WHAT'S ALL THIS BRU-HA-HA?

When I was in college, my roommate and I were fans of Firesign Theater. We were especially fond of their album featuring a parody of an old time radio mystery show. This piece was entitled "Nick Danger, Third Eye." We could recite nearly the entire piece, word for word. If I had studied my physics as much as I listened to this album, I would probably have been able to invent time travel. I apologize, Richard Collier, I can't help you get back to Elise McKenna. (It occurs to me that my use of the word "album" dates me, doesn't it?)

Anyway, while watching a particularly graphic movie the other night, I started thinking about the way the movie industry has stripped us of our imaginations. We are bombarded in each and every one with graphic images of sex, blood/ gore, extra-terrestrial life, the spirit world -- and everything in between and beyond.

We don't listen much anymore -- we watch. Not that watching is bad -- it just limits us. I guess that's one reason I like to read. My imagination can conjure up more hideous looking monsters and more beautiful and sexy heroes than the FX people and central casting can come up with.

Especially when coupled with sound effects.

The radio sound effects people would squeeze a box of cornstarch to make the sound of a man crunching his way through the snow, and crinkle cellophane to simulate a crackling fire. There was always music to set an appropriate mood. A good cackle or blood-curdling scream could make your imagination go wild. Sex was easy -- you just make some smacking noises, breathy sighs and then cue the organist.

I wish there were still radio mystery shows to listen to.

Butler: "Why don't you come in out of the cornstarch and dry your mukluks by the fire.
Let me introduce myself: I am Nick Danger."

Danger: "No, let me introduce MYself: I am Nick Danger."

Butler: "If you're so smart, why don't you pick up your cues faster."

Danger: "Oh, are those my cues?"

Butler: "Yes, and they must be dry by now -- why don't you pull them up out of the
cellophane before they scorch."

FOLLOW UP TO "FIND THE MISTAKES IN THIS PICTURE"

FOLLOW UP:

I have been informed by a good friend (who wouldn't lie to me), of an additional mistake she found in the picture:

8. It's an enema bag.

Thanks, Tig. That's the biggest mistake of all.

Just a simple "Thank You"

I got a lovely thank you note in the mail the other day from the daughter of one of my former patients. She said she just wanted to say "thank you" for taking such good care of her Dad while he was in the unit.

Wow.

Just when you think that all you are doing is beating your head against a wall and that nobody really appreciates your work, and you're just wiping butts and pushing drugs, and . . . . . along comes somebody to pat you on the back and remind you that -- in the words of Carl W. Buechner: "They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel."

Makes me want to pass it on.

Find the mistakes in this picture

There are several mistakes in this picture. I found 7 of them. Use your assessment and observational skills to see if you can find them, too.

The mistakes I found, not necessarily in order of importance, are the following:

1. The nurse is not wearing gloves. Every good nurse knows that you should wear gloves when administrating IV medications. Just remember to take them off before you use the computer keyboard.

2. The IV tubing has fallen on the floor -- this opens the door for infection from those nasty little microbes that keep the ID doctors in practice.

3. This is a bag of Normal Saline -- the doctor specifically ordered D5NS, or something with a "D", a slanted squiggle and an "S" or a "5" in it.

4. This is the wrong tubing. It won't fit the new "wonderpump".

5. She's lost her patient. He took off running when he saw the IV needle, even though he has a Harley Davidson tattoo on his left arm and one that says "Bad to the Bone" on the other.

6. The nurse has on green shoes -- completely out of uniform, and besides, they don't match her lovely surgical scrub mu mu.

7. She answered her phone when the supervisor called to ask her to come in and help out on her night off. Now she is tripled up with 2 vents -- both on contact precautions, and a geri-psych who has sundowners and no Haldol on his med profile.

Let me know if you find more mistakes than these.

Thank God for Vacations!

Just got back from Cancun -- actually Playa del Carmen. What a paradise!! Can't upload my pictures here -- not sure why -- but this is a pretty good idea of the view I had for 11 glorious days . . . minus the fellow beach potatoes and all . . .

There were excursions to Cozumel for a couple of dives, Tulum, (went to Chicken Pizza and Coba last year), deep sea fishing, diving with the hotel dive shop (Dressel Diver's -- best guides around), Dos Ojos Cenote for another dive, Akumal, Playa del Carmen proper, including several hundred local shops, Captain Ron and Sharkeys, Senor Frog's, The Oasis and The Blue Parrot, (among other local establishments).

However, I did manage to get enough sun that my SO (who did not go along) said that if I had come back any more tan I would have needed a Green Card to get back into the States. He can be so darn cute sometimes.

Very relaxing trip. Needed that. Can't say enough good things about the hotel: Iberostar Quetzal in Playacar. Son muy simpaticos. It's nice to see the same faces every year. Makes it seem like you're visiting old friends. They even remember you from year to year. Hmmm . . . I wonder if that says more about them or about us.

My group starts planning for the trip in July each year. It's nice to have something to look forward to. I've already started saving for 2008 . . . only 11 1/2 more months to go!!

Guess that's why He's God

I feel so helpless. We have had a lot of young people in the unit lately. People who shouldn't be there. People with young families. People who have a lot of living left to do, but who manage to thwart our best efforts to save them and die anyway.

So helpless . . . . .

Your breathing can be supported. Drugs can support your heart rate and rhythm. More drugs can pretty much normalize your body chemistry. But we are only swatting flies -- treating symptoms. We can't bring back brain function. We can't bring YOU back to your family. Sometimes we can't even figure out why you are sick, or can't stop the progress of your disease.

God knows, and knows how to stop it. But He doesn't always let us in on the secret. We are left with unanswered questions, the humility of our inadequacy, and grieving young families. Sometimes the only thing we learn is that we don't know the answers. How frustrating it is to be so helpless!

I guess that's why He's the Almighty God, and we're not.

History among the clothespins

When my Mother died, she left behind her 83 years worth of -- history -- for her kids to wade through. My brother and I are in hip boots at this time, trying to decide what to keep and what to sell and what (sorry, Mom) to throw away.

Mom was a proud member of the Generation of Savers.

She saved old obituaries. I guess part of it was her genealogy hobby, but I have to believe part of it was the possibility to look through them, not find her own, and continue living. Knowing that she could find all of this information on the Internet was not enough to let her discard them, but that knowledge has allowed us to do so. Except for hers.

Being wary of throwing something important away, Mom kept all of her old financial records. Not just from the past few years -- we have been finding receipts dating back to the 1950's. After checking with her accountant, we have been able to shred most of those. They may qualify as antiques, but she was not famous, and there are a lot of non-famous pack rats in the world.

She also had a thing for clothespins. Her filing methods included clipping together receipts and unopened mail and other things she wanted to keep and putting the collection in a special place to be dealt with at a later date. Those special places became boxes. These in turn were eventually put in a closet. They are sort of miniature time capsules.

Speaking of unopened mail -- we have been able to put together quite a little cache of pennies and nickles from those foundations who send out "guilt change" in order to elicit a donation to their organization. I guess she thought that if she didn't open it, and didn't spend those nickles or pennies, she would not have the obligation to donate. She couldn't find it in herself to throw it away unopened (it contained MONEY after all), but kept them just in case she had a few unspent dollars to give away. She never did, and we don't either, but we have found the unmitigated gall to take the money off and throw the rest away. It is MONEY, after all.

Mom was one of those thoughtful people who placed crosses decorated with flowers on grave sites. Mostly relatives, a lot of friends, and sometimes just a barren grave site that looked forgotten. All of the miscellaneous rolls of ribbon, silk flowers, florist foam, etc, etc, used to make these are in her storage building. There are also, among other items, canning jars of all shapes and sizes, pictures (we'll get to them later) and frames, newspaper clippings, things too good to throw away, but replaced by better ones, as well as two (count 'em - two) freezers full of food (Mom was a widow and lived alone).

At this point, let me say that my Mother was not by any means eccentric. Quite normal, in fact, for someone of her generation. She just never threw anything out that might be "good stuff" or that she or someone else might need someday.

She had cassette tapes of sermons preached at her last 3 or 4 churches, several tapes (intermingled with the above) of grandchildren reciting Bible verses, cassette tapes of gospel singing (my parents belonged to a gospel singing quartet), pre-recorded tapes of gospel and Christian music -- literally hundreds of tapes. We've even found 8-track tapes, and a couple of reel-to-reel. (If you don't know what those are, look under "stone-age" on the Internet.)

And of course, the pictures. Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of pictures. Who are these people -- and are we related to them? Not having the time at this point to go through them all, we have adopted the practice of putting them in a box (actually about 20 boxes) for later perusal. I believe that when my brother and I die, our children will look into the boxes, say to each other "Who are these people -- and are we related to them?", close the boxes and put them away . . . for later perusal.

History repeats itself, you know.