After much consideration, I've decided to just put up with my "special" nurse. I would take very little pleasure from getting her in trouble, and let's face it: it makes for good story material. If Sprout decides he wants to go into the medical field when he grows up, it will have been instilled in him from an early age that you just don't tell people you're "not incompetent" by way of introduction.
I thought I'd share some more tidbits from my most recent experience with the Tic. (That's what I've decided to call her in my head. It keeps here anonymous to you locals, and it's short for The Incompetent Chic.)
Jim got to meet her the other night, which was great, because after some of the back-and-forths of that particular shift, I doubt he'd have believed she exists.
Scene One: She waltzes in an proudly proclaims that their family's new business is up and running....although her hubby had overbooked his time that day, so she had to help pick up the slack. (Okay, great, whatever.) I apparently didn't catch the punch line there, because she went on to prompt me, "So that means, I'm only running on two hours of sleep! Hah, hah!" To which I actually replied, "Hmmm....it doesn't seem like that is something I'd be telling my patients. Hah, hah." Her response: "Oh, that's what Mt. Dew is for." Nice.
Scene Two: She came in at 7:15 to announce that she was here (yes, I see that, thanks), and to inform me, "Oh, I have a new patient coming in that needs some TLC, so if you need anything, tell me now." I assured her I was fine, and she said she'd be back at 8:30 to hook me up from Sprout's PM non-stress test (the 20-minute test where they monitor my contractions and his fetal movement). 8:30. 9:00. 9:30. 9:45 all come and go. At 10:00, Jim asked if I wanted to call her. I said I'd give her 15 more minutes. He wasn't so patient. ;) So, out the door goes my knight in shining armor. He returns, just shaking his head, "She was 'with a new patient,'" he says, making air quotes. "Yeah, you told us that 3 hours ago!" So, she walks in, all chipper: "So, Jim says you're ready for me!" It's late; yes, Jim and I both couldn't refrain from rolling our eyes behind her back.
Scene Three: Without breaking stride, we head right into the next inappropriate conversation. I'd been having a lot of mini-contractions while we were waiting, and a lot of sharp pelvic pains that were resulting in some pretty significant discharge (again, my blog. I can write what I want; stop cringing). I tell her about the contractions (which, by the way, both Dr. Gibbs and my nurses earlier in the day had confirmed I was having, as the monitor was picking them up), and she laughs at me. "Oh," she says, with profound wisdom in her voice, "those aren't real contractions. Real contractions are when you start cussing at us. If you can talk through them, they're just Braxton-Hicks." Okay. There are a couple things wrong with this picture. One, don't laugh at me! It is demeaning, and most certainly falls short of "patient CARE" in my book. Two, um, no: they are "real" contractions if the register on the monitor. And it undermines everything I've read about natural childbirth and pain management to assume that no woman can endure "real" labor in a civilized manor. Ugh. I wasn't trying to convince her I was in hard labor...I was just commenting on the reality of the moment. Just because YOU screamed like a banshee through all 3 of your childbirth experiences does not mean I will do likewise, and I don't like you assuming that.
Scene Four: While I'm hooked up the monitor, she says she needs to fill out my patient report. "So, describe your pelvic pain for me, on a scale of 2 to 10." I say, "7." She pauses. "Well, is it more a 6, or an 8?" Huh? "Um, well....it's more like a 7..., " I trail off, confused. She pauses again. "Well, I'll record 'between 6 and 8.'" Granted, I've been out of active society for a bit, but last time I checked, the number "between 6 and 8" was a SEVEN!!!! We move from pain level to urine color. Great. "So, would you say it's dark yellow or amber?" Now, you realize I'm not normally so snarky, but it's late, I don't feel well, Jim is tired, and this whole thing is just getting a little grating. I want to say to here, "Gee, I don't know. Do you have a color wheel or some paint swatches?" I don't. But I want to. I merely say, "well, dark yellow, I guess...like, brownish, maybe...I mean, yeah...dark yellow." And she excitedly replies, "Oh, so like tea?!" "Um, no...." And she proceeds to explain what she means by amber. Again, my answer: no, just dark yellow. Should I save my next sample? Again, rolling eyes.
Scene Five: When she come back to take me off the monitors, she starts in on whether or not I want a snack. Not really, but I figured it would get her in and out and on to the next patient, so I say "sure, bread and peanut butter." "Do you want milk?" "No thanks. Just bread and PB." "You sure? No milk? Tea? Sprite?" "NO! Please, just the bread and PB!" The bold is for emphasis here; I didn't really yell at her. She comes back...."We are out of bread, so I brought you PB and Saltines." Riiiiight. 'Cuz a Saltine is just like WonderBread. (Okay, so I get that it's not her fault they didn't have bread; it was just how the night ended.)
Anyway, I polled my online pregnancy chat-room buddies, and the consensus was to request that she not be assigned to me any more. I thought about it. Hard. But, you know what? I'm not going to be here that long. And as long as she doesn't actually mess up my care, what's the harm? Like I said, I'll have a pretty comical story to pass along to Sprout.
And it's kept you entertained, right? So, some good has come out of it. =) Happy Thursday.