oh, the irony

Recently, a very memorable, unforgettable patient was discharged from our trauma floor after "living" with us for quite some time. So that the HIPAA Gestapo do not come running after me with sharp objects, I won't disclose too many details about who this patient was or the sordid details of her very sordid injuries, except that they were not pretty and required many weeks of healing and grafts and stuff. And when I tell you that this patient was, quite possibly, the most challenging patient of my very short nursing career thus far, it still doesn't fully paint the picture, but anyone I work with will know EXACTLY who I am talking about. Because everyone I work with has been her nurse at some point, and knows very personally and intimately the struggle of caring for such a patient who grates on your last remaining nerve.

I was talking to a close friend about this patient (HIPAA, I was good! I promise!) and how drained I would be after just half a shift of caring for this patient. So she asks me to explain why this patient was so much more challenging than some of the other patients I've had. Well, I tell her, where do I begin? First, she cried ALL NIGHT LONG. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Without a break, without taking time to sleep. When awake, you could hear the cries all over the unit - you couldn't escape them. Secondly, she cried aloud about everything, and it was a constant struggle to keep her placated because her communication skills stunk. Was she cold? Hot? Hungry? Thirsty? And she needed help with EVERYTHING. Even the simplest of things, like pulling her sheets up or down, or changing the channel on her TV. She pooped and peed constantly. We were constantly wiping her backside, a process which made her cry even more and sometimes even pee and poop while we were cleaning her. Her nurse had to go in every five minutes. She was calm once you were in the room with her, but then began the cries again the moment you left. You couldn't get anything else done, like charting or taking care of your other patients, for more than a five minute stretch. I mean, how could ANYONE put up with this, day after day, night after night?

And when I am done telling my friend this story, I am genuinely frustrated in remembrance of the struggle. Somehow, my friend is shaking. Hard. Tears streaming down her cheeks. Biting her lip to keep from letting out a huge, raucous guffaw. Well, I'm pissed! How dare she laugh at me?

Then it hits me exactly why she's laughing, exactly why she is probably just waiting for August and the following months after that, excited to see just how well I'm going to adjust to motherhood after telling a story like this.