Hey NURSE! Stories from my time at the County Jail

A brief caveat here. This post is a bit graphic. No more so than CSI. But, still, you might want to put down your lunch. It's also a bit long for my taste. But, I promise though, if you can man up and make it through, it's well worth the journey.



One of my jobs at the county jail was "short visit nurse" at the central jailhouse. The jailhouse had an exam room in the basement that I would work out of. It had some medical supplies, a blood pressure cuff, thermometer, some bandages and an otoscope. There was an exam table placed diagonally across the center of the room. The room looked a lot like this.



Every morning I would receive a roster of about 40 inmates. The list would have their name and inmate number. It would usually have one word describing the inmate's health concern. Most of the time it would say, "Rash" or "Cough" or "Blood pressure check". Sometimes it would say, "teeth" or "crack tooth". It was an interesting mix of common inmate health problems.

Either way, I saw inmates in 20 minute intervals and did what nurses do. Which is to assess the patient, determine and execute a course of nursing treatment. All while educating them all about it. I had been a nurse for about five years at that point. I was well schooled in the art of delivering a direct and efficient hit of quality nursing care.

While the job required no grand skills, it afforded me the chance to relax. I only worked every other weekend, nine to five. Plus, I didn't know these inmates. I did not need to hear their whole story, just the bits required to do an excellent job. I was about 7 months pregnant and going to school part time to become a nurse practitioner. My daughter was 3 years old. This easy breezy job was exactly what I needed.

One Sunday morning, after assessing a particularly nasty rash, I was washing my hands and looking over the roster. The next inmate was to be seen for "stitches". This meant he needed stitches removed. I pulled out the sterilized kit. It contained tweezers and a pair of sharp little scissors. I set up the supplies on the exam side table.

Two guards arrived flanking the inmate, resplendent in brown polyester uniforms. He had silver ankle chains attached to a waist chain attached to handcuffs. Standard operating procedure. The inmate was gigantic. About seven feet tall and 300 pounds. Shaq size. He had massive black dreadlocks skimming the waist chain. He carried himself like most the inmates did. A fully formed and upright badass, about the see the nurse.

After the hardware was removed, he sat on the exam table. I thought he was going to break the thing with his massive proportions. I washed my hands again and introduced myself using only my first name. The florescent lighting buzzed overhead. He put his hands on his knees and made poor eye contact. He looked tired. Then I said, "So, where are your stitches?"

In one smooth motion, he turned his palms up. Supination is the technical term. He revealed about fifteen to twenty slash marks up and down each forearm. There was no pattern. It looked like he just hacked away with a very sharp and straight edge blade. Then, I imagine, after he was done with one arm, he transferred the knife to the other hand and began slashing anew. There were about 200 stitches in all. This presented a problem. This was going to take a while. Longer than 20 minutes.

I flipped on the goose neck lamp and got to work. The sutures were clean, the skin was warm to the touch, uniform in color. No drainage or other signs of infection. "Looks good and clean," I said. "Removing the stitches shouldn't hurt that much, it feels like plucking hairs." He nodded, continuing to make poor eye contact. Massive shoulders slightly hunched. I got to work.

I would clip a black stitch with my scissors and pluck it out with the tweezers. Sometimes the skin had grown over the stitch making it more difficult. I would dig, then clip, then pluck. He would twitch or grunt. I would say, "Boy, that was a tough one.", and try to sound encouraging. Mostly though, we said nothing. It was very quiet. The guards were still standing guard, flanking the exam table. I clipped and plucked, clipped and plucked. After about twenty minutes, my back started screaming.

The exam table was lower than my waist. I had a huge pregnant belly. Which meant I was bending at a awkward angle with my big gravida belly hanging forward. I stood up, rubbed my back. "Whew! You're sure making me work here!" I said and smiled. He made eye contact for the first time but didn't change his badass expression. A moment passed. We still had about 100 stitches to go. "Ok, let's get back to it. We're almost done.", I said gently.

Whoever stitched the stitches did a good job. It was fascinating seeing the different layers his skin. He had hacked through a different layers at different angles. His bark brown pigment was just the surface layer. Underneath was gleaming white sheathes of dermis and smooth tendons.

Surprisingly, with all his frenzied hashing, he didn't hit any veins. I could see the vessels pulsing underneath. It was all very fascinating. He took no notice but preferred to stare straight ahead. Eyelids hooded.

After another 50 stitches I told the officers I needed a break. My face was sweaty and my back was down right spasming. There was no room in the exam room for me to sit. I hopped up on the counter next to the sink. After catching my breath I looked right at him. He looked at me, no longer sneering. It was a soft exchange. Then I said, "You weren't messing around were you?"

"No, no I wasn't." He said plainly. For one brief moment there was a window. I saw and felt it. It was right there, standing in front of me like a big red fire truck blaring it's yellow orange sirens. But, I didn't take it. I didn't ask what happened.

"You don't have to tell me what happened. We are almost done here." Then I hopped down and finished the job. All told the job took about an hour. It was the most stitches I had ever removed in one sitting.

Movies worth watching: Wildcats (with Goldie Hawn)

In 1986 Wildcats was released. I was 10, my brother was 12. He played football in the pee wee league, in high school and in college. He coaches football and teaches physical education for a living now. He's 35, I'm 33.

I really had no use for sports or phys. ed. growing up. I could've gotten to know my brother a lot more if I was into sports. But I wasn't. Years and years worth of games and I never went. It just wasn't my thing. bah.. That's crazy sauce.

No matter what, this movie will always be tied to my brother. We watched it over and over again on the VCR. I had no idea how inappropriate it was for a 10 year old to be watching this film. After all, re watching it recently, I noticed a truckload of swears and some blatant Goldie Hawn nudity.






Goldie Hawn is a woman who was born and bred to be a football coach. Only she has a jerk for a boss. A jerk that doesn't want her to coach. But, he eventually gives up and gives her a job coaching high school ball. Unfortunately, this job is in the ghetto. The Wildcats are comprised of hoodlums and ne'er do wells. Here they are in the ghetto milieu.



Meanwhile, she is also a mother of two girls, a teenager and a 12 year old. A single mother. I didn't get this story line when I was a wee pup. Watching it a few days ago though, I was blown away. And now I can't stop thinking about it.

There's a scene where she comes come late from practice. She tries to hastily make dinner. The older teenage girl pitches a fit, she just wants to go to the library. The 12 year old girl whines because she is not home as much.



Goldie Hawn takes the girls onto her bed and explains the following.

"Mommy is a coach as well as a Mommy. And I want to be the best coach there is. Just like I would you want to be the best at whatever you want to be."

The 12 year old girl pipes up, "I wanna be an astronaut."

The teenage girl goes, "Don't be stupid, you can't be an astronaut." And rolls her eyes all stupid teenage girl like.

To which Goldie Hawn replies, "She can be anything she wants."

Then she hugs them and I just about lost it.

Because I am a mom that does not home school, bake bread or sew her kids clothes from scratch. I am a nurse practitioner who spends 9 hours a day in the service of others. I have every weeknight and every weekend off. And I hope and pray that because of this, I am being the best Mommy I can be. I am showing my girl that if you work hard enough, if you dig deep, you can conquer anything.

If you have enough fortitude and work hard enough, your dreams will come true.



So let's end this with my favorite scene.

This scene is from early in the film. The team is none to pleased with a woman coach. They try to degrade her and make her quit.

She gets pissed. She then challenges them to see who's tougher. If they win, she quits, if she wins they start calling her by her proper name, Coach.

Guess who wins?

You're right.

Mothers are a tough bad ass bunch.

Pancake Picks a Song!

"Hey Pancake, what song should we put on the blog today?

"HOT and COLD!"



UH OH It looks like we got case of love bipolar . . . .

Jesus watches over the wet bar

This is the wet bar in my possible future house. If you squint you can find the picture of Jesus.

Feel free to make all sorts of jokes in the comments. :)

Is there anyway to do something with that godaweful cieling?

And now, let's open our hymnal to Alfie chapter one verse two and celebrate the virtues of the THC.

Take care and everyone have a good weekend.

Lily Allen - Alfie full
Uploaded by zuzana256. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

Random Deli Story and What do I do with this bottle of Tequila?

I use to work at a Mom and Pop grocery store, in the deli. As far as minimum wage jobs go, it was awesome. I would make potato salad, bread and fry up chicken pieces and make dazzling fruit and vegetable trays. I learned about all manner of deli meats and cheeses. It was an excellent job to have, I excelled there. An amazing deli girl was I.

I mentioned this to Mr. Hall yesterday, while at a super market. He said, "You mean the deli where you almost sliced your hand off?" And yes indeed, it was the same deli of which he spoke.

At the deli, I worked the pm shift, which means I did the closing. Part of my closing duties involved cleaning the slicer. I was about 21 years old. That night, the store was quiet and the store was almost empty. Just like every night, I was cleaning the slicer while it was running. This way, when I ran the hot soapy rag over the blade, the bits of meats and cheese would melt and whirl right off. Then, out of nowhere I hear BING! I jumped back about five feet.

Blink.. blink... blink...





I stopped the machine and looked down at my right hand. There was a nickle sized hole where the knuckle should have been on my index finger. There were shredded bits of knuckle flesh on my middle finger. I saw the whites of my tendons.

Then, like a flash flood, both knuckles filled with bright red blood. I was stunned. I went into the kitchen and wrapped my hand in paper toweling. After finding the manager in aisle three I said, "I have to go to the hospitalI'vecut my handon the slicer." He looked a bit puzzled. He was a skinny, nerdy guy who looked like Marty McFly senior. He was a good guy though, I liked him.

He said, "Ok Holly, um, you can drive over to St. Mary's, it's just two blocks away."



Then I said, "NO. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I CUT MY FINGER AND I NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL." I wasn't yelling but I felt the need to raise the volume so he could hear me.

A plumb, blonde cashier was dispatched to drive me. On the way there she talked about her fertility treatment. She had been trying to conceive and had to go on Clomid. This helps a woman release multiple eggs. The seats were comfy. It was rainy and inky dark outside.

The ER nurse was nice. She cut off the flap of skin hanging from my knuckle and gently washed all the blood from my hand and arm. It really stung, but I was a trooper. My Mom came and proceeded to bitch me out. She had to get the truck from the store and drive it to the ER. It had no gas. She was freaking and pissed off because she had to stop at the gas station. Meaner than a rattle snake.

The next day I went to a special "hand surgery" place. It was in a strip mall. The surgeon had these huge, life size Beatle posters on the walls. I remember laying on the table while he took syringes and injected stuff into my hand. The pain was unbelievable. It hurt like a son of a bitch. I did some very deep breathing. Breathe, breathe, breathe...



The doctor took notice and became very chatty. He asked, "Have you had a child before? They way you are breathing, it's . . . " I said, "No. I don't have any kids." He went on injecting. Unbelievable pain. Breathe, breathe, breathe... Then he said, "You're doing Lamaze breathing, seriously, have you ever had a child? You are literally doing the Lamaze breathing." He was astonished by this. And staring at me, watching me breathe.

Again, he was literally inserting needles into the base of my knuckles.

Let's all take a minute here. Let's all look at our hands and knuckles. Go ahead, take a look. NOW. Touch your knuckles, give 'em a pinch. Feel around a bit. This is where he was injecting stuff.

Hurt like a son of a bitch. MEANER THAN A RATTLESNAKE!!

Breathe, breathe, breathe . . . . . He spoke up again, "Wow young lady! You're REALLY doing Lamaze breathing. Are you sure you haven't? . . . Huh . . . . " I shook my head no. And tried my best not to thrash around because the pain from the injections was ripping me in half. Breathe...breathe...breathe....

They took a square of skin from my hip. They were careful not to take skin from my tattoo. They sewed that skin onto my knuckle. By then my hand was all numb.

For the next month or so I practiced bending my fingers. This hurt a lot. As my fingers were healing, scar tissue would adhere to the tendons. Bending the fingers literally breaks scar tissue off the tendon. That was the hurt part. But, it only took a month. I was a trooper.

Overall, it turned out pretty good. The skin graft took really well and blended right in. You can barely tell anything happened. And the blonde cashier got knocked up soon after. I left the deli job when her baby was a few months old. Then I left that city and started nursing school.



NOW about the bottle of booze....

After we closed on our house our real estate agent gave us a fancy schmancy bottle of tequila. Seems fair, she gets 6%, we get a bottle of fancy Tequila.

Only what the heck I am suppose to do with it? I mean, we have small kids, we don't get hammered. We are not people who "party".

And even if one of us imbibes the other one doesn't because the kids need a sober parent to drive to the hospital in the middle of the night.

In case they are really really dumb and clean a deli slicer while its running.

So we have this expensive bottle of tequila just sitting there.

What do I do with this bottle of Tequila?

Any suggestions, just let me know! ;)

Crackhouses as viewed by a nurse (repost)

I was thinking about this post this morning as I drove into my office. It's hard to believe this was just a year ago. Enjoy.

My job will change soon. Right now I am a home health nurse. Again, this means I drive to peoples' houses and be a nurse. My patients range in age and location. Of concern today, are my patients who are not white and not rich.

There are very poor pockets of this town. The next step is homeless. These enclaves are often called ghettos, section 8 housing, the projects, or crack house lane. All accurate names. And so there I go, before ten am, in my car. Me, the white nurse.

The man I saw today was not appreciative of my visit. For better or worse, he has expectations of the agency that I work for. These expectations are not being met. After I knock, he hollers to let me in. I open the patio door and enter his first floor apartment. He is angry and short with me. I explain that I am not his regular nurse but I can relay his concerns to her. I feel his angry and aggressive energies. I breathe deep and stay centered.

He's seated in a recliner, dressed in shorts and a tank top. He's watching TV. I have never seen a tv like his. “You have a see through TV.”, I say, rather chirpily. This is my natural and genuine tone. Flatly he remarks, “It’s a prison TV”.

It would function as such, the outer casing is clear plastic and you can see all in inside electronic trickery. No hiding shivs there. “Oooh, I seee.” I say. “That's exactly the point.” He smirks. I smile. “That’s a funny joke!” says me. Chipper monkey, thy name is Mrs. Hall.

So we get down to it. My task at this appointment is four fold. He refuses all but two. I take his vitals, listen to his lungs, his heart. Then the diabetic foot care. His feet are a goddamn mess. Toenails all thick with green and yellow fungus, nail beds splitting apart at the seems, feet all dry and flaky. A mess indeed.

I am sitting cross legged on the floor, in front of his recliner. It is the kind that moves up and down with a remote. His carpet has foodstuff ground in. I move aside a bottle of Jameson, empties of Hamm’s beer, and the cockroach spray. My tools are taken from my backpack. And for the next 30 minutes I work through this mess.

I notice that as I lean forward, my white t-shirt dips down, revealing cleavage. My shirt is quickly adjusted and I look up to see if he had noticed. He is twisted completely to his left, leaning over the arm of the chair. A mere six inches from the TV. Glued to The Price is Right. He takes no notice of my labor.

I do an excellent job. He feet respond well. When I am done I repeat my offer to complete my other tasks. He says no. But this time, he smiles. He is no longer short and angry.

In a way, I find my job selfish. On this visit I had an opportunity to give dignity to a man who has very little. This is the privilege of service.

Movies worth watching: Terminator 2

I've never been a fan of the 'bangs below the eyebrows' hair cut. I always get twitchy when such things appear on screen. I reflexively push my bangs to the side. Yet there she was, with her bangs in her eyes. I was stilled by it.

I will never forget the scene where she is in a white tank top, cotton hospital pajama bottoms, having just clobbered the guard with a broken broom stick and then she runs down the hall.



She has the guards black nightstick tucked behind her. The hospital is all white and moonlit. She skips along the hallway, staying very close to the wall. She is very deft and quiet. I remember how it felt watching this. I remember feeling the vinyl flooring, the socks on her feet. It was all surreal and hushed.

The hospital she was in, was a crazy hospital. She often looked crazy in that film.



Which is unfortunate.

The Terminator films fall under the category of "Science Fiction". Also, the star of the film is this machine like man.



I can tell you I have never seen a film with him in it. Well, besides this film. I am not sure I ever saw Terminator One. I am not a girl who understands Science Fiction very easily. Which is sad for me. My husband just loves Blade Runner. I've watched it about three times now. I still have no idea what the heck.

The same can be said for this film. The underpinnings escape me somewhat. What never failed to escape me is the humanity of it all. That crazy woman had a son. Edward Furlong was my age when this came about. He's my age now.

After she escapes the hospital, she meets up with her son. There is lots of shooting. She escapes in a car with her son. They haven't seen each other for quite sometime. He is a confused, messed up kid sitting in the backseat who just sprung his mom from the booby hatch. He is elated. She is in the passenger seat. She turns around and reaches for him as they speed down the highway. He leans forward for a hug.



But she's not hugging him. She's patting him down to make sure he's not shot. He is hurt by this. I was crushed a bit too.



There's a speech that Sarah Conner has. Clad in a army green tank top, smoking a cig, cleaning her gun. She's watching her son high five Arnold. She talks about who Arnold is to her son. He is a man who will protect her son at all costs and never leave him. Of all the father figures she could have chosen, this is the one who is the best.

And as crazy as she is, she's right. But then again, mom's usually are.





Now, you tell me. What do you remember of T2?

And for the love of Pete! Did ya'll know there was a T4?