ice cream scooper?

sometimes i feel like my work days are too lame to write about on a blog. like they're just pills and IV antibiotics. vomiting and diarrhea. who would want to hear about that?

and then, i have days that are so newsworthy and so dramatic i can barely muster the energy to re-hash them here on this little blog. they're too hard to contemplate again. and i'd rather pretend they didn't happen at all, so that i could move on with my life in blissful ignorance of all the pain and suffering in the world.

on wednesday, my 35 year old patient whom i have cared for off and on since january during his numerous hospital admissions, had the courage to admit he was having suicidal thoughts and requested to see psychiatry. we take suicidal ideation pretty seriously in the hospital. or at least i do. because i understand depression pretty well. and this man has every right to be feeling like his life is miserable and that perhaps, he would truly be better off if he were dead (isn't that sad? i care for people whose quality of life is sometimes so low that i too wish for them to die).

i notified my patient's doctor. and we went in and sat in our patient's bed - together. all three of us in our 30s. two of us very healthy and privileged. and one of us teetering between life and death. one of us wanting to control his destiny by overdosing on the same narcotics that are supposed to treat his pain. my patient sat there are bawled. i HATE seeing grown men cry. and i HATE when other grown men, physicians, don't know what to say or how to handle hard situations. i facilitated the talking. i told him he is brave. that he is doing the right thing seeking help.

the rest of the day was a series of check-ins. check-ins with my patient (to assure his safety). with charge nurses (on my unit and on psych - to see if we were doing the right thing). with the psychiatry team of residents and doctors. with his oncology team of doctors. with his pharmacist. with the discharge nurse (as he was going to be DCd to home that evening).

and although i truly believe that i did everything right, i went home feeling anxious. what if my very sick patient did attempt suicide? what if he succeeded? what if he ended his misery? would i feel glad that he was pain-free and done with his transplant battle? or would i feel partly to blame? like i should have done something better or differently?

i won't mention the rest of the week. it's too long. and too sad. but suffice it to say, i don't have good weeks when my family is potentially ill. and i don't like for my patient's to be a shade of grey-blue while struggling to breathe. and i don't like seeing wives in the hallway, pacing while their husbands are "crashing" - as one of them put it. (note the plural. wive(S). we had two codes yesterday).

working at molly moon's, scooping ice cream, working on my biceps and eating samples all day, is sounding better and better.