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grrgoylI'm happy to report a happy (sort of) ending to the Ryan quandary. Friday he was talking "therapy, working it out." Saturday he was suddenly all "fuck this" and had kicked that loser John to the curb. This earned a big "GoooooooOOOOOO, Ryan!" from me. Because John, knowing full well that their relationship was on its last legs if something didn't change, didn't let that put a crimp in his weekend plans for getting trashed (again). Ryan is a great guy and I'm certain can find a man who will try a little harder to respect his feelings.
My biggest concern in the break-up was Ryan not being able to afford his condo, until he revealed that he's been paying his bills all along AND helping John with his credit cards. John is about 40 years old. This makes John a DOUBLE LOSER. As Ryan said (though with considerably less glee than I would have), "He's in for a rude awakening when he starts paying for his own stuff."
We did hang out most of the day Monday, first going out to lunch and then back here for an epic Rock Band session (no video documentation, sorry). I'm sad Ryan is alone again, but can't pretend that I'm not happy to have my friend back.
~*~
That was the happy part of my weekend. This is the unhappy part.
As I've said in the past, I look forward to Saturdays as an almost guaranteed easy night of work. The hospital is closed Sundays so every effort is made to avoid hospitalizing any animals, or at least no critical ones.
I'm used to the occasional exception. I'm not used to what I walked into this time, which was four animals on fluids, including one very large yellow lab stuffed into the largest recovery cage. He seemed to be snoring very loudly, taking great snorting, shuddering breaths. I glanced at his instruction sheet, where it said a.) WILL BITE and b.) force feed every 2 hours. Oh, fun. He was diagnosed with critical liver disease, possibly even cirrhosis (don't ask me how a dog gets cirrhosis).
The trouble started when I noticed his fluid pump wasn't even turned on. Remember on Saturdays there's a 4-hour gap between the day shift's departure and my arrival. 4 hours with no fluids running.
Then I stuck my head in the cage and noticed part of the IV line was pulled out and the bedding was totally soaked with blood from the open vein. That was when I decided to call Dr. E. who was in charge of the case.
I described the scene to her. Halfway through the conversation I suddenly realized Kane wasn't taking those deep, gasping breaths anymore. I mentioned this to her, who asked me to listen for a heartbeat. I couldn't hear anything, but large dogs are tricky with their barrel chests. So she asked me to touch his cornea to check for a reaction. I tapped my finger against his staring eye and he didn't even flinch. Not good.
Poor Kane was dead alright. I gave Dr. E. the owner's phone number. She assured me he'd been warned the dog's chances were slim, but he wanted to try something to save him.
So I was left to go over the course of events. My first reaction was anger that such a critical patient was left for me. Don't know where THAT decision came from. I make $9.50 an hour. My training encompasses the bare minimum of medical techniques. This poor dog's chances were cut in half the minute they all left and forgot to turn the fluid pump back on.
My second reaction, selfish as it sounds, was "Well, my night just got a lot easier." My sister the nurse assures me this isn't at all unusual among health care workers so I refuse to feel bad about it.
Dr. E. called back, and I made the mistake of offering the observation, "I suppose what I thought was snoring was actually agonal breathing (death throes, essentially)." "Yes, well," she replied somewhat archly, "It IS helpful to know the difference."
Hey, I didn't kill this dog. I don't think he died from my failure to recognize his emergency respiratory pattern as much as from probably slowly bleeding to death for 1-4 hours alone and unsupervised. And I don't get to see so much agonal breathing that it's instantly recognizable.
Just the weekend before I had walked into a madhouse. An emergency last-minute surgery had been performed on a dog whose stomach had torsed (flipped). I walked in during the middle of the anesthesia recovery process, which everyone else knows is a crucial period when the dog could go either way, regardless of age or health. The doctor sent all the techs home, and I was left to sit with the dog, my only instruction being, "Make sure he doesn't chew on the breathing tube as he starts to wake up."
The doctor went upstairs to take care of some things, leaving me with a walkie in case she needed to be summoned quickly. Shortly before she returned the dog had started making these intermittent hiccupping breaths, but he wasn't chewing the tube. He was also hooked to a heart monitor, which I thought surely would alarm or do something to indicate a problem.
The doc came back down, took one look and said, "Yeah, that's agonal breathing. He's dying on us." Sure enough, it was all over a few short minutes later. I felt bad because this was actually the third patient this doctor had lost that week. But, as my sister the nurse said, "Not to sound demeaning, but that's sort of like asking the janitor to sit with my patient after surgery." Not demeaning at all. It's a LOT like that. I'm flattered that everyone seems to think I know more than I do, but it's not so great when it costs animals their lives. I can clear an IV line when it's occluded, I can give injections and pills, I can (sometimes) force feed an anorexic animal, and that's about where my medical expertise ends.
(Warning: This part is REALLY gross, so stop reading now if you're at all squeamish) Anyway, poor Kane. I called Tery to fill her in. As with Buddy (the postop), she wanted to hear every detail to both make sure I wasn't guilty of any wrongdoing, and to be informed should any questions come up later about the situation. I worked on bagging Kane as we talked (I had her on speakerphone). Like I said, there was blood everywhere even before I removed the IV line completely. As I tried hoisting him out of the cage into the bag, I realized he had lost bowel control and black sticky poop was all over his underside. My hands were covered with both substances, and I didn't think twice about it (just like I didn't hesitate to touch his open eyeball) until Tery insisted I use gloves because of hepatitis, etc., which made sense. Once the gloves were on, I accidentally got a big handful of poop and a big whiff. That was the closest I've ever come to vomiting on the job. I had to sprint to the sink, taking deep cleansing breaths while I rinsed. Dead animal poop for some reason smells ten times worse than live.
I'm used to carrying 50-pound bags of cat litter in from the shed every week, with a bit of effort. Kane weighed 57 pounds alive, but "dead weight" is an appropriate term. 57 dead pounds are a hell of a lot heavier than 57 live pounds. Thus there was no chance of me bringing Kane out to the freezer. It was all I could do to drag him down to D-ward so if he started stinking it would at least be out of the way.
I was angry on the owner's behalf, though I doubt he'll be told exactly what happened. I made sure to mention to Dr. E. how often (at least once a month) I come in to find fluid pumps left off, and how the staff needed to start taking a quick ten seconds to doublecheck things before breezing out the door. I mean, I've stayed past the end of my shift up to 30 minutes trying to get a pump running okay, and these people run out the door and don't give it a second thought. "These people." Tery hates when I call them that. "These people are YOUR CO-WORKERS." she'll fume. I guarantee they think of J. and me as "that lazy overnight staff" so it goes both ways. She had nothing to say to that.
~*~
At last "The L Word" is over. God. If "Six Feet Under" was the best series finale we've ever seen, "L Word" had to be the worst. We were thrilled beyond words when the season premiere featured Jenny, easily the most hated character, being found dead in the pool. Until we realized the whole season would be one massive flashback, where every episode gave another person reason enough to want to see her dead, even more than us. Making the finale a big whodunit (with a comically repeated reference to that dangerous railing over the pool they need to get fixed) without ever revealing the answer. COME ON. Our DVR cut off the last 90 seconds, and thank god I just happened to find it at that moment playing elsewhere so we could finish it properly, because those last 90 seconds weren't any more illuminating, and it would have SUCKED to sit through the whole episode a second time hoping they were. Bleah, L Word. You SUCK.
~*~
The next in my popular art photography series:
One of her namesakes -- her Tufty Toes
She got legs//she knows how to use them
Okay, I promise to move on from the feet next time.
My biggest concern in the break-up was Ryan not being able to afford his condo, until he revealed that he's been paying his bills all along AND helping John with his credit cards. John is about 40 years old. This makes John a DOUBLE LOSER. As Ryan said (though with considerably less glee than I would have), "He's in for a rude awakening when he starts paying for his own stuff."
We did hang out most of the day Monday, first going out to lunch and then back here for an epic Rock Band session (no video documentation, sorry). I'm sad Ryan is alone again, but can't pretend that I'm not happy to have my friend back.
~*~
That was the happy part of my weekend. This is the unhappy part.
The sad tale of Kane the dog
As I've said in the past, I look forward to Saturdays as an almost guaranteed easy night of work. The hospital is closed Sundays so every effort is made to avoid hospitalizing any animals, or at least no critical ones.
I'm used to the occasional exception. I'm not used to what I walked into this time, which was four animals on fluids, including one very large yellow lab stuffed into the largest recovery cage. He seemed to be snoring very loudly, taking great snorting, shuddering breaths. I glanced at his instruction sheet, where it said a.) WILL BITE and b.) force feed every 2 hours. Oh, fun. He was diagnosed with critical liver disease, possibly even cirrhosis (don't ask me how a dog gets cirrhosis).
The trouble started when I noticed his fluid pump wasn't even turned on. Remember on Saturdays there's a 4-hour gap between the day shift's departure and my arrival. 4 hours with no fluids running.
Then I stuck my head in the cage and noticed part of the IV line was pulled out and the bedding was totally soaked with blood from the open vein. That was when I decided to call Dr. E. who was in charge of the case.
I described the scene to her. Halfway through the conversation I suddenly realized Kane wasn't taking those deep, gasping breaths anymore. I mentioned this to her, who asked me to listen for a heartbeat. I couldn't hear anything, but large dogs are tricky with their barrel chests. So she asked me to touch his cornea to check for a reaction. I tapped my finger against his staring eye and he didn't even flinch. Not good.
Poor Kane was dead alright. I gave Dr. E. the owner's phone number. She assured me he'd been warned the dog's chances were slim, but he wanted to try something to save him.
So I was left to go over the course of events. My first reaction was anger that such a critical patient was left for me. Don't know where THAT decision came from. I make $9.50 an hour. My training encompasses the bare minimum of medical techniques. This poor dog's chances were cut in half the minute they all left and forgot to turn the fluid pump back on.
My second reaction, selfish as it sounds, was "Well, my night just got a lot easier." My sister the nurse assures me this isn't at all unusual among health care workers so I refuse to feel bad about it.
Dr. E. called back, and I made the mistake of offering the observation, "I suppose what I thought was snoring was actually agonal breathing (death throes, essentially)." "Yes, well," she replied somewhat archly, "It IS helpful to know the difference."
Hey, I didn't kill this dog. I don't think he died from my failure to recognize his emergency respiratory pattern as much as from probably slowly bleeding to death for 1-4 hours alone and unsupervised. And I don't get to see so much agonal breathing that it's instantly recognizable.
Just the weekend before I had walked into a madhouse. An emergency last-minute surgery had been performed on a dog whose stomach had torsed (flipped). I walked in during the middle of the anesthesia recovery process, which everyone else knows is a crucial period when the dog could go either way, regardless of age or health. The doctor sent all the techs home, and I was left to sit with the dog, my only instruction being, "Make sure he doesn't chew on the breathing tube as he starts to wake up."
The doctor went upstairs to take care of some things, leaving me with a walkie in case she needed to be summoned quickly. Shortly before she returned the dog had started making these intermittent hiccupping breaths, but he wasn't chewing the tube. He was also hooked to a heart monitor, which I thought surely would alarm or do something to indicate a problem.
The doc came back down, took one look and said, "Yeah, that's agonal breathing. He's dying on us." Sure enough, it was all over a few short minutes later. I felt bad because this was actually the third patient this doctor had lost that week. But, as my sister the nurse said, "Not to sound demeaning, but that's sort of like asking the janitor to sit with my patient after surgery." Not demeaning at all. It's a LOT like that. I'm flattered that everyone seems to think I know more than I do, but it's not so great when it costs animals their lives. I can clear an IV line when it's occluded, I can give injections and pills, I can (sometimes) force feed an anorexic animal, and that's about where my medical expertise ends.
(Warning: This part is REALLY gross, so stop reading now if you're at all squeamish) Anyway, poor Kane. I called Tery to fill her in. As with Buddy (the postop), she wanted to hear every detail to both make sure I wasn't guilty of any wrongdoing, and to be informed should any questions come up later about the situation. I worked on bagging Kane as we talked (I had her on speakerphone). Like I said, there was blood everywhere even before I removed the IV line completely. As I tried hoisting him out of the cage into the bag, I realized he had lost bowel control and black sticky poop was all over his underside. My hands were covered with both substances, and I didn't think twice about it (just like I didn't hesitate to touch his open eyeball) until Tery insisted I use gloves because of hepatitis, etc., which made sense. Once the gloves were on, I accidentally got a big handful of poop and a big whiff. That was the closest I've ever come to vomiting on the job. I had to sprint to the sink, taking deep cleansing breaths while I rinsed. Dead animal poop for some reason smells ten times worse than live.
I'm used to carrying 50-pound bags of cat litter in from the shed every week, with a bit of effort. Kane weighed 57 pounds alive, but "dead weight" is an appropriate term. 57 dead pounds are a hell of a lot heavier than 57 live pounds. Thus there was no chance of me bringing Kane out to the freezer. It was all I could do to drag him down to D-ward so if he started stinking it would at least be out of the way.
I was angry on the owner's behalf, though I doubt he'll be told exactly what happened. I made sure to mention to Dr. E. how often (at least once a month) I come in to find fluid pumps left off, and how the staff needed to start taking a quick ten seconds to doublecheck things before breezing out the door. I mean, I've stayed past the end of my shift up to 30 minutes trying to get a pump running okay, and these people run out the door and don't give it a second thought. "These people." Tery hates when I call them that. "These people are YOUR CO-WORKERS." she'll fume. I guarantee they think of J. and me as "that lazy overnight staff" so it goes both ways. She had nothing to say to that.
~*~
At last "The L Word" is over. God. If "Six Feet Under" was the best series finale we've ever seen, "L Word" had to be the worst. We were thrilled beyond words when the season premiere featured Jenny, easily the most hated character, being found dead in the pool. Until we realized the whole season would be one massive flashback, where every episode gave another person reason enough to want to see her dead, even more than us. Making the finale a big whodunit (with a comically repeated reference to that dangerous railing over the pool they need to get fixed) without ever revealing the answer. COME ON. Our DVR cut off the last 90 seconds, and thank god I just happened to find it at that moment playing elsewhere so we could finish it properly, because those last 90 seconds weren't any more illuminating, and it would have SUCKED to sit through the whole episode a second time hoping they were. Bleah, L Word. You SUCK.
~*~
The next in my popular art photography series:
Series I: Favorite Parts of a Cat; Feet Part Two
One of her namesakes -- her Tufty Toes
She got legs//she knows how to use them
Okay, I promise to move on from the feet next time.
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Date: 2009-03-11 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-11 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-11 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-12 06:02 pm (UTC)Tery and I still yell that at each other at random intervals.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-14 12:41 am (UTC)