Sunday, January 10, 2010

Body Art and Not So Smart

Richard has a CNA with a biohazard symbol tattooed on her arm. Thank goodness she was only taking his vital signs. I’m not sure Richard would have let her perform any intrusive procedures on him as freaked out as he was by that tattoo. She says her husband has a matching tat, and he’s jealous because she has more body art than he does. They give each other gifts of more body art for special occasions. Ain’t that special?

When I asked Richard’s nurse to check his chart and make sure his immunosuppressive medication labs had been ordered, she said she had seen the order in the chart. She added that she remembered this because she didn’t know what the test was. Did she have to admit that to me?

Richard’s treating physician failed to round on him (probably because he’s scared of me), but called the room after I finally had him paged. He suggested that Richard should get a primary care physician not affiliated with his post-transplant team. His rationale is that he doesn’t think the post-transplant team would care enough about routine procedures like colonoscopies, and “We’d hate to see him survive a transplant and die in three years from colon cancer.” Once again, he opened his mouth and inserted his foot.

After the huge investment made in transplant patients, nobody gets as much preventive care as post-transplant patients being followed by specialized teams of professionals trained specifically in post-transplant care. How does the hospitalist think Richard has survived for the eight years since his transplant?

Then again, as educated as Richard is, he sometimes says things that aren’t so smart. When I was leaving for Atlanta after our holidays in the holler, I told him that I thought he would enjoy all the peace and quite of our house without any company, and that my absence should add to his tranquility. His reply was, “Oh, you’re just background.” I reminded him of this statement when I got back. He must have thought I wanted a deeper understanding of what he meant because he replied, “You know, like the dishwasher or washing machine.” No wonder he only pays attention when I’m overflowing.

As I prepared to return to the hotel, I pointed out that I didn’t think any of his current nurses were a threat to me when I was away from him, as none of them seemed particularly cute. Richard replied that he thought some of them were nice looking, and he added, “But then, again, I’m sixty-six years old and anything looks good to me.” I guess I won’t get too atwitter next time he tells me I look nice.

I’ve already had to instruct him that a man should never call his woman a big strapping girl. He has also had to learn that women don’t snore, they only breathe loudly; and, while women may pass a bit of gas, they never fart. With such a poor education in the ways of women, is it any wonder Richard was a bachelor until he was forty-nine years old?