People barfing.
The #1 reason I never got into the medical profession.
I can handle all sorts of stuff. I cleaned up the aftermath of my husband’s AssPlosion from the bathroom once, without gagging. I can watch surgery shows while eating spaghetti. But I cannot.stand.puke.
Tough people, those healthcare workers are…
I’ve been in ER a few times (when another kid hit me over the head with a hoe, when I was hit by a truck [just a rib or two], once with a seizure, and when I broke my shoulder) and a few more with other people. The staff have always been great, even though I’ve waited far too long just about every time. They always seem to keep their cool; once I overheard one nurse say conversationally to another “Gee, we’ve sure had a lot of lacerations tonight.”
I’ve only been to the ER once. This happened during July, 2002. I was 19 at the time (my age is important to the story).
I was on vacation in St. Louis with my family. We were staying in a hotel there while visiting my brother. The night before, we’d driven down from the Chicago suburbs. I’d spent most of the drive feeling like crap. I wasn’t surprised–the previous night, with my boyfriend-who-is-now-my-husband, I’d noticed that my glands were swollen, so I figured I had a cold or something. Anyway, it was the typical hot-cold-shivering-sweating-ness, made worse by my dad blasting the a/c. We get to the hotel, and I crash.
The next day, I still feel like crap. By the end of the day, I’m running a high fever, can barely walk, am barely coherent, am achy, have a very sore neck, and can’t keep anything down. After I vomit still-cold water, my dad drives me to the ER.
I suspect that, because I told them my neck was really sore, they thought I might have meningitis, and they brought me in right away. My dad insists it was a half-hour wait, but I think it was less. They do the basic interview, and ask me if I’m on any medicines. I tell them that I’m on the Pill, but not to tell my dad, because I was really not in the mood for that conversation.
The doctor I get is. . .well. . .kind of a jerk. He has my list of “what’s wrong with me stuff” right in front of him, and asks me what my symptoms are. As I’m trying to describe them, I vomit (fortunately, I’d asked for something to barf in). He continues asking me questions as I’m heaving. He then orders a chest x-ray (which, WTF?, since I wasn’t even coughing). I think that he or someone else took blood, too. I get the chest x-ray. He then comes back, and proceeds to tell me that I have a pretty big bacterial infection. Okay, not specific, but more than what I knew coming in. He then prescribes Augmentin, and gives me the following speech.
“Now, I know you asked the nurse not to say anything, but you should have been a good girl. The Augmentin will interfere with the birth control pills that you’re on.”
If I wasn’t lying there on the bed, only semi-coherent and with an IV still stuck in my arm, I so would have kicked his ass. I was of age (19, well above the age of majority), and he had no right to release information to anyone without my consent, whether the individual was my father or not. Additionally, I could have done without the little comment.
. . .indicentally, I did not have meningitis. The sore neck was probably due to the hotel pillows. But, mother fuck, it hurt.
You were “being a good girl” by being on the pill. What a dick.
When I had my first kidney stone attack, I was waiting to talk to the nurse at the receiving desk in Emergency (it was a Monday morning but quite busy) and another nurse came over and asked me what was wrong, then took me right into an examination room. I must have been conspicuously pale-faced or something from the pain.