Time Worn Adjuncts to Mechanical Ventilation - The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

 

Proning is the latest modality for augmenting ventilator 
therapy.  Some vintage measures were not so effective

Recognition of acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) in the early 1970s and treatment with Engstrom ventilators was a game changer, with  mortality plunging from 100% to about 40%. As more experience was gained mortality plunged even further. Deducing what worked and what didn't with ventilators was a rocky road.

It's human nature that clinicians faced with an unstable, critically ill patient want to do everything possible to rescue the person. We referred to situations like this as kitchen sink medicine when just about anything and everything was added to the armamentarium. Sometimes, desperation in medicine results in untoward  outcomes. I'm thinking about radical mastectomies for all breast cancers and surgeries like hemipelvectomies. Some pioneering accompaniments to mechanical ventilation bore little fruit, and did little to avert a vegetative outcome, but just about anything seemed worth a try when the clinical situation seemed so bleak.

Early practitioners in the art of mechanical ventilation were not like the experienced critical care medicine experts of today, but surgeons and anesthetists who saw the benefit ventilators made with ARDS treatment. They were drafted into the new role of managing ventilators and much of what ensued was on the job training..  Science was sometimes, in short supply when empirically based notions were applied as we shall soon see.

Everyone takes in a deep breath from time to time, so why not try this with ventilated patients? It was fairly easy to adapt those ancient, chugging, Engstroms to deliver an occasional deep ventilation, all it took was some monkeying around with that gizmo on top of the Engstrom that looked like an expresso machine, and PRESTO, the "sigh" was invented. A sigh was an occasional cycle with increased tidal volume and the frequency was highly variable.

 Intermittent sighs were a source of dread for sedation deprived ventilator patients, imagine having a hurricane force of air, unpredictably, blasted into your chest via a skinny little tube.  A United airlines pilot recovering from pneumonia said, "Now I know what it's like to suck on an engine of a 747." Unpleasant does not begin to describe the patient experience when the sigh cycle kicked in.

Ventilator driven sighs never really caught on in the hospital where I worked.  Surgeons blamed the sigh cycle for putting undue stress on suture lines and in the event of a rare evisceration, the sigh was always blamed. The elevated intra thoracic pressure was also blamed for barotrauma to vulnerable alveoli. 

Positive end expiratory pressure or PEEP evolved to be the replacement for sighs. PEEP entailed maintaining a low steady pressure (5cm/H20) in the lungs just slightly above ambient atmospheric pressure. Some overzealous physicians figured that if a little bit of PEEP was good, then more is even better. Super PEEP was born with pressure of 25 cm and above which was like blowing an automotive tire up to 100psi. Talk about a rough ride!

Super PEEP worked for a time until complications surfaced. High intra thoracic pressure compromised blood flow in the great vessels which caused big problems. A hemodynamically unstable critically ill patient is not a good thing. Renal problems often developed as a result of compromised circulation. Super PEEP was not such a good idea, but did persist when technology for cardiac output monitoring was developed which enabled fine tuning to allay complications. The father of super PEEP at Montefiore Hospital in Pittsburgh was Arnold Sladen MD. He was either a hero or a scoundrel depending on who you talked to.

Endotracheal tubes exert a seal by an inflatable cuff which contacts and forms a seal with the trachea. Sustained pressure exerted by the cuff can limit the amount of time a patient can be maintained on the ventilator before an invasive tracheotomy must  be done. Long term unremitting pressure from the cuff can cause problems.   Intermittent endotracheal tube cuff inflation was thought to be a way a kinder gentler way of sealing an airway. The cuff was inflated only on inspiration.

Intermittent endotracheal cuff inflation required some complex additional equipment and lengthening the inflation tubing  increased dead space and exacerbated the  potential for  leaks. There was also the ever present risk of aspiration when the cuff was deflated. This overly complicated  modality was usually abandoned with much haste as it just didn't work very well.

There is that old joke about anesthetists passing gas, but in reality, they are passing gases. Fiddling around with the inspired mix of gases was second nature when novice anesthesia folks began overseeing ventilator therapy. Traces of helium mixed with the FiO2 were thought to aid in alveolar dispersion, but in the long run seemed to make little difference. 

Life on a ventilator was unpleasant at best. Before propofol came along, anesthetists would sometimes  "trace an agent," or install an in line vaporizer to sneak in a whiff of halothane to settle things like "bucking" down. Progress in IV sedation put a halt to anesthesia  vaporizers on ventilators except, of course, in the OR.

Ventilators are an unforgiving entity and that ominous click...hiss...pause  always overshadowed the cheerful cacophony of melodious alarm tones, quickly becoming  the dominant noxious noise in the ICU. Ventilators really strummed a different sort of tune that frequently foreshadowed impending doom.

In the rapidly gathering storm leading up to intubation and subsequent ventilation, impending consequences were often conveniently overlooked. Rendering someone mute with an endotracheal tube and lashing them to a machine forcefully converting air into breathe has all the grace of getting clobbered by a linebacker on steroids.

Late at night, numbed by fatigue induced hopelessness, strange thoughts percolated through my mind when caring for a poor soul on a ventilator. We all want a nice linear, progressive, and predictable path from illness to health. Sometimes, though, ventilator patients are too far along on their journey to the other side. If  I'm ever in this predicament, I hope my caregivers reconsider my path and don't interfere with my final journey.

When I'm on that peaceful river journey to the other side, I better not come across a ventilator masquerading as a life boat!

Diploma Nursing Students Learned Procedures the Hard Way

 

Needles could turn a smile into a grimace, lickety split

Procedures were the alpha and omega of diploma nursing programs and the ultimate way of measuring a student's progress. Like just about any other trade school, academic accomplishment took a back seat to providing a free source of  hospital labor. Procedures performed without concern for remuneration on unsuspecting patients were the currency used to pay for  "free" books, housing, uniforms, and food. There was no such thing as a free lunch.

Student nurses' mindsets were carefully groomed  to maintain a calm, confident, omniscient  bedside demeanor despite the fact that this was our virginal attempt at thrusting a 2 inch Imferon needle into a fellow human's vulnerable flesh. We were acutely aware that the procedure was likely inhumane and excruciatingly painful. Student nurses also carried the burdensome  knowledge that any flaw in their Z tract injection technique would be visibly advertised by that ugly, dark brown Imferon staining the surrounding subcutaneous tissue. An ear beating public  dress down from my favorite instructor, Miss Bruiser was sure to follow. I found it ironic that her name reflected the very nature of the Imferon staining complication, a big old brown contusion that looked a mess.

As a general rule of thumb, any procedure performed above the waist line, was done to a fellow student, affectionately known as a procedure pals. This relationship always reminded me of a cat vs. groundhog fight, one minute the cat is chasing the ground hog and the next minute the rodent is baring his formidable front teeth at the feline. The nurse and the victim patient in subsititutus  had to be very wary when dealing with  one another, she who injects and skedaddles  might live to inject another day, or the next minute, become the hapless recipient. Like so many other aspects of nursing, a classic no win situation.

 Performing painful treatments on each other was thought to be a vital component of nursing education, a real boon to developing empathy and the proper "attitude," what ever that was. Thank heaven we were not studying neuro surgery.  I shudder to think about the mess a bunch of first time amateur  craniotomies would look like.

When it came to performing uncomfortable downright painful procedures there were two student nurse  personality types involved. The most dangerous, in my humble opinion, was the eager beaver, overly enthusiastic student who would stop at nothing to be the first one administering the tormenting treatment. 

These were the novice nurses who thought the blood dripping from their fingers after a botched venipuncture was a badge of honor or that  it was appropriate to celebrate doing post mortem care for the first time. Miss Bruiser usually was able to take the wind out of their sails by insisting the eager students "volunteer" for her to insert a NG tube down their dainty little porboscus. Her ram rodding technique combined with her "demonstration" of a sulcus at the base of the tongue would humble anyone. The manipulation of the tube at the level of the epiglottis was guaranteed to provoke a hacking, gagging fit that would turn one's stomach while simultaneously bring tears flowing like a fire hydrant. A memorable experience that was sure to temper the gusto of the most aggressive eager beaver.

At the other end of the student nurse spectrum were the reluctant, overly sensitive types who were preoccupied with the uncomfortable nature of their ministrations. I was, without a doubt, a member of this tribe and frequently found myself biting my cheek when it came time to do just about anything associated with inflicting pain.

Mrs. Viotto was the kindly, grandmotherly nurse that was assigned to us who were not so eager beavers when learning painful procedures. Her constant reassuring smile resembled the exaggerated expression a pantomimist would use. Her typical discourse followed the theme  that we were there to help patients recover and in order to accomplish the end goal we would sometimes have to do things that were "uncomfortable." Pain was not part of her vocabulary. Everything from dressing changes on burn patients to bicillin injections were just "uncomfortable."

There was a reassuring smoothness in the way Mrs. Viotto conducted herself when demonstrating procedures. Rather than the stabbing and jabbing of the over eager student nurse clan, she stressed gliding a needle into position or threading a catheter in place. I learned more from her than any other instructor.

There was a very short window of opportunity for student nurses to master procedures and if by junior year a deficit was identified big trouble ensued. That dreaded yellow dismissal form with the dream shattering message, "unsuited for the practice of nursing," would soon find it's way to your mail box

. It was like an amputation in the days before anesthesia; painful and irreversible. Although, sometimes, the students who persevered envied the one's who left, especially when the ex-students would return to nursing school for a visit with tales of menial jobs paying more than a nurse could ever  hope to earn.

Not on My Mayo Stand!

 One of my most popular posts from the  past was about items I never, ever want to see on my OR back table. https://oldfoolrn.blogspot.com/2017/01/not-on-my-back-table.html. Scrub nurses work  at ( or least  they did 50 years ago) from two horizontal surfaces. A large  back table at the foot of the patient which is loaded with just about anything and everything  needed for the surgery and the Mayo stand placed over the patient just below site of the surgery. This stand  is solely for the instruments in immediate use. I've seen some illustrations of Mayo stands that really flustercate my fragile foolish faculties, so here are some thoughts about the care and feeding of Mayo stands from a perspective of many moons ago. (I had to put that disclaimer in because some folks compare my ramblings to contemporary standards and I get harshly critical emails.)

Side hanging  instruments as shown in this illustration desecrate one of the most basic of  OR commandments - Thou shall not let any instrument dangle over the edges of your Mayo stand. The outer ridge of the stand acts like a fulcrum sending your instrument flying if you inadvertently drop an elbow during a critical moment. Flying instruments, depending on where they land, are never a good thing in an OR. A nasty surgeon once lobbed  a Haney clamp at me and then in a Karma driven moment, dropped a weighted speculum on his foot. Yes...there is a flying instrument god in every OR.

I started this post out thinking that maybe I should do the ten commandments of Mayo stands, but that sounds cliched and besides, what happens if I can't think of ten? Maybe it's better if I just ramble  on in in my typical foolish manner.

When in use, Mayo stands should always be at the scrub nurse's waist. A uniform height helps establish muscle memory so that when you go to grab something, your hand goes to the intended spot without thinking. Many nurses need some altitude enhancement to reach the correct height and I went out of my way to construct elaborate altitude enhancing arrangements.  oldfoolrn: Scrub Nurses Flying High

Yikes! When it comes to just about any sort of tubing or cable, be it suction line or Bovie, it's much neater to keep them on the back table until needed. Think of your Mayo stand as fly-over country and pass the long  tubing or wiring directly from the back table to the surgeon. This Mayo also has a towel clip and a Metz scissors hanging over the edge of the Mayo waiting to be dropped or take flight. I do like the way the scrub nurse lined the top of the Mayo stand with a couple of honest to goodness cloth towels. Disposable paper Mayo stand covers and towels generate that raucous rustling noise that really grated on my nerves. It reminded me of opening presents on Christmas morning when I was often stuck in the OR.

Old scrub nurses were real sticklers when it came to keeping all your instruments on one level while they were reposing on your Mayo stand. The only high-rise object tolerated was a stack of 4X4 sponges because when it comes to anything bleeding you can't be too careful. I vividly recall the dressing down a new resident received from Dr. Slambow when he took a loaded sponge stick and  swiped instead of a dabbed at a small bleeder. "You meathead!@#&, you are wiping the clots away." The good surgeon did not tolerate fools well, except for me. 

 

This Mayo stand illustration should be captioned double trouble. A scrub nurse is like a mama bear protecting her cubs when it comes to guarding and maintaining the sanctity of her Mayo stand. Here we see more than one set of lunch  hooks...oops I mean mitts on a Mayo stand. Fifty years ago a stunt like that would merit a knuckle smack with the business end of a scrub stick, especially if my nemesis, Alice, was standing behind that Mayo stand. Alice was an equal opportunity knuckle buster, surgeon or nurse, it didn't much matter. The other faux pas  here involved a specimen jar filled with a likely toxic solution like formalin. Mayo stands are restricted from any liquid that could be toxic. Methylene blue and lidocaine are just fine, but biopsy fixatives are a big no...no. 

Noah was right, everything is better in pairs. When bringing up ratcheted instruments from the back table always grab two at a time. There should be an even number of hemostats, needle drivers, kochers, mixters and babcocks. I never did like the way grabbing a babcock. registered in my ear  when spoken.  Picking up a pair of babcocks always sounded more civil, so don't grab a babcock, pick up a pair. Avoiding odd numbers of instruments on your Mayo stand  helps avert that dreaded foreign body mishap. Thank heaven  this never happened to me (I pray.) .Avoiding some mishaps is  a matter of luck as much as skill. Surgery is a high wire act with lots of distractions and bad things do happen. It was well known that any nurse involved in a foreign body incident would be fired on the spot. We were scared straight.

Some nurses delighted in adding artsy fartsy touches to their Mayo stands and I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not. I'm not very artistic so maybe I have a dog in the manger attitude when it comes to fanciful touches to Mayo stands, especially when the artist is a much more accomplished scrub nurse than me. My friend, Janess, liked to craft lovely designs in her  wax paper sharps bag by cutting designs along the top border of the container. She was an artist with a straight Mayo scissors and I think her flower designs were the very best.

Elite scrub nurses were a very special breed that certainly excluded me with my size 9, hubcap sized hands. Fleet of foot with nimble fingers and a fast firing central nervous system, always totally relaxed, but ready to strike at a moments notice. Probably the ultimate paradox was their narcissism coupled with unyielding selflessness. You have to love yourself if you are going to  do just about anything for another with such blatant disregard of your own needs. 

I'll always remember my favorite scrub nurse mentor, Alice, harping about some Mayo stand minutiae and when it came time for self-evaluation her only fault was having to deal with low motivated sloppy dolts like me. Old OR nurses like Alice were different from the rest of us.

WHAT IS A NARCOTIC PRESS?

 There are many vintage nursing terms that are unheard of in these modern times: Johnnies for hospital gowns, snaps for hemostats, monkey bars for orthopedic framed beds or hypo for any drug administered by a needle, regardless of route. Some of these names, at least, made sense in that their origin was pretty easy to figure out. One term that really through me for a loop, even in my younger days , was "narcotic press." I tried to learn what was behind these obscure terms in a foolish attempt to appear smart or wise, but, like they say, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's stomach.

A narcotic press was not a newspaper about the perils of addiction or a device for squeezing the exudate from the papaver somniferum  poppy. Narcotics were secured in a double doored locked  metal box prominently located smack dab in the middle of the nursing station and frequently referred to as the narcotics press.

I used to love the way Filipino nurses called it a nar-koe-tiks press in their lovely melodic way of speaking, so different than the harsh, Chicago midwestern dialect that sounded like a Stryker saw hacking through bone in the morgue. Native nurses had rather inelegant terms for this storage  device like locker, cabinet, or box. Narcotics press had a nice ring to it.

Since most Filipino  nurses used the lovely narcotic press term so freely, I wondered if it came from their native Tagalog language. After learning the term had no roots in their native language, I set off on a mission to learn where the narcotic  press term originated.

Old nurses, having seen it all and done it all, were not very tolerant of nursing terminology cognoscenti like myself. Well seasoned nurses were intolerant of foolishness regardless of source, patients, colleagues, or whatever, it didn't much matter. It was a tough battle liberating information from these hard core characters, unless it was a direct matter concerning patient care, but young fools can be highly motivated when the quest for esoteric information is on the line.

I got quite a few answers regarding the narcotic press nomenclature inquiries. One aging bat thought it had something to do with triggering a red warning light located above the medication room door. Regulations required a visual indication whenever the narcotics press was open. Newer narcotics storage areas had a switch automatically linked to the outside door that triggered the warning light, older boxes required manually PRESSING a button and thus the term narcotic press was born. This explanation seemed a bit far fetched, but I guess anything is possible.

And finally, the best answer, verified by more than one aged nurse is the following revelation. The narcotic press nomenclature is a coinage born of frustration with securing the double doors of the contraption. Rules from the grand nursing poobah upon high specified that  narcotizing drugs must be stored behind two locked doors. closing the first, inside door was easy, but to get the outside door securely latched, you really had to press on the margins to get it shut. A narcotics press was born!

The Doctors' Dining Room

 

Old school hospitals offered lots of special treatment to their esteemed  medical staff. Free front row parking with valet service on demand and an ornate dining oasis which was far removed from drab, utilitarian hospital environs were the more obvious perks. Physicians were the alpha predators in the hospital food chain, far removed from nurses and ancillary staff. There were no "mid level providers" in days gone by. It was just the doctors and everyone else.

Doctors' dining rooms were entered through a solid wood door conspicuously marked PRIVATE. Inside the door was a room paneled in dark mahogany with fancy brass grills covering the radiators. Maroon Karastan carpeting covered the floor. Pictures of the institutions hallowed great healers from the ages adorned the walls with an occasional pretentious bronze  bust tossed in for good measure.  Genuine white table cloths with a fresh floral arrangement salvaged from one of the many bouquets  left behind by departing patients added to the ambience. Fancy light fixtures illuminated these deluxe digs and sculpted plaster potentiated the high brow ambience of these over stated  eateries. A two year old with a plate of spaghetti could do more damage to an over adorned room like this  than a hurricane 

General practitioners and internists served the role of personal physicians and  asserted complete control over the care of their patients spending  many long hours in the hospital.  A readily available source of nourishment was essential.  These dining areas were a feeding lot open 24/7, serving snacks like Good Humor ice cream bars, bagels, donuts, and crackers laden with cold cuts or liver pate' during off hours. Normal operating hours featured  food from the hospital cafeteria embellished with little sprigs of parsley, ripe olives or whatever else the colorful characters known as hospital cooks could whip up. A distinctive touch to our hospital dining room were  bottles of hot sauce smack dab in the middle of every table.

Doctors'  dining rooms were the consummate private place for the boys to raise questions about care and explore  solutions to ethical dilemmas. Operating rooms were fertile ground for  mishaps and screw ups when  minimally trained general practitioners were  granted surgical privileges. Thankfully, they were prudent in restricting their services to simple procedures like vein strippings, tonsillectomies, and D&Cs. 

A ham fisted G.P. might ask an ENT specialist if it was OK to with hold information about a patent's uvula  that had the nerve to get tangled up in an errant tonsil snare. The ENT doc usually advised it was best to be truthful since the first time a patient looked in the mirror he would notice that little thingee hanging down in the back of his pharynx was AWOL. It's best to be honest when your mistakes are obvious.

Wrong site surgery was an egregious error but could be easily explained away by claiming that the errant surgery was necessary and not a simple minded mistake. Circulating and scrub nurses would likely be fired for wrong site surgery or  foreign body oversights, but the surgeons remained unscathed except, perhaps, for an admonishment to be more careful next time.

Doctor's private dining rooms were doomed by hierarchy busting youngsters and the welcome influx of women to the medical field. Most women did not take kindly to putting their own needs ahead of patient welfare when covering up mistakes, an issue frequently addressed in all male forums like doctor's dining rooms.. Corporate healthcare had a significant role in shuttering doctors' dining rooms because of their negative cash flow. Any use of space that failed to contribute to cash flow was history.

What Was the Most Viewed Post of 2020?

This has been a really strange year, just when I thought that I'd seen just about every thing, the Corona Virus pops up and attacks some of the most vulnerable members of our population. Dr. Slambow, my surgeon hero of yesteryear, always said it was the things you cannot see that should cause you the most worry. I suspect he was talking about lesions hiding out somewhere in the small bowel, weird anatomical variations, latent coagulopathies  or breaks in sterile technique. Viruses were not on the radar back then, but I thought of Dr. S. many times while the COVID19 mortality and morbidity numbers were flashed across my computer screen. He was right about hidden danger being the ultimate source of worry.

There has been a flight of ideas coursing  through the remnants of my nervous system about subjects to post;  the long tenure of ether screens (anything that lasts for over a century grabs my attention), questionable adjuncts to ventilator therapy (proning, the latest and greatest of these interventions prompted this idea), the demise of doctor's dining rooms, the disappearance of ortho beds with traction frames and a personal tale of TPN addiction.

It's sometimes a long road from an idea to typing up a new post. Declining eyesight and gnarly fingers from IP joint arthritic changes have put the brakes on my once upon a time nimble fingers. My latest status post encephalomyelitis MRI showed a loss of brain volume, so I best get cracking before my vintage memories evaporate in that looming cognitive abyss. Oh well there is always next year and I will strive to post more than once a month which was my 2020 goal.

The most viewed post of 2020 by a swarming plethora of views  was...drum roll please:oldfoolrn: March 2020. I was really taken off guard by the popularity of a post about such an unsavory topic. I think there is a post languishing in my unpublished drafts about every old nurse's favorite colonic, the 1...2...3... enema. Maybe some day I'll hold my nose and publish it, although I was never one for over rated enemas and their associated backside buffonery.

 My personal favorite was about the crude, but effective Wagensteen suction oldfoolrn: Wagensteen Suction - Elegantly Simple Without Electricity In this electonically complex world filled with flat screen monitors and assorted doodads, it's a delight to see a simple mechanical device do it's work. Just because we were ludites doesn't mean we were stupid or lacked creativity.

Happy New year and I appreciate your loyal readership of my never ending  foolishness. You give an old man a sense of deep rooted purpose.

Christmas Arrives at Downey VA Hospital With a Gift for Warren

 

 

Warren was a big, tall man with a complexion that reminded me of custard pudding, forty-one years old, with half a lifetime spent on the back wards of Downey VA Hospital, a warehouse for the mentally ill. Like most all the patients here he was branded with the diagnosis of schizophrenia, chronic, undifferentiated. By the 1970s psychiatrists had given up on the idea of delineating the various subtypes of the illness; catatonic, hebrephrenic, paranoid, or schizoaffective,  all permutations were treated the same at Downey. Determining the underpinnings and concocting efficacious treatments for complex mental disorders like schizophrenia made nuclear physics look like a game show.The brain was a complex organ with very complex disorders.

Warren's most visible problem was that he was literally lost in space and required constant contact with a wall to do just about anything that required movement. Staff members regarded this as a behavioral manifestation of his psychosis and dealt with it  accordingly by initiating harsh measures like restrictions on privileges such as smoking and moving his bed to a dark, grim, windowless  area for special observation with threats of physical restraint if he persisted in his wall rubbing routine.

Watching Warren navigate the subterranean world of Downey's interconnected tunnel system was like following a bumper car at the state fair. He repeatedly bumped or bounced his right shoulder off the rough red brick walls leaving a trail of textile shards in his wake, similar to the sparks trailed by the bumper car contact wire on the electrified ceiling. His posture resembled the letter "J" upside down with the end of the letter in constant contact with the wall as he gallivanted along his way.

Just about any staff  reprimand, which was nearly constant,  to cease this shirt/coat shredding behavior was meant with a look from Warren that could smelt lead. Out of pure frustration, Warren developed a unique skill that involved tapping on the few panes of glass windows that had not replaced by plexiglass, skillfully he increased the force of the impact until the glass shattered, leaving his hand virtually without injury.

I talked to Warren about his need for wall rubbing and came away with an assessment much different from my esteemed colleagues. I thought the  incessant wall rubbing was not a direct manifestation of his psychosis or voluntary acting out. Warren had a proprioceptive disorder where he really could not tell the position of his body in space. He felt that without contact with the walls while moving he  would follow a circuitous path and never arrive at his destination or fall injuring himself.

That evening while pouring medications my eye was drawn to the heavy plasticized bottle the pharmacy provided for a solution we mixed with Thorazine concentrate liquid to make it palatable. The side and bottom portion of the bottle had a contour that was a near perfect match to Warren's right shoulder where it interfaced with the brick walls.

I took an empty bottle home that evening and went to work on a garment that could slide along those rough Downey walls and remain intact. Warren loved football, having played receiver  in high school, but while his team mates soared to the stars with their lives. he burned up as he plunged back through the atmosphere like the space shuttle Columbia.

After fashioning an appropriate skid plate from the pharmacy bottle, I drilled a series of tiny holes around the periphery of the plastic armor  and carefully sutured sewed the protective armor to the right sleeve of a Chicago Bears jacket  ala a craniotomy bone flap. A test drag across the outside wall of my apartment building proved successful. Warren was an avid Bears fan and I had a feeling he would really enjoy the jacket, especially if he could rub the brick walls without worry.

I carefully wrapped Warren's special Christmas gift complete with the  abrasion tested shoulder armor in a box that was emblazoned with the corporate jingle, "Tarreyton  100's for smokers who would rather fight than switch." He eagerly unwrapped the present half expecting a mother lode of cigarettes, but as he eyed the special jacket, his eyes gleamed. The look was priceless. He quickly donned the jacket with a renewed sense of purpose. When he spotted the shoulder guard, he couldn't wait to try it out with a quick mosey down along the hall walls. It doesn't take much to make some folks happy - one of the special rewards of working at a place like Downey VA Hospital.