Halloween 2016

On my first of many holidays in the ER, I spent 12 hours enduring the incessant ringing of call bells, 80% of which came from a 91-year old lady with a spinal fracture who was adamant about speaking to our unit’s management upon learning that she had been “deceived” because she had read my name on the whiteboard and assumed I would be Asian. Much to her dismay, I walked into her room, looking hospital-pale with my organs practically visible through my Irish skin and armed with an embarrassing lack of math skills, and she quickly determined that I was not in fact Asian. Meanwhile in the next room, a confused and head-injured woman who had gotten intoxicated and fallen down her stairs, rang her call bell. I answered it and asked what she needed to which she responded “I painted my horse”. Before I could stifle the impulse, I found myself asking why. “Umm duh”, she replied, “so it could be a unicorn”. Hard to argue. And just in time for her roommate to arrive on an old stretcher. Before I could say “welcome to the ER”, she was already demanding chemical relief. She gave the traditional med-seeking answer to her pain scale (hint: she was a 12 out of 10), and I went to grab her some meds and do her admission when I noticed her clutching her purse with a death grip (red flag). After a good deal of convincing, she handed it over. I raided the contents, and discovered that not only did this lady have a crap-ton of loose, unlabeled prescription meds, including Xanax and Klonopin, but she was stashing them in tiny glass jelly jars, which was both endearing and also indicative of a batshit-crazy cat-lady (my suspicions were later confirmed when she launched into a 20-minute tirade on her posse of pussies and their varying personalities). Onto the next patient room for another dose of crazy as I heard my 40-year old, heavily tattooed patient crying actual real-life tears because he was scared the IV nurse had to stick him with a needle. Relevant side note: this man had initially come to the ER because he had been shot in the chest. By a bullet. From a gun. Let that sink in for a moment. I held his gangsta hand while the IV nurse inserted a pediatric needle into his delicate gangsta ante-cubital vein. Meanwhile his roommate, an elderly gentleman who had deemed his hearing aids “optional” back in 1995, rang his call bell. I answered and asked if he wanted pain medicine. He responded “I don’t know about Thomas Edison”. I eventually gave up and walked back to my desk where I was met by the lady from patient relations, and as I calmly fielded all of her questions as to why I am not now, nor could I ever possibly become Asian, I had an epiphany that the ER is literally the scariest place to be on Halloween…