Author's NB: I was having a conversation with a doctor about which field contained more insane patient shenanigans, and who had to put up with more. It was tonight when I was trying to get the stupid Augmentim to dissolve that I thought of this story.
Because I don't like writing about myself, I will dedicate and base it upon another one of my nursing sisters!! Hahah Erin has an awesome Foetus!!!
Anyways….
Chapter One:
Of handovers
It can always be counted upon that staffing levels, especially in our profession will never be sufficient to a) meet patient demand, b) ensure patient safety, c) keep us happy and most importantly, d) allowing enough nurses on that the majority of us can sit on our arses in the office discussing which doctor is shagging which nurse in which consultant's break room or which family member of which patient is the greatest jack arse to have congealed.
Please to not be offended or rather, as it stands, annoyed at one's flippant honesty, but one must have a rather self serving, gallows or otherwise insidiously warped sense of humour to maintain a safe functioning mind in practice. Especially nursing.
Medicine, on the other hand, is our mortal enemy. Our goal, and we teach it to our young as quickly as possible, is to be certain that the doctor knows his place – which is at the beckon call of the ward sisters and their powerfully persuasive Matron. The lowliest of doctors, house surgeons, are to be trained to ensure that they will carry out the requests of the sisters.
The patient with a BP of 80/60, we want gelofusion.
The male patient who has not voided, but with a bladder scan result of 1,307ml, we want an IDC place insitu.
Do not chart Tramadol without at least Maxalon.
Do not chart codeine without lactulose aka, "pooh juice".
Oh, and please, remember to label each page of the fold out drug chart, ensure the "Allergies" box is filled in, correct date, route, frequency, and dose. The sister does not want to have to ring you at 2258hrs asking for a rechart as there's no way the HS can possibly mean 40 MILLILITRES of novarapid.
One more thing, chocolates. Keep your ward sisters happy and give us the foods we tell our patients to not touch.
Remember the old adage, behind every doctor is a skilled, well trained nurse who saves his arse, or, directed to the patient, be kind to nurses, we stop doctors from killing you.
Of course, the realm of medicine is of a different mechanism, no pun intended, when it comes to the matter of Autobots.
The Autobots tend to have a functioning medical unit made up of their CMO, Ratchet, known to be quite a surly fellow with a bedside manner, that, for all intents and purposes, is non-existent and a rather weighty wrench that can travel great distances at speed to strike those of nuisance in the back of the cranium. First Aid, a young medic, yet adequately skilled and with the soft spoken, pacifist leanings he would have made a fine nurse, actually…. Wheeljack, who's primary purpose when not finding new and exciting ways to blow his limbs off, can at times act as an assistant to Ratchet, and is in his own right, a fine repairer of damaged bots. Enter Hoist, one other such Autobot who's purpose in life can extend beyond hauling someone's dented and Sleeker scorched arse back to the Ark. And Perceptor, a well polished sort who's love tends to be in the realm of science, but when needed, is known to do his part and patch up a few trigger happy metallic idiots – he is also vastly knowledgeable in Transformer diseases of a "social" transmission type – Megatron wouldn't be the first to hit the high grade and then wake up next morning with something commonly referred to as a "hangover" (usually AKA known as "regrets") and sharing his berth with an "asteroid" – a rather harsh description of a real femme with curves… well, at least, he thought it was a femme. When the need takes them, a rather portly fellow with a heart problem or two of his own and a spiffy yellow hardhat, "Sparkplug" as he is known, will recall his mechanical training and assist his new found metallic chums.
Erin of course, enters at this stage, not as an employee of Ratchet and his posse of "slap backers" – meaning they slap you back together, nor part time acquaintance to attract a more gentler and pink clad type of viewer, Jem doll clasped firmly in bangled hand, is simply a passer by to these proceedings. Simply put, Erin was sitting her arse outside a local hospital that Ratchet happened to be dropping Spike off at to visit his ailing father – that portly descriptive is often a precursor to di-Ah-beeee-teeees, something which befalls those who indulge in a few too many puddings.
Ratchet waited, he noted the young sister, a rough uniform adorning her frame and the all important nurses' badge hanging from her lapel, and the dead give away, bags under the eyes.
You see, nurses tell you they love their job, that it is a calling, some, such as the writer of this little ditty, would say a vocation. The reality is, as much as we love our job, the general public has NFC as to what we do, what we really do.
Many a nurse will have heard many a time the ignorant comments regarding the following –
You wipe arse. Sucks to be you.
You clean up shit. Sucks to be you.
You have to put on adult diapers (on patients, not yourself, though at this point, let me mention management has considered this to cut back on toilet breaks). Sucks to be you.
You have to get the doctor's coffee. Sucks to be you.
You have to get the patients whatever they want. Suck to be you.
And so on, and so fourth.
In reality, the job description and tasks of the modern sister is long reaching and would not be given adequate justice in this piece if give proper mention.
Ratchet, in vehicle mode, approached young Erin, wondering if speaking to her would cause some form of cerebral disaster or heart cessation. Neither happened. Why? Well, despite the above public beliefs about our job revolving around, and consisting only of, arse wiping, your average sister is no idiot. We are taught to be observant, and those of amongst our number who are not gifted with such a trait, do not last long in the profession.
"So, an Autobot, huh?"
Erin spoke firmly, not bothering to look beyond her luke warm tea (coffee being contraindicated in pregnancy).
"What makes you think I'm an Autobot?"
Ratchet counted with his trade mark manner of vocal tone.
"One, you're an ambulance, if you were a Decepticon, you'd be a laughing stock".
Erin took a sip of that luke warm tea, and yes, it was disgusting, but when a sister has to work an eight and a half hour shift, which sometimes stretches longer because the work load demands, and no break is involved, that putrid luke warm tea that's busy crafting its own new superbug in the bottom of the kettle, tastes like something the Queen herself would sip over her morning Times.
"Two, you haven't laid waste to the hospital".
Erin inwardly cursed him and his code of ethics and general morality.
(Yes, it is immoral to lay waste to a hospital, especially a populated one).
"Clever".
"Like a shit house rat".
Erin was quick.
It's a trait amongst sisters that our movements are both physically swift and mentally alert to the point we can switch into auto pilot when a patient is dying.
Let it be known, that the amount of paper work needed when a patient dies on the ward is so gratuitous that our speed is fuelled by the knowledge of the hours of unpaid overtime we must endure at the tail end of our Matron's whip to complete.
"So, you come here often, or are you hanging out for a paramedic to rush you to some car crash?"
It was an honest enough question which Ratchet gave an honest enough answer.
"I dropped off a friend to visit his father".
"I'm sorry to hear that".
In a way, it is self-destructive that we are sorry people are in the hospital, if it wasn't for McDonalds, American Tobacco, booze, and morons we'd be out of a job – well, most of us.
"And you? Completed your designation shift?"
A rather formal way of asking a rather simple question.
"The shift is completed; the designated hours were slightly in difference to what is belayed upon my contract".
Two things, yes, Erin does talk like that.
And, as for most shifts in the nursing profession, we are there long after our shifts have officially ended.
So, next time you're in hospital, please, PLEASE, shit the bed after handover, then the morning staff can leave on time, please don't stop breathing, have a heart attack, self discharge, have a "tanty", or… well, just don't ask us for anything after 1445hrs unless it's the time… on second thoughts, don't even ask us about that.
The conversation from there became fluid:
"You enjoy your job?"
"Pays the bills".
"Mustn't have many bills".
"I'm here more then I'm at home, so no, not many bills".
"What specialty?"
"General surgical".
"Interesting".
"Yes".
"Not a talker?"
"My allotted quota of social interaction for the day is nearing its completion".
"Like that, is it?"
"Always".
"I know what you mean".
"Very few do".
"Tell me about it".
"I would, but I feel you probably know more about it then I do. Being a giant robot alien and all, you must be pretty long lived".
"I have been around the planet or two a few times".
"Sucks to be you".
"Most of the time, yes".
"And when it doesn't?"
"I'm in recharge".
"Or drunk?"
"To borrow a human saying, on the nose".
"I tend to be, yes".
"And you?"
"Drunk?"
"Well, now that you mention it…"
"No".
"Good to know".
"This is an odd conversation".
"It's the sanest I've had all day".
"Thinking of it, Mr. Giant alien robot, same".
"Ratchet".
"No, but I've got a couple of luer plugs in my pocket, oh, and this alcohol swab, but its kinda bent".
"No, my name is Ratchet, I'm trying to introduce myself".
"Oh. Good thing I have no shame, else I might feel embarrassed".
"Seems to be a common thing amongst nurses".
And indeed it is true.
The writer could go into detail about the more… intimate… parts of our job, but a simple mention of "rectum" should suffice in creating a mental image.
"You gonna tell me your name?"
"Erin. My name is Erin. I am a nurse. I like long walks on the beach, romantic dinners and poking dead things with a stick".
And thus the friendship of Erin the sister and Ratchet the CMO began.