When Patients Bring In Their Own Stool Samples

I just want to thank everyone for the kind words and messages from my last post. Writing helps me work through tough times; y’all sure know how to make a boy feel pretty. This one is about a son’s undying love for his mother and everything that comes out of her. Like always, as per accordance with HIPAA, all identities are anonymous. Also, you can aggressively curb stomp any free time you have by looking at my previous shit:
https://imgur.com/gallery/rBwAve0
https://imgur.com/gallery/0amjxCS
https://imgur.com/gallery/CE7Ormm
https://imgur.com/gallery/8Xt2bK1
https://imgur.com/gallery/V5RJHIW

1) The Final Countdown

During my residency, you got two two-week blocks of vacation. We pretty much became numb to dealing with the worst all year around, but during those two-week blocks? (insert Italian hand kissing gesture) Glorious. No pages to return, no feigning interest in lectures, and no emails to sift through. My vacation was coming up and it was probably in the best interest of everyone around me that it was happening soon. They advise you to split your vacation up evenly throughout the year for your mental health; clearly, I have issues with following sound advice or anything else pertaining to general self-care. I had a destination wedding to attend to at the end of January and planned a break in March. With those two events taking up my vacation, I was to go essentially 6 months straight, two months longer than what they had recommended. This had been the closest to the deep end that I had ever been. Upgrading this shit storm into a category 4 dump tornado was the fact that my last three rotations prior to freedom were telemetry (sick heart patients), the coronary care unit (REALLY sick heart patients), and general admissions (60% sick hearts, 30% toes falling off, 10% me screaming with my hoodie pulled over my face).

The closer I got to vacation, the shorter my fuse was. I was hallucinating, delirious to the point of forgetting when I last ate, and mixing up all the patient’s stories; then again, everyone over a certain BMI seemed to have an honorary degree in diabetes with a minor in heart disease. I managed to power through telemetry and CCU but started to hit the wall with the last two weeks of admissions. What complicated matters further was that a good 20-25% of our residency class was wiped out with the flu that year, majorly fucking up the flow of things. Without enough staff, people on electives were getting pulled and everyone was getting shuffled around. Even residents in outpatient had to be pulled, much to the chagrin of the attendings; outpatient resident were normally protected from getting pulled as they provided the essential slave labor needed to do complete notes and busywork so that the attendings could leave on time.

I had personally lost one of my two interns to the flu, and I was eyeing the surviving one for any signs of illness. The wedding was in a week and fuck me if it was going to be spent being sick. I was in the groom’s main party, and alcohol combined with their loneliness and ticking biological clocks meant that all the single ladies were desperate; the battlefield was finally in my favor. The hospital felt like the set of The Walking Dead: any signs of illness bred suspicion and distrust. Alliances were being formed, friendships were being broken, and hand sanitizers ran dry. I tearfully promised my remaining intern that if he began to turn, I’d put him out of his misery out of respect; he anxiously asked me to elaborate and I chose to ignore his request.

2) Bagel With Scream Cheese (sorry)

The final shift before vacation was here, and I (foolishly) felt invincible; my guardian angel, whom I imagined looked like Danny DeVito, had been watching over me. Getting to this point wasn’t easy; the last week was a barrage of admissions ranging from “this person needs the ICU stat” to “the family was going on vacation and didn’t know what to do so it’s your mess now.” My intern got ripped apart by a patient because peaches showed up on her lunch tray; somehow, it’s his fault that he’s not clairvoyant and was unaware that peaches gave her stomach cramps. I ended up treating him to lunch so he wouldn’t cry; it felt eerily like giving your younger sibling the best toy so they’ll lie to mom about why they’re bleeding from the mouth. Not that I know anything about that.

In 14 hours, I’ll be on a plane, drinking scotch out of cheap plastic cups while fighting for the armrest. Not even the café Nazi could ruin my day. Hold up now, you don’t know about her? Oh, well let me enlighten you on this she-bitch known as “Rosalina.” We received a small stipend for the meals, so even if you had no interest getting your asshole blown out courtesy of the cuisine, you could still get bottled drinks and snacks. 99% of the people who worked in the café were chill as hell; they even hooked me up with quesadillas when I asked them to (get in my mouth, you cheesy slut). Now I may be using the term Nazi for dramatic effect, but Rosalina was a Grade A asshole (incidentally, just like the meat served in the café). She would turn away residents for asinine reasons like not having exact change or if there were one too many pieces of broccoli on the plate. She behaved as if the food came right out of her own salary; fun fact: it ended up in the trash daily, meaning the raccoons ate better than us. It appeared today, Rosalina had her sights set on this towering beefcake of anxiety and self-loathing.

I wanted to start my final day with a bagel; it’s practically vacation time so why not get face fucked by carbs. I diligently and carefully toasted a sesame seed bagel to an auburn tan, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. I liberally spread the rich, soft cream cheese equally and perfectly over both halves. Complementing the dish was a side of crispy maple bacon; slightly chewy with a sweet and savory tang and a crunch that bites you back. I describe this in such detail not so much to torture you, but to add more depth to the war crime that I was about to witness. Rosalina was at the register, so I already knew God was testing me. I pulled out a $20 note and was met with attitude about large bills. Apparently wherever she’s from (the 9th circle most likely), everyone always carries exact change all the time. I then inquired about the purpose of a register in front of her if she wasn’t going to make use of it. Bad move on my part. At this point she’s yelling and making a scene; even her co-workers were telling her to calm down. I finally negotiated with this terrorist that at most a $10 bill would be sufficient for her.
I was gone for no more than two minutes while I got $10 and $5 bills from my co-residents. Now she had no excuses. Ya boy had all his bases covered. I came back to find that someone had thrown my bagel, my beautiful baby bagel boy, into the garbage, like it was some communications degree. Rosalina didn’t even try to hide it; “you were gone too long. Maybe be prepared next time.” I was speechless; it was a feeling beyond anger. It was defeat. Apparently when covering my bases, I didn’t account for pure insanity. She was the type of person to use her three magic wishes to take away everyone else’s wishes. I hope your eventual descent into senility is as emotionally painful for you as it will be for your family, you hell skank. And right on cue, I got a page for an admission.

3) Mother-Boy

The admission was a simple enough: an 82 y/o woman was brought into the ED by her son because she had been feeling weak for a few days. Her hemoglobin was low and she had prior history of diverticulosis/ diverticulitis, so it was probably a GI bleed. She’ll need fluids, serial blood checks, and eventually a colonoscopy. Simple and straightforward. My intern was uncharacteristically enthusiastic to get this finished; incidentally I found out that this was his last shift before his vacation as well. I didn’t bother to ask his plans before given this information, and I’m sure as hell not going to do it now; he was an intern after all and should be treated as such. We go into the room and both our eyes home in on the person that was NOT lying in a hospital bed.

Out of my peripherals I could make out an elderly woman; I made sure she looked stable because it would be a while before I stopped staring at her adult son “Benson.” Benson was probably in his late 40’s and wore what seemed to be a tight-fitting golf shirt and shorts high enough to flash an uncomfortable amount of pale thigh meat; mind you, this was the last week of January and there is snow on the ground. He rocked high white socks (Nikes) with house slippers, topped off with probably the cleanest bowl cut seen by man. It’s as if Wolverine did his shape-up?? How can something so wrong be so fresh? I didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended that he’s stunting on everyone within a 20 mile radius. We introduced ourselves and started to speak to the patient, “Greta.” Despite being 82 and frail, she was sharp as a tack. I missed some bits and pieces of the narrative because I was still fascinated by Benson: his style, his grace, his thin gold chain HOLY SHIT IS THAT A PENNY HANGING FROM IT?? He was a meme come to life.

What info I did ascertain out of my peripheral hearing was that Benson lived at home with his mother (no fucking shit), was single (which I refused to believe), and had to take off from work to take care of mom (willing to bet that wherever he works, it’s not with or around children). I explained to them that we would send a stool sample to check for blood. Benson came out of left field with a “that won’t be necessary;” he dug into his back pocket and produced a turd in a baggy. You know how in movies when they show off a big bag of weed, they just unfurl the rolled bag with one hand? Benson just flashed us the dankest nug of poo. “She started to have blood in her stool two days ago, so I took the liberty of saving the first sample, just in case.” My dude, were you just carrying that around in your back pocket? FOR TWO DAYS? FROM YOUR MOM??? His body was essentially a human crockpot, and the turd was cooking in his pocket low and slow. I politely told him we already had what samples we needed and observed as he placed it back in his pocket rather than tossed it out, presumably saving it for a rainy day. My intern was then paged, and we used it as an excuse bail before we became extras in this German amateur scheisse video.

4) Gone Fishing

At this point in the day, I was four hours away from freedom. All the admissions were done and all orders were placed. Even more glorious was the fact that the hospital was on divergence, meaning all the ambulances went to neighboring facilities as there were no longer free beds in the main hospital or ED (or hallways, as some patients ended up). Ultimately, it meant admissions had stopped (I still get happy typing it). I was already in vacation mode and was mentally preparing for that “randomized search” I’d inevitably get at the airport (probably because of my hermit beard), when I got my final page from “Topanga.”

Topanga was a new nurse and I nicknamed her so because she had the quintessential girl next door vibe: sweet, funny, sarcastic, and drop dead beautiful. I’ll willingly admit that I would commit felonies for her if she asked me to. So when Topanga called all worried, I rushed to her floor like some sort of beta cuck white knight without even inquiring what the issue was; another mistake on my part. At some point my Danny DeVito guardian angel bailed, because what I walked into was a literal shit show: it was Greta’s room and Benson was bent over a toilet trying to fish out another “sample” his mother had recently produced to show us, using a bedside urinal to scoop it out like some redneck carnival game. Note that at no point did anyone ask him to do this nor even gave the slightest inclination that we needed another sample; this was all his doing, fueled by the fury and will of whatever entity he prays to at night. Not unlike talking a man off the ledge, we all pleaded with Benson to drop the urinal. During our negotiations, he was waving the urinal with little discretion as he spoke; I watched in horror as specks of water and ass matter flew and splashed everywhere. If even a tiny amount of liquid hit me, I swear to God I’m gonna body bag this motherfucker in front of his geriatric mother. I’m okay with being metaphorically shit, but this was beyond my pay grade. Finally, after what seemed like an hour (in actuality probably 7 minutes), he agreed to flush the toilet; it finally clicked that he should just call the nurse over to look into the toilet for blood, as opposed to bringing the toilet to everyone else.

Ultimately, Benson went down to the café to get some fries and chicken tenders (I didn’t see him wash his hands at any point), and I was left alone with his mother. “He may be a little strange but he’s a good boy,” said Greta. Benson’s father had died at an early age she told me, and he took it upon himself to take care of her during sickness and health. Cooking, cleaning, administering meds, he did it all. She felt he lives with her more so for her sake than his. I took a moment to consider her words; yes, Benson was the personification of a Dr. Seuss fever dream on ketamine, but he was also a caring and dutiful son. I was quick to judge someone hastily based on their exterior, failing to realize that everyone is fighting their own battles or demons, much of which is done in privacy or silence with a brave façade to cover the pain. In a throwaway culture, this dude stepped up and did what had to be done for his loved ones. I’m normally accustomed to feeling like a piece of shit, but this was different; Benson might as well have scooped me up in a baggy.

I spent the rest of my shift at the nurse’s station to make sure Benson didn’t pull any further antics. It wasn’t a bad way to finish off this rotation: nurse Topanga and I had one of those insanity laughs, where the worse things are, the funnier they somehow become (also, when laughing like a maniac, it’s better to do it with someone else as opposed to alone so you don’t end up on a watch list somewhere). When that 7 pm hit tho, nothing else mattered. I turned off my pager and ignored everything: paperwork, orders, even Topanga asking me when my shift was ending (the gravity of which hit me hours later when I was thousands of feet in the air). On my way out, I caught Benson serenading his mother with lullabies that were either in German or the shit they speak in Mordor. Unsurprisingly, I was “randomly” selected for a thorough and deep search at the airport, and spent the entire flight catching up on Game of Throne while also nudging the guy next to me from time to time so that he didn’t forget to breathe and die from sleep apnea.