Sing Me a Sad Song and Make Me Cry

I just couldn’t stop crying. Every time I thought I was finished, another sob would well up from inside me and the tears would start up again. My face was streaked with mascara,  and I was mopping it up with shaking hands, but I just couldn’t stop. Then I realized that something more was happening.

It had been a busy day last Thursday, but I had managed to keep up with Dr. N. There were 14 patients on his schedule alone, but most of the other schedules were light so I had help with his patients. Not having to take every patient in a row gave me a few minutes "breathing room" so I was able to take care of a few orders in between my patients, at least until the last 4 patients of the day.

Two of them were new patients, and they always require more time; everything is so new to them and they are feeling totally overwhelmed by the time their appointment is finished. There is extra paperwork to complete, registration for one of the potent medications they will be taking, and explaining the complicated labwork they must complete at home. In addition to this, they are tired and only half-listening, eager to leave; I had 2 new patients in a row, so I was beginning to fall behind.

My last patient of the day was scheduled for 3:30 but he didn’t actually get put into a room until closer to 5:00. A few minutes later I went in to complete my pre-doctor review and paperwork, and this patient was angry at having to wait.

"There you are!" he barked at me as I entered. "I wondered where you were!"

Now I am a very compassionate person; I work long, hard hours and I try to give to these patients the very best of what I have to offer. I had been at work since shortly after 6am that morning, making out the assignment boards, reviewing my patients’ lab work and radiology reports, making notes on them, double-checking to make sure that everything that had been ordered had actually been done, printing out hand-outs, and doing whatever I can do ahead of time to make their visit easier for them. 

My lunch that day had been half a chicken sandwich and a can of cold green beans, eaten at my desk in between patients. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I had been going non-stop without a break. I hadn’t even been to the bathroom. 

 I have absolutely no control over Dr. N’s schedule, how closely he schedules appointments together, how many patients he sees,  or how long he spends with each one. Because he always gives every patient as much time as they need,  he falls further and further behind throughout the day. However,  this is totally out of my control. And this was not the day for someone to bark at me.

I have an inner persona named Shamika. Most of my co-workers have never met her; she only comes out under the most dire of circumstances, but she is the polar opposite of me. I could feel her rising up inside me, until she totally took over.

She gave this patient her widest and most blinding smile. "I’m sorry," she told him, in a sickeningly sweet voice dripping with saccharine, "I was playing video games in the back and I dozed off. Someone finally woke me up and told me you were here." Then she stared him down until the silence became unbearable and he finally apologized.

I quickly slapped Shamika back into submission and took control again, but by this time Dr. N was tapping on the door, ready to see the patient. I excused myself and as I left the room Dr. N walked me out into the hallway. "Miss Wilma needs to be admitted to the hospital," he told me. "Her calcium level is out the roof." Miss Wilma was the patient he had just finished seeing, and I had envisioned an easy set of orders and sending her on her way. This was not to be.

Hospital admissions are lengthy and cumbersome, and Miss Wilma was none too happy with the news. Wearily I began the process of trying to secure her a bed and put in the complicated admission orders. Before I had even made a dent, Dr. N was back telling me that he also wanted to admit the last patient, the barker. 

By now it was almost 6pm, and I had not one but TWO admissions to complete. I was beginning to feel totally overwhelmed. One of the other nurses, Denise, offered to help, so she put Miss Wilma’s orders in the computer for me while I worked on Mr. Barker’s. By 6:45, I had hospital rooms for both of them, they were both out the door, and the admission orders were almost complete. That’s when I started crying.

Denise asked if I was OK, and I told her I just needed a good cry; I excused myself and rode the elevator up to the deserted 12th floor. I pressed my face against the cold glass of the window and looked out at the city of Little Rock below me, shining like a jewel. And I just cried. And I cried. And I couldn’t stop crying.

Finally I realized that something was wrong; I take a long-acting time release medication for diabetes, and I had had nothing to eat since the half a sandwich and green beans almost 7 hours before. My medication was peaking, and I had no food on board to counteract it; the uncontrollable crying was a sign that my

blood sugar was dangerously low.

I found my way back down to the 5th floor, and grabbed some peanut butter and graham crackers from the patients’ snack area. I tried with shaking hands to spread peanut butter on a cracker, using a flimsy plastic spoon, but I was crying too hard and my hands wouldn’t work. I finally gave up and just ate the peanut butter from the spoon, then shoved in a cracker.

The office was empty except for Denise and Cheri, and they both crowded around me. "What’s the matter?" they asked. "Are you OK? Why are you crying?" I was finally able to put together the words to tell them that my blood sugar was low and that’s why I was crying. Denise rummaged in her desk, pulling out a can of pecans and a box of Triscuits. She ran to get me a glass of water and I just kept eating that peanut butter.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, I began to feel better. The tears and the sobbing slowed to a halt and my hands finally quit shaking. I ate a handful of pecans and a Triscuit for good measure then assurred them that I was fine. I was eventually able to convince them that they could leave, and that I just needed to finish up some odds and ends.

After they left I surveyed the damage. My desk looked like a bomb had gone off there, scattering shrapnel everywhere. I heaved a huge sigh, ate another Triscuit then  picked up a chart at random and started to work. By 9:00 I was finished; all the orders were done, every piece of paper had been faxed and delivered to its correct destination, every prescription had been called in, every "t" was crossed and every "i" was dotted.

I snapped off the lights and found my way down to the back door and across the street to the empty parking lot where my car was parked. I was totally spent, totally exhausted and still had to make the 50 minute trip home. 

Chuck had left my supper on the stove, and I fell on it like a pack of starving wolves, then fell into bed. When my alarm clock went off at 3:00 the next morning, I literally felt like I had been hit by a truck. "Not today," I said to myself. "I can’t do it again today." So I called in sick to work, and Shamika and I crawled back into bed.

I spent the day resting, and never even changed out of my pajamas. By today, I felt fine. Good as new. And on Monday I will get up and do it all over again. But I have made a plan to take easily accessible snacks to leave on my desk, some proteins and some complex carbs. I can’t afford another episode like this one. I only have 62 more working days until retirement, and I can’t afford to miss any more time. More importantly,  I can’t afford for Shamika’s smart mouth and bad attitude to get me fired.