sometimes the notes are scribbled on whatever’s handy—paper towels, the bedsheets, the palm of a hand—and then entered into the computer chart later. A quick scan of the code sheets tells me that Constance was the primary on the case, so I’ll have to wait to talk to her before I can get a thorough history of the night’s events.
I move into a section of the chart that contains documentation by Mr. Minniver’s primary physician. Here I see that the patient underwent a cardiac catheterization just two weeks ago following an episode of chest pain. Curious, I click on the tab that takes me to the cardiologist’s notes and feel my hopes for a quick resolution sink faster than the blood count on a hemorrhaging patient: the cath showed no blockage of any sort, meaning Minniver most likely died of something other than a heart attack.
Since the nurses are all still busy and I have yet to see Constance appear, I head for the room holding Mr. Minniver’s body. He is lying on a stretcher with a sheet across his pelvis and various tubes sticking out of his body. There is an IV in each arm, a breathing tube protruding from his mouth, and a urinary catheter snaking out from beneath the sheet. His chest is covered with little stickers from the cardiac monitors and the EKG machine, and there are also two large pads—one on his upper right chest area and one on the lower left—that are connected to the defibrillator. His skin is cold to the touch and reddish-blue in color, and I can see the edges of a darker purple hue indicative of lividity beginning to form along his back. His hair, which is sparse, white, and short, is sticking up in little tufts along the sides of his head. The top of his head is bald.
The door to
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