Freddie came in as a drug overdose.

The medics couldn’t get a line on him. He was unresponsive and his skin tone was somewhere between blue and purple.

A sternal rub didn’t do much to awaken him. We artificially ventilated him with an Ambu bag. His pupils were barely visible. Track marks were on his arm. Yup. He’s an overdose.

The nurses worked flawlessly as a team – applying the cervical collar, inserting IVs, checking blood glucose, then injecting Narcan.

“Watch out,” I told the nursing student who was putting on the EKG leads, “things are going to go wild in about 15 seconds.”
Fifteen seconds went by. Nothing happened.
Damn.
Twenty seconds. The nursing student looked at me.
I shrugged my shoulders. Hmmm. Maybe this wasn’t an overdose after all. What the hell else could this guy …

“rrrRRRR AHHHHHHH! GET THE F*** OFF OF ME!” Arms were flailing. EKG leads were ripped off. The cervical collar was gone in less that 10 seconds. Welcome to the Metro General Rodeo Minute. I marveled how everyone stopped what they were doing (including the secretary) and literally flopped on the patient to hold him down. Everyone except me and the nursing student.

“Slow circulation,” I mumbled as I winked at the nursing student and nodded my head.

We drowned in a sea of F-bombs for another minute or so until Freddie calmed down. Then he asked where the “f” he was and what the “f” happened to him. We told him that he overdosed on heroin. He denied using drugs.

I should have known. Must have been the evil girlfriend.

Freddie’s girlfriend then came into the room. She sat there caressing his hand and organizing the EKG leads so they were all in the same direction going across his chest and over to the monitor. That lasted about 15 minutes. Then she came out of the room and loudly announced:

“We need some water in here.”
I said “Not yet. He just got some medication that may make him throw up. How about a few ice chips?”
“He’s f***ing thirsty.”
Ooooh. Aren’t you the dainty little specimen. So eloquent in your choice of words, too. OK, Mrs. Freddie F-Bomb. No problem.
“Fine, he can have a small cup of water.”

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Freddie F-Bomb was back yelling in the hallway.
“If I go to Wendy’s to get him a hamburger will someone let me back in?”
I was sitting at the desk and responded “He can’t eat anything right now. I don’t want him to throw up. We’ll get him a food tray later.”
“He isn’t eating any of this nasty f***ing hospital food, and if he can keep the water down, he can keep food down.”

I had to agree with her on the “nasty” comment, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

“Listen ….”
Almost as if on cue, Freddie then proceeded to hurl all over his bed. Franks and beans looking kind of picture. Maybe some chips, too. I looked back at Mrs. F-Bomb.
“Exactly the reason I don’t want him eating anything.”
“Yeah, well if you were so worried about him puking, then why the f*** did you give him water to drink?”

Have a nice wait in the waiting room, ma’am. Be sure to visit us again real soon.
Oh, and you don’t get a patient survey, either.
Nyaaah.

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