{{{{Rebo}}}}
{{{puggy}}} On the bright side, I had a MRI for my dizzy spells last year, and there was nothing physical wrong with me. Mental is another matter.
I’m sorry, Rebo.
I also like curvy girls. Heck, all my girlfriends have been curvy. “Baby got back”
Pie, it woud be “you and dogbutler like this.”
Muppet, I’d like a housework fairy, too. Unfortunately, I’m the butler in the house.
Oinkchoo? : d&r :
taxi, the only time I’ve been hip was when martinis came back into style. And I had been drinking them for 20+ years at that point.
Ahem.
Well, I guess I’ve let myself go then.
At least doggio still loves me.
Sorry,** Rebo**. How sad.
Night, folks. Hubby comes home tomorrow. But for now, I officially hand the MMP over to the night shift.
I cleaned the hot tub and room 304. I restocked the beverage fridge. Just remember to replace the TP and put the seat down.
Anyhoo. Night!
Well this is awkward.
Just because Pie loves me better? 
{{{{{{{{{{Rebo and boss}}}}}}}}}}}
Shrug, there was bound to be someone who had rolls, and we know she’s working on getting rid of them, so you can get out from under the table. Me, I check myself for backrolls periodically, as that’s the “edge” I’m at right now. No rolls, the scale says 72kg. Rolls, it says 74kg. I’m trying to go back to a lower edge; hopefully will be able to in the next months.
I’m sort’a happy because after 5 months at Mom’s I’ve managed to stay on 73+/-1, rather than shot up. Still more than I should weigh, but better than what I’d weigh if I ate what she wants me to eat. It’s a good thing that it’s normally not her who serves the portions at the table, as she’ll ladle “just a bit more” on and then pout when we leave the extra. We’ve pointed out repeatedly that we’re old enough to know the size of our own stomachs.
“Funny” thing is, she criticizes Middlebro and SiL for giving these huge portions to the Kidlet and force him to finish everything :smack: The poor kid would have enough breakfast with a big bowl of milk and half a dozen Digestive style cookies: instead, it’s ham plus fruit plus yoghurt plus actimel plus cereal with milk plus glass of milk, and then they bemoan that he takes forever. My own stomach wakes the rest of me up, I’m 41 - and that’s too much breakfast for me!
Joining Facebook is being sort of scary… I’ve found several of my cousins (no surprise, and the ones I’ve found are the ones I expected would be there), the youngest ones of my Costa Rica coworkers, a bunch of strange people who call themselves Dopers, and been found by people with whom I worked for 20 minutes in 1960 (that is, 8 years before getting born) and by others with whom I used to play online… uhm… 10 years ago.
It’s Firday! Finally!
tee hee hee
Blurf. Happy Firday, y’all. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz :clunk:
Howdy all. SIL and new nephew are due to come home from the hospital today. Surprise, surprise, all the clothes that SIL and MIL bought him are too big (they have 3 sleepsuits that are the right size), and they don’t have any kind of stockpile of nappies/diapers! Why am I not surprised? Although the Schadenfreude is kind of nice, I will push through it and go out in about 30 minutes to buy the kid some sensible clothes that fit! How can a mother of 5 be so frickin’ clueless???
I do wear what’s comfy. But I work with a bunch of 20- and 30-somethings, many of whom are fashion-conscious. It goes with the business. But I feel frumpy in comparison because I WILL NOT be cold all day at work. So I wear jeans, long-sleeved sweaters, socks and shoes while all my female coworkers are in cute little summer skirts and sandals. And they freeze, but they look at me like I’m weird for not being all fashionable.
So that’s where some of my concern over fashion comes from. When I was surrounded by engineers who didn’t care one whit about fashion, I was perfectly happy with the clothes I had. But not with the job opportunities. So now I’ve got a great job and have to deal with feeling like an unfashionable freak.
I think one of my coworkers also wants to “fix” me - to make me go out to clubs and shows and to go drinking - because how could I possibly be happy going home after work to make dinner for my husband and then to sit and knit all evening? :rolleyes:
Moonie, I think you need a new nickname for your bro. I couldn’t understand what Nava’s LilBro was doing helping you clean your mom’s house. Good on ya anyway for cleaning.
{{Rebo’s boss}}
I’ve alluded in several previous tales about a diabetic woman who lives near me that is probably hands-down the least favorite patient in the county. When her sugar is at a decent level, she’s a harridan; let her crash, she’s violent. Add to the mix, calling her ‘stubborn as a mule’ is an insult to mules everywhere; she’ll cuss you out for looking at her cross-eyed, won’t eat when her sugar drops, won’t test because there’s no need to, walks out of the ER against medical advice whenever we haul her, and she’ll do anything she can to not sign a patient refusal form whenever we save her sorry ass on scene.
Adding irony to all this, Broom Hilda works as a home healthcare worker. Yes, that’s exactly how I want to spell her name.
About once every third month, the squad gets a page because Broom Hilda is having yet another diabetic emergency. Last night’s call went out right at 9 PM. I heard my buddy Harold on the radio, so it was a safe bet that Katy the Paramedic was also working, because they’re quite the item. They’re new to Cottonfield County, so the idea stuck in my mind that they haven’t dealt with her before. I was right.
They got to the scene, and Broom Hilda was on the floor having a convulsion. Katy decided that she needed to administer D50, which is intravenous dextrose. Blood sugar comes back very quickly with that stuff, and is the preferred field treatment when the patient cannot respond to commands. Katy and Harold tried to load her on the stretcher to do the job in the back of the unit, and Broom Hilda hit Katy square in the mouth. Harold got on the radio and called for manpower. I answered because I was close and had dealt with her before.
When I got on scene, Katy and Harold had just finished loading Broom Hilda in the ambulance. Katy was absolutely furious, and could barely work because of the urge to strangle someone, anyone. Katie and I tried to get IVs going, but Broom Hilda fought the entire time, and 2 of us would have to restrain her while the 3rd attempted the stick. Finally, we collectively said screw it, and went for the Glucagon. Glucagon stimulates the liver to produce glucose, and is our fallback. That shit is expensive, and doesn’t always work; Broom Hilda is neither malnourished nor a severe alcoholic, so there was little chance of that.
After she was injected, we went for vitals. Harold narrowly avoided a fist to the junk while taking her BP. Broom Hilda tried to destroy the PulseOx, which measures blood oxygen. It took Katy and me both to get her blood glucose reading, which was barely out of the teens (that’s dangerously low). Jack the assistant chief showed up, and he automatically started filling out the refusal form. Then we waited.
After about 10 minutes, I took another glucose reading, and she had climbed about 10 points. She also was still fighting, but had recovered enough to be able to follow us with her eyes and speak single words. Progress. Five more minutes passed, and Broom Hilda could speak in sentences, and had switched from fighting to trying to escape from the ambulance.
That’s when she had the showdown with Jack. She wanted off the bus and in her house, because we could do nothing then. Jack wouldn’t let her off without signing the patient refusal form, which is the basis of our billing actions. Jack finally won, but it was ugly.
Jack looked at Katy’s mouth before we left. Katy didn’t want to bother with any medical attention, and nothing could be done legally about assault charges because Broom Hilda was not in her right mind, though the argument can be made that she never is.
One of these days, Broom Hilda is going to crash, no one will be there, and she’ll wind up looking up at the grass instead of down. I doubt that there will be a run on flowers for her funeral from the Rescue Squad.
I posted, and the internets eated it. Oh well.
Woooo! TGIFIRDAY!
{{{{{{{Rebo}}}}}}} and your supervisor too. Unbelievable. 
My son is on his way back to Little Rock AR in about an hour; he’s already left for the airport (whew!). I just hope he remembers to call me sometime this afternoon/evening to let me know he got there safe & sound.
Hope everyone has a good day today, and looks forward to their weekend - at least, those who have off then! Sorry for those who don’t.
Puggy, hope it turns out to be something simple and easily treatable.
**Rebo **--
Taters, **Nava **-- I’ll join in the “some curviness is good” chorus. So, how you doin’? 
Ah, 'tis the weekend already here. Yay 
no oinks - more like laryngitis
VBob - wow
{{{{pugs}}}}
{{{{everyone else}}}}
pugs - the way they check the band is they take a x-ray video of me while I drink a yucky tasting fluid
Up, caffeinated, off to work. 49 Days till hockey season.
VBob, sounds like you need Tasers to deal with Broom Hilda.
rosie, no oinks in good.
What is a “patient refusal form”? A form where the patient says, more politely, “I don’t want these bastiches to look at me, much less treat me”?
A patient refusal form says that the patient refused various degrees and combinations of field treatment and transport. It’s a legal document that keeps the patient from refusing treatment, then coming back at us for malpractice if something goes wrong later.
Most commonly it is used in conjunction with a real rescue where the patient is unhurt, but we have to get them out of a situation; unhurt in a car wreck, for example, or they’re hurt but don’t want to ride the ambulance because it’s expensive and Daddy’s pickup has better tunes to listen to for the ride to the ER.
We could treat Broom Hilda because she was in a state of severely altered conscioussness, and that means consent to treat is implied. Once she got to the point she could speak and say ‘Leave me the hell alone’, we were legally obligated to stop. If her arm was amputated and the blood was shooting 6 feet from the severed arteries, if she said stop, we’d have to stop. Once she passed out from blood loss, implied consent takes over, and we’d resume.