A little pimpage.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me direct your attention to a friend and fellow blogger, Lt. Michael Morse over at Rescuing Providence.

I have come upon many med blogs here in the blogging world, but few have moved me like Michael's has. His writing puts you in his shoes and gives you a glimpse into the range of raw emotions that come with the job. If you enjoy his blog, you really should check out his book. You will not be disappointed.




Oh and Michael, I knew you couldn't stay away. :)

I hate Mondays.

I ran smack dab into doom.

Finished a 9 hour shift at the spa and headed to Wally-World for the makings for chili. Mmmm... chili... Right, so I was chatting with my sister and swung the car door shut and pinned my naughty finger half way in the door. I looked down a watched my keys skitter underneath the car JUST out of reach. The door is locked. So I yanked. And cursed and then cursed some more. And then cursed even more. I called the Lieutenant in hysterics as I climbed back into my car. When I couldn't sit and wait anymore, I headed to Small town ER.

Got me some x-rays, some good natured ribbing and one percoset.

Now I am soaking the blood out through the cauterized hole the nice PA made for me and typing very slowly with my left hand. And enjoying the percoset buzz. And trying to stay awake.

Of course I know you people want to see the carnage, so I will get those to you when I don't feel so loopy.






The percoset has worn off so I finally have the brain power to post this. Here you go. This was shortly after they burnt a nice little vent hole in my nail. Blehck.

Make it go away.

That impending feeling of doom.

Maybe it's the quarter hourly PVCs I'm throwin.

Maybe its low blood sugar.

Maybe it's the fact that I am wathcing My Girl.

Maybe its going to be how it always is and have some horrible, mind-numbingly bad call.



Either way, I just want this feeling to go away. Blehck.

New Chapter

For those that follow.

It's just so liberating!

My phone has been on silent for the last 6.5 hours.

I missed four text messages, three voicemails and I don't care.

I have done nothing except make myself a delicious dinner, set up our new wireless router and watch brain numbing tv in my jammies with three doggies piled on top of me.

I have the day off of work tomorrow.

I get to spoon with my incredibly and utterly sexy husband in the morning.

Life is good.

The choice is yours...

You can vote on my next act of pretend rebellion.

To pierce or not to pierce.

I want my tragus redone. Every vote counts. The fate of my ear is in your hands. Choose wisely.

And while you choose, my new favorite song from my new favorite movie. Gosh I love Jay Baruchel.




3-0 people. I wonder what the Lieutenant votes...

Phrase of the day...

"Awww c'mon you know I was just kidding little miss snippy pants :)"

MISSING:

If anyone has seen my Motivation, please send it right on back. I have a lot of work and house cleaning/organizing to do and I just can't seem to get it done without her.

I truly appreciate it.




.

Brain Dump

My head is filled with cobwebs and fog and I am surprised I haven't left the house without a damn shirt on. I also got my ass handed to me this weekend. Both in call volume and also with a head to head blow out with a full timer. It was just *so* much fun.

There's nothing like being told the many ways you suck at life to perk a girl up.

But a text message requesting to be friends makes it aaaaaall better. *snort*

Scared doesn't cut it.

We all trickled into the driveway turning an empty concrete slab into a mini-parking lot. It has long been a Sunday tradition. Mom cooks, dad frets and we all eat ourselves silly. It is brat day and they have been simmering on the stove since before church. Mom's kitchen smells like a little slice of heaven. We all take our places at the table, built to feed a family of six now expanded to accommodate all of us, including the grand kids. The prayer is said and bowls of steaming food are passed this way and that. We chat, we laugh and we are all happy.

Lizzy is proudly sitting across of me. She has recently graduated to a stool in the chair. The same stool her mom sat on as a child. She reaches for a chip and Rick happily hands it to her with a reminder to be careful. Orange powdered cheese smears across her smiling face.

We all turn and look as her little face turns red. He gags and gags again. Her mom picks her up and pats her back. Everything in the room freezes. She gags some more and tries to cough. Her eyes are wide and her face red clinging to her mom "HELP ME!" Without blinking three chairs race away from the table. My brain has shut off and everything is happening like I am watching as a seperate person.

I'm on my knee and Lizzy is flipped over it. My left hand cradling her chest and my right hitting her in the back between her shoulders. A thin line of orange drool spans between her little mouth and the linoleum. Slowly it turns to a steady stream of vomit. As the puddle on the floor stops growing, she takes a deep breath and lets out the most heart warming scream I have ever heard. I hand her back to her mother as I bite back the tears that are pooling in my eyes. This is the first puddle of vomit I have ever been thankful for.

The Neverending Story

Not the one with the dog-dragon thing and the kid that wears the same sweater every day... I'm talking about tattoos. Now before you get all huffy and defensive, let me put it out there that I have one. A rather large one at that. One that will eventually wilt and closely resemble a willow tree, but whatever... I'm okay with that.

I have always been fascinated by tattoos. Whether or not it was intended, every tattoo comes with a story. That story may have inspired that tattoo or it very well may go the other way around. In fact, I remember very clearly the day I came home with my shirt tied to the side in an 80's flashback and my jeans unbuttoned and rolled down. I turned around and proudly displayed the masterpiece the artist and I created, planned and perfected. My mom immediately reached out to peel the "puff paint" off of me as there was no way this needle-phobic would have a real tattoo. Of course I yelled and informed her that it was indeed one hell of an expensive scab she was picking at. My dad got up and walked away.

Everyone asks me what the story is behind the tattoo. There really isn't one. I wanted one, but wanted something unique. Something no one else could stake a claim to. Something I helped create. It really has no deep meaning that I can identify. Sure, I was smack dab in the middle of my streak of defiance and rebellion, but that wasn't it. I wanted something beautiful and something in this world that was mine and mine alone.

I hear it everywhere that my generation is going to be the first to fill the nursing homes with 'mutilated' bodies. I really couldn't disagree more. Every time I ask these people if they have been to Old Vet's Place. Because if they have, they will realize we are not the first generation. There are several that came before us that bear the scars and memorials on their arms, chests, legs and hearts. I am usually rewarded with a blank stare that can do nothing more than blink a few times. When I take them to the hospital I notice the tattoos and I want to know the story, but I don't ask, afraid of what the story might do to me or them. Even so, I know it is there hiding somewhere in the pigment.

So what's your story?

Hello! Hello in der!

Yeah, nothing. That's what I've got.


Sorry I have nothing of interest to say as of late. My boring life is starting to permeate into my now boring blog.



So say hi and leave a comment because I'm needy like that.

Unacceptable

So I have been on a quest to eat healthier and lose some weight. I don't HAVE to by any means, but it sure would be nice if I didn't have to do the "jeans squat" after I finally get the zipper to close. I thought I have been doing very well. I even went so far as to take a five pound weight and test my scale at home. It appeared that it was correct even though I did not re-test this theory.

I have been noticing the little needle slowly but surely travel a little less every time I hopped on the dreaded thing. I was finally back down to 151. I was happy. My jeans were happy. Everyone was happy.

Until my most recent appointment. I happily hopped on, sparing the tech by usual smart assed quips about scales anticipating the affirmation of my weight. And then the numbers appeared.

162.

There is no way on God's green Earth that I gained 11 pounds in two days. There is no way I weigh 162. My jeans fit better than ever, I FEEL better than ever and I tested my scale dammit! The tech was sweet and delicately delivered the "numbers don't matter" speech. She was awesome and kind but I was still miffed.

Flash forward to the NP. The minute she walked in the room she was condescending and nasty. She commented on my weight (which even at 162 is still in the "normal" range for my height). Some other *wonderful* things happened that I will spare myself the embarrasment and you the details, but trust me when I say, she almost got a foot to the face. By the time she left the room I was on the verge of tears.

I went straight to the nearest Kohl's and got my sister on the phone. Between the NP bashing with my sister and the two new pairs of shoes (I actually did need them) I felt a little better. The true satisfaction came from the letter I wrote to the hospital. I'm not sure if it will do any good, but you can better believe the next time I see my regular doc, she will get a copy of the letter and an earful.



And I did find out some good/bad news. Diagnostic tests for IF are in fact covered by my insurance. This is GREAT news. The bad news is that I have already paid more money that I would like to admit to the hospital for the preliminary testing they did. I am wondering if it is even worth the headache to try and submit that back to the insurance company. After all, they still haven't figured out my claim from August 2007.



.

Grab the tissues...

A phenominal story over at Confessions of a Pioneer Woman.

Grr...

I hate writing cover letters. I am horrible at talking about myself and blah blah blah. I think I might cry if I don't even get an interview. I am actually wondering if it would be better to go and apply in person at the hospital. Who the heck knows...

Do I *really* need to be a certified Medical Assistant? Really?

For you EMT types out there...

I need an opinion...

A certain training officer organized a training that involved direct feedback from each EMT.

One patient (yours truly) and two EMTs. Longboarding is in progress.

All the other EMTs in attendance are watching the skill being performed. After the scenario, each EMT has to write down one good thing and one thing to work on for each EMT that was involved in the scenario. Names are not required.

Basically blind feedback.

Yay or nay?



All feedback is greatly appreciated. Depending upon how this goes, I may utilize this in the future for other scenarios. Hopefully they don't skin me alive and send me up the flagpole by my toes...

No one could say it better.

Thanks LawDog for posting it.

Here is the direct link as well. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TG4fe9GlWS8


*Photo borrowed from Will*

Weekend Update

Friday night I was escorted by the brothers to the theatre. Will, being the rockstar that he is paid for Rick and me. Unfortunately, I think I lost more brain cells than it was worth to watch Tropical Thunder. Although you could have been misled by the many guffaws of laughter that I let out. Overall, it was pretty dumb.

Saturday I worked all day and made a record in tips. We also had the sister and her troops over for dinner. We were having a swell time until the power went out. Nothing like having a 6, 4 and 1.5 year old freaking out and trying to feel your way around the house to get to them. Thankfully, no toes were injured in this search and rescue mission. I did realize though, that I have far too many candles in my house. They were slowly collected from every room and placed in the living room. The littlest of the bunch thought it was great and continued running, well the off-balanced version of running, around the kitchen and living room. They soon left for their home with modern day ammenities and I packed a bag to shower at the station. Of course as soon as our gear and everything else that goes with it loaded into the truck, the power came back on. We headed back into the house and finished the evening watching Julia Roberts do her damndest to wreak havoc on her bestest buds nuptuals.

Sunday started late. Slept in, enjoyed each other's company and dined on french toast for breakfast. Then we headed off to the state park to take the two bigger beasts for a much-needed walk. Henri isn't good on the leash but walks perfectly without it but rules are rules and she had to remain on the leash. 15 minutes into the hike, she got the hang of it and I could let most of the leash out and she would stay put. The Lieutenant had some issues with Montana as she just wanted to run after everything her super sonic nose picked up on. Eventually she got the hang of it too and it turned out to be a nice long walk resulting in flaming thighs for Bernice. I'm thinking I need to pick up excercising again and I have an elyptical on my wish list for Christmas.

Later we had a PI that had us all scratching our heads and wondering if the patient was having some identity issues and somehow thought he was Luke Duke in the General Lee. I also recived a marriage proposal from this very same man. I felt compelled to respectfully decline. He got a ride on the whirly-bird based solely on mechanism of injury since once we finally got him extracated we barely found a scratch on him. Go figure. (The 'finally' is based on the idea that when someone is stuck in a compacted vehicle they generally want to be removed, but not this guy. He kept grabbing the vehicle as we tried to pull him out stating he was fine. A touch more than annoying, you could say.)

Sunday evening, the Lieutenant and I reinstated a tradition we started way back when he first moved to second shift. Sunday dinners home-cooked by us. After a trip to the local grocery, steaks, potatoes and asparagas were prepped and prepared and devoured. Of course the evening was much calmer with the help of a new-found friend.




I wonder if I will ever know boredom. I doubt it.

Huzzah!

The dog barking ticket has been resolved. The attorney decided to write it off and dismiss it. Thanks to the neighbor that called to complain but couldn't call the attorney back. Bottom line is, it wasn't habitual so it didn't apply. Go us.

Nothing terribly exciting going on. Had some interesting calls lately, but I just can't seem to my frustrations into words. Truth is, I just don't have the brain power. So until I come up with something of interest I will remain Boring Bernice.

Have a safe and fun weekend.

It's the little things.

Yesterday was a rough day. When I finally pulled into my driveway, I knew I only had a few minutes before I would have to leave again. I put the car in park and trudged to the mailbox. When I opened the door, there was a white little package sitting patiently for me. Puzzled, I reached in and pulled out the package, barely noticing the stack of bills that came with it. The address label caught my eye... Australia? I squealed in anticipation and delight.

My long time friend had sent me a package! I sat in my car with the door wide open and opened ripped the package open. I read the card through my blurred sight. First I pulled out a snappy new bracelet that lights up in seizure-inducing patterns. Next came the color and cuddle me turtle complete with a set of four markers. Then came the cap with AUSTRALIA across the front. Then I felt something squishy. I unwrapped it and saw that she had sent me the most magnificent bar of chocolate known to mankind, but it was MELTED! I guess it couldn't withstand the 90+ degree heat of the day. (It went in the freezer and I intend to eat the entire thing before work tonight!) The last gift that I pulled out made me all out cry. I am a big ol' sap and this just did me in. It is small but the thought that went into it is just well, so friggin awesome.



It is my very own fertility pig. Seriously, C. I love you and you are just amazing.


Now all I have to do is save up to buy that plane ticket to visit her so I can tackle her and hug her until she turns blue.

That's better...

My resume has been sent to the Little Local Hospital for two open positions, both Medical Assistant. It is literally a block from the spa where I work part time so I could keep my hours there as well. So cross your fingers, do some voodoo chants or just think happy thoughts. Depending upon how bad the pay cut would be, it could be very very good. Very good.

So now we wait.

Rough...

I typed a post about the weekend and blogger deleted it.

Blood, drama and long nights sum up my weekend. Someone remind me again why I gave up caffeine...