Crashing into Reality

At church this morning, one of my good friends commented on how, even with my busy schedule and frenetic pace, I always "have it together". I was, honestly, floored. I can count on one hand the number of days in the past year I have felt "together". Either I underestimate my ability, or I am really good at faking it. Probably both. 

This week at work, I found out the facility I work for had finalized a contract with THE thoracic surgeon in town, which means our program will be exploding (in a good way) and I get a front row seat in the peanut gallery. My opinion has been sought out on a number of levels. Even when on the spot and not expecting it, I can usually manage something resembling intelligent conversation. At least anytime after 8 am. Before then, it's a crap shoot.

When I ran into a fellow RN a few weeks ago who was having trouble getting a catheter in a patient, I offered my assistance (I am the Foley QUEEN). After nearly four years of not practicing, I still threw the line in on the first try. 

So, when my li'l Miss Gracie hurt her arm tonight and I was pretty sure she had fractured it, I marched right in to urgent care with confidence that I was in the right place. I am a nurse, after all. 

Just when I thought I could add another day to my "together" list. HA!

She was honest-to-God crying and holding her arm after falling. She wouldn't let me touch it and didn't seem like she could bend her elbow, rotate her wrist or hold anything without pain. 

We checked in and sat amidst all the infected masses for nearly an hour (I swear my next suggestion to our urgent care clinics is to please have a 'sick' waiting area and a 'hurt' waiting area). She was content--I wasn't messing with her and she was watching Sponge Bob. ("Bunge-Spob" as she calls it. Sorry, Justin Bieber. You got nothin' in comparison.) 

We went back to triage and she let the tech check her vitals without so much as an "I am the most pathetic thing ever" frown. As we sat back down, I reached around her and felt an ever-so-slight click in her arm. She fussed a minute and settled down again. 

Then Dr. Campbell came in. She looked at him, held out her arm and showed him where it was hurting. He started to mess with her arm. No flinching, no fussing, no frowning--nothing. I was starting to feel awkward and like a dufus helicopter parent. 

She looked him dead in the face and said, "Mommy fix it. You not fix it, Mommy fix it all better. I poopy wet. You poopy?" Then singing, operatic style standing on the chair conducting with both arms, "Poopy-poopy poopy-poopy wet wet poooooooo-pyyyyyy wet!" 

Uhhhhhnnnggg. 

There is nothing like a small child to bring one's pride crashing right back down to a more manageable level. Thank you Gracie. Sorry, Dr. Campbell. 

Mayhem

Not really, but it is a really cool word. Mayhem. And one that describes how my desk looked when I left work every day this week. I hope I don't die this weekend, because no one--NO ONE--will be able to come in to my office and have a freaking clue what I was doing with any of it. 

But, that's life.

I have decided to go back to school for my masters degree in Strategic Healthcare Leadership & Management. Which is a fancy and overblown way to say, "I like looking at processes to improve our fractured healthcare system and move to more streamlined and cost-effective processes that actually are acessible to average human beings and that won't leave everyone completely bankrupt every time we have to ask a health provider a simple question because getting advice from WebMD is like asking my two-year-old to manage my finances and will a HUMAN BEING PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE I'VE BEEN ON HOLD FOR TWO HOURS! And don't you DARE transfer me again." 

Ah. I feel better. 

So, I'm doing this online course about communication in healthcare. (Perhaps I should enroll every insurance company on the face of the planet in the next term. I'd be doing the Universe a favor.) The topic of discussion this week is "Health Care Literacy", and where the responsibility of teaching health literacy lies. It is an interesting discussion, with some really good stories. 

However. 

Because the course is online and I've never met anyone in person, I must be mindful and professional of what I'm typing. Which means that you, dear reader, get to find out what I'm really thinking. 

So the question, then, becomes thus: Who is responsible for teaching common sense? As in, if you are allergic to peanuts, don't eat peanut butter. And not all white round pills are the same medicine. And perhaps the actual correct dose isn't, in fact, the entire bottle. And just because your ex-boyfriend's step-mom's neighbor's dog's groomer kicked that nasty bug in North Dakota by eating raw duck egg in yellow snow last winter, you probably should still get a second opinion. From, say, someone who is qualified to carry a stethoscope and stab your ass with a needle. And who knows what a Sphygmomanometer is. (That's a different font because I had to look up how to spell it. But I know what it is and how to do paradoxical pulses with it. See, I gave you a clue. It's a noun. You get bonus points if you know how to pronounce it.)

To be fair, it's an incredibly complicated issue. Health care in this nation is complicated beyond recognition. It's almost as complicated a brain surgery or rocket science, and it's waaayy harder than cursive. 

So, who's responsibility is it? And what do you think is the FIRST step? 

(I will delete any comments deemed offensive or inappropriate all by my bad self, so don't be too obnoxious. You are, however, allowed to be sarcastic.) I saw a quote on FB yesterday that said, "If I eliminate sarcasm as a form of communication, interpretive dance is all I have left." Perhaps that applies to me in this post.