Last Night in the OR

 

Routine scheduled surgery during daylight hours always reminded me of church services on Easter Sunday or Christmas Morning, packed with posers and pretenders making a show of strutting their stuff.  Members of the administrative office sitter bunch taking advantage of a new day to spread their feathers like a peacock on parade. The more routine the procedure, the more garish the display.

 Midnight surgeries were of a far different persuasion and akin to a mid-summer church service during vacation season where only the true faithful showed up. The daytime pretenders were a totally different breed from the passionate middle of the night doers. It took a determined personality to crawl out of a warm bed on a frigid Chicago night. Owing to a phobia of authoritative administrators, a craving for an adrenalin boost or a youthful naiveite (choose whatever works for you), I'd rather crawl in for a midnight trauma than scrub for an 8AM vein stripping.

Dr. Slambow, my favorite trauma surgeon had lots to say about these late-night adventures and with his jowls dangling below his mask like a giant croissant he would often bellow. "Everyone here believes in life...so let's get this done before the daytime herd heads through the door." Sometimes he would expound at length as to why the only valid surgical intervention was for serious traumatic injury. "Things can only get better from here, but so many elective procedures invent new surgical complications. When was the last time a radical mastectomy or Whipple really cured anyone?" I could see his point. Thank heaven contemporary surgery with its repair and replace mentality has taken place of the old -ectomy for all free for all's. 

Middle of night surgeries often began with a call to the honeymoon suite which was actually a repurposed vintage operating room at the end of the hall in the oldest part of the hospital. There were 2 sets of bunk beds and a wall phone midway off the floor so it could be answered by upper or lower occupants of the bunk beds. The room's light switch was permanently taped in the off position with autoclave tape, so entrants did not arouse those at rest. Call rooms like this were gender neutral and the only prerequisite for use was being bone tired.

Shenanigans were a great way to pass the time and deal with late night tensions while awaiting that phone call to hop to it. I always tried to set a positive tone for our late-night ministrations and frequently started my dialog with the prep and  a lengthy description how I just loved the radiant pinkish glow of Zephirin scrub solution.

 Janess was a frequent partner on these late-night traumas and I usually bunked on the top bed while we awaited the call god's page. When the call abruptly awakened us at 2AM, a shocker awaited me. I glanced down to put my battle tested Clinics on, and lo and behold, my toenails were painted that lovely pink shade of Zephirin prep solution. Janess just grinned from the lower bunk and admitted she had been busy with nail polish while I was sound asleep.

Janess and I had a long history beginning with a procedure partner pairing in nursing school where we bloodied each others arms attempting IV starts. Like so much that happened during our on call trauma . rendezvous, Janess's presence was a paradox. She presided over emergency surgeries like an angel watching  a cemetery. She was monumental in a demure sort of manner.

The call gods could be an unpredictable lot, but everyone knew to pay close attention to the lunar calendar posted in the light just outside the door. Most nurses did not even bother to rack out when there was a full moon, action was imminent.  

I never gave a thought to circadian rhythms or the pitfalls of staying hyper alert for late night surgeries when I was young and foolish. Trauma surgery was a mission and I had always sensed that I would be completely lost without it. Looking down at blood spattered shoe covers at the end of a rough trauma, I could never imagine not being a part of this mission. This was timeless. 

Later in life looking down at varicose veins and arthritic knees, I came to realize I could be just as lost as a result of it. The very thing I thought I needed the most was the thing that drew the shroud of futility around my soul. Helping others while ignoring self-wellness never has a happy ending. and thankfully, most whippersnapperns are more aware of self care than the Oldfoolrns of days gone by.

A High-Flying Patient Returns to Earth

 Usually it's a good sign when you  hear a patient coming through the ER with their shrieks echoing off the green tile walls, but with this one, there was a twist. The disheveled, emaciated gentleman was chanting, "I'm breaking a record. get me back up there." Strange indeed.

As I approached him, a strange combination of olfactory stimuli assaulted my prominent, sensitive beak, a sweet-sour miasma of cigarette smoke and Old Spice cologne to mask the imbedded dirt that made his skin look like a Jackson Pollack work of abstract art. The combination of different colored dirt and a panoply of greenish fungal lesions was a sight to behold.

 I checked the skin turgor on an atrophied bicep and the little mountain of skin generated by the gentle pinch had the staying power of a member of the nurse academic/administrative office sitter complex ensconced in a Lazy Boy recliner. This poor soul was severely dehydrated.

Of course, in pre-EMS days, the Chicago Police were responsible for most patient transfers, and it was prudent to pay heed to the officer's admission commentary for a history of the patient's injury or treatment insights. The jolly young officer presenting us with our latest challenge had an unusual warning that really piqued our curiosity, "You better be able to rehabilitate this one or you're going to have to order a sitting 'em up coffin for him." Sure enough, the unveiling accomplished by an Abra Cadabra top sheet removal revealed some of the most severe lower leg contractures I have ever seen, with his knees flexed at a 45-degree angle so that a conventional flat, horizontal coffin would never accommodate him. This patient was a poster boy for the hazards of immobility.

No, this was not a nursing home patient. It was obvious from the poor soul's wrinkled, weathered, and deeply tanned skin that he had spent considerable time communing with the natural world in the good old outdoors. His well tan, wrinkled extremities had the color of tobacco juice and upon removing his tee shirt emblazoned with the slogan "ANGER MANAGEMENT PISSES ME OFF," a few scraggly chest hairs emerged from a chest that looked like the color of skim milk.

Perhaps a hiker who experienced a mishap on the trail or a construction worker? The patient was strangely nonverbal when queried about his plight, and as the mystery deepened, we decided that treating his dehydration would be a good place to start. His serum osmols were sky high and poor skin turgor cried out for hydration. 

We lacked that clever whippersnappern vernacular back in the day, but the new fangled  term "fluid resuscitation" described what was acutely needed here. Unfortunately, a cursory review of his arms revealed that finding a vein was going to be like looking for a black cat in a coal mine. I corralled the friendly resident to place a central line. He opted to place it in the subclavian vein running just below the clavicle. He punctured the big vein with ease and after verifying a good, nonpulsatile flow began threading the guide wire through the needle. After sliding the catheter in we were in business.

It didn't take long for our efforts to bear fruit and the poor soul began relating his adventurous, but misguided tale. He had been hired by a newly established whiskey distillery on Lincoln Avenue to set a flag pole sitting record as a publicity stunt. This activity, popular in the 1920s and resurrected in the 1960s was exactly as described. Our patient had been confined to a whiskey barrel platform erected on the very tip of a 60 foot flag pole. He was planning to break a 30 day record but was retired after several weeks when his ground crew could not communicate with him and called the Chicago police who delivered him to our ER. 

What goes up, must come down

Before internet advertising, business had to invent a number of  whacky schemes to promote their ventures. Oscar Mayer company had a vehicle resembling a hot dog on 4 wheels aptly called the wienermobile and it was piloted by none other than Little Oscar. Car dealerships used high voltage floodlights to illuminate the night sky and bring in customers. Like the emaciated flag pole sitter some of these promotions ended in a trip to the hospital. Lincoln Mercury had a genuine Cougar on hand at Chicago's Ampitheater auto show and all was hunky dory until the beast attacked his trainer.

It's a good reason that hospitals were not allowed to advertise or I suspect misguided CEOs would have considered a nurse for flag pole sitting duty. They expected us to perform just about any unsavory or unpleasant task imaginable.

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