Prince Too Charming
I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with being charming. In just the right amounts it can be a very attractive personality trait. It's when people slather on charm like it's going out of style that I become a little more sceptical. Even the Bible warns us about the deceitful nature of too much charm.
Tuesday night, or what Amy might call "my Friday", (which simply means it's my last night working for the week) everything seemed to be going well. I'd had most of my patients for the last 2 nights thus giving me a clear sense of familiarity with both their medical conditions and their families. For the most part everyone could care for themselves to a certain extent except for my patient in room 199, who being 100 years old and struck down with pneumonia gave me reason enough not to care that he required a little more personal attention then my other 5 patients. Just a day earlier the doctor had addressed the patient's code status with the family, and they agreed to make the patient a chemical code only, meaning that if something were to happen to him we would only administer life saving medications in an attempt to save his life - no CPR, no intubation, no defibrillation.
He didn't look good. Which really it's strange that we say that because generally sick people don't look good, they look sick! Yet we nurses constantly say it to each other knowing that the other person knows what we're really trying to say. I suppose it's more or less code talk for - "This patient looks like they're about to die." Thus I wasn't surprised when The Patrolwoman called me into the room and I found the patient not breathing. As protocol goes, I called the code and waited for what seemed like a year before the code team arrived, pushed 1 round of Epi, and then called the time of death after getting all persnickety and stating the obvious that the patient wasn't "circulating" and therefore it was inevitable that he would die.
I felt so helpless. With a room full of docs and ICU nurses I felt this overwhelming need to present myself as professional, when really all I wanted to do was sit next to that bed and mourn for my patient.
What follows next is even worse then the death itself and really, truly calls for professionalism. You call the family, you call organ donor services, clean up the body, fill out mounds of paperwork, ask the family to sign the death certificate, call the funeral home, and then send the body away to eventually be buried. Somewhere in between all this chaos you manage to find time to cry some more and comfort the family. Then comes what I like to call the crash and burn. All this time you've been functioning solely on the adrenaline attained from the initial code 99. Now it's worn off and you more or less feel like vomiting and then going to bed for 2 or 3 days. Needless to say, the rest of my night went a little more smoothly.
At shift change that morning I was beginning to feel better, but not surprisingly, anxious to clock out and go home. As promised the day before, Oatmeal's protege stopped in for his usual morning chat. He asked how my night went, to which I explained that I had someone code and die, but otherwise things had smoothed themselves over and the night wasn't half bad, which really is quite optimistic coming from me, especially considering the circumstances! He quickly replied with something to the effect of "Oh, well he saw the beautiful and sexy nurse taking care of him and decided that he had seen all that he ever needed to see, and thus decided that now was as good a time as ever." Geez Louise! I haven't felt that embarrassed since Santa Claus told The Second what my mother used to call my situation when I was little. Urg!
Unfortunately as flattering as the statement was, I just couldn't take it at face value. I had to go and dissect, and question, and analyze the whole thing until I had made myself just plain mad. For whatever reason that single comment triggered a flood of memories that I really would've rather left buried and forgotten. I suddenly saw myself back in that little apartment on Eastview Terrace, with that certain someone, who within a second's time grabbed me, kissed me, and told me that I was "worth my weight in gold", which really isn't squat diddily, but at the time that didn't matter to me. I believed what he said. In all my silly foolishness I believed at that moment, that he loved me, only to come to find that he never "had feelings for me like that."
Yet even more pathetic then the fact that I remember that day so vividly is that it seems so unreal that it even happened at all. I suppose a little of that stems from the fact that the girl who thought she loved that man, is so very different from the woman writing this blog. I suppose too I just wish I could believe everyday that I was so supposedly wonderful.All that flattery is just way to deceitful for me. It's too much for me to handle. I got burned over those types of lines once before and I'd feel even more foolish if I let myself do it again.
I'm definitely more secure in who I am and I can actually look in the mirror and stare back at a reflection that ain't half bad. But when it comes to what men think of me, I'd rather not know, that way I don't have to wonder if it's the truth or just a bunch of sugarcoated B.S. I'm not saying that I don't enjoy compliments, because heaven knows they're really quite wonderful, especially when they come from someone you love. I guess really what it comes down to is being able to forget the past and not judging other people and their actions according to what someone else has done. There's nothing wrong with keeping your guard up. It's when it gets in the way of enjoying life's simple joys that you realize maybe you need to loosen up a bit.
Tuesday night, or what Amy might call "my Friday", (which simply means it's my last night working for the week) everything seemed to be going well. I'd had most of my patients for the last 2 nights thus giving me a clear sense of familiarity with both their medical conditions and their families. For the most part everyone could care for themselves to a certain extent except for my patient in room 199, who being 100 years old and struck down with pneumonia gave me reason enough not to care that he required a little more personal attention then my other 5 patients. Just a day earlier the doctor had addressed the patient's code status with the family, and they agreed to make the patient a chemical code only, meaning that if something were to happen to him we would only administer life saving medications in an attempt to save his life - no CPR, no intubation, no defibrillation.
He didn't look good. Which really it's strange that we say that because generally sick people don't look good, they look sick! Yet we nurses constantly say it to each other knowing that the other person knows what we're really trying to say. I suppose it's more or less code talk for - "This patient looks like they're about to die." Thus I wasn't surprised when The Patrolwoman called me into the room and I found the patient not breathing. As protocol goes, I called the code and waited for what seemed like a year before the code team arrived, pushed 1 round of Epi, and then called the time of death after getting all persnickety and stating the obvious that the patient wasn't "circulating" and therefore it was inevitable that he would die.
I felt so helpless. With a room full of docs and ICU nurses I felt this overwhelming need to present myself as professional, when really all I wanted to do was sit next to that bed and mourn for my patient.
What follows next is even worse then the death itself and really, truly calls for professionalism. You call the family, you call organ donor services, clean up the body, fill out mounds of paperwork, ask the family to sign the death certificate, call the funeral home, and then send the body away to eventually be buried. Somewhere in between all this chaos you manage to find time to cry some more and comfort the family. Then comes what I like to call the crash and burn. All this time you've been functioning solely on the adrenaline attained from the initial code 99. Now it's worn off and you more or less feel like vomiting and then going to bed for 2 or 3 days. Needless to say, the rest of my night went a little more smoothly.
At shift change that morning I was beginning to feel better, but not surprisingly, anxious to clock out and go home. As promised the day before, Oatmeal's protege stopped in for his usual morning chat. He asked how my night went, to which I explained that I had someone code and die, but otherwise things had smoothed themselves over and the night wasn't half bad, which really is quite optimistic coming from me, especially considering the circumstances! He quickly replied with something to the effect of "Oh, well he saw the beautiful and sexy nurse taking care of him and decided that he had seen all that he ever needed to see, and thus decided that now was as good a time as ever." Geez Louise! I haven't felt that embarrassed since Santa Claus told The Second what my mother used to call my situation when I was little. Urg!
Unfortunately as flattering as the statement was, I just couldn't take it at face value. I had to go and dissect, and question, and analyze the whole thing until I had made myself just plain mad. For whatever reason that single comment triggered a flood of memories that I really would've rather left buried and forgotten. I suddenly saw myself back in that little apartment on Eastview Terrace, with that certain someone, who within a second's time grabbed me, kissed me, and told me that I was "worth my weight in gold", which really isn't squat diddily, but at the time that didn't matter to me. I believed what he said. In all my silly foolishness I believed at that moment, that he loved me, only to come to find that he never "had feelings for me like that."
Yet even more pathetic then the fact that I remember that day so vividly is that it seems so unreal that it even happened at all. I suppose a little of that stems from the fact that the girl who thought she loved that man, is so very different from the woman writing this blog. I suppose too I just wish I could believe everyday that I was so supposedly wonderful.All that flattery is just way to deceitful for me. It's too much for me to handle. I got burned over those types of lines once before and I'd feel even more foolish if I let myself do it again.
I'm definitely more secure in who I am and I can actually look in the mirror and stare back at a reflection that ain't half bad. But when it comes to what men think of me, I'd rather not know, that way I don't have to wonder if it's the truth or just a bunch of sugarcoated B.S. I'm not saying that I don't enjoy compliments, because heaven knows they're really quite wonderful, especially when they come from someone you love. I guess really what it comes down to is being able to forget the past and not judging other people and their actions according to what someone else has done. There's nothing wrong with keeping your guard up. It's when it gets in the way of enjoying life's simple joys that you realize maybe you need to loosen up a bit.
posted by Patti RN | 5:47 PM
1 Comments:
and you wonder why we don't like this grits, cream of wheat, or whatever protege. first, all girls have to realize that for guys kissing and other physical stuff means maybe 3 percent IF THAT for them what it means for us. the other thing we have to realize is that guys who kiss girls for no apparent reason than in the whim of a moment or to experiment are not even worth our friendship because you really hurt that person. i know i have done it to others, the friendship died, and i pay the price. i was, i am not worthy of them.
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