Sunday Morning

Most of us have been here, with a headache, nausea, and an adamant amount of regret. It’s generally on either a Saturday or a Sunday morning, with the past nights events a haze, the clues to what happened vary to where you wake up, bruises, and the appalling debit machine receipts in your pockets.

That’s my friend, Angie, currently sitting at a 4/10 hangover. Her next actions will be crucial.

And rewind…
Yesterday was my 24th birthday, and my day was spent doing my last shift on my hospital practicum. My preceptor was so amazing and let me leave early. I boogied home and commenced to go out with friends. I stopped for some rum, and went to Angie’s.

10:10: I show up at her house. I pull out the rum, pour two doubles with splashes of coke. I down one, gagging the whole way, Angie fights her heaving as I tell her there is only 15 minutes till the cab gets there.

10:11: I pour another double, with a little bit more coke, and have at it. Angie is just finishing her first, starting the second, whining “do I have to do this?”. I tell her she does. She’ll save her money.

10:30: The cab calls. He’s here. We run outside but forgot to change out of boots. The cab can’t make it down her 1/2 block long driveway. He wants us to hike. We start running through the foot and a half deep snow. Angie is yelling her boots are suede. I don’t care.

10:58: We arrive at the country bar. There is no line. Amazing. We get in. Ladies are free till midnight. Even better.

I went on to only have only maybe four more drinks (don’t quote me on that).
The next thing I know, it is 1:33am and we are grabbing a cab home. We get the driver to take us to McDonald’s and then take us home. We ate our meals, got home, and crawled into bed
Angie fell asleep right off the bat. I was going to be sick.
I hopped out of bed and proceeded to crawl across the floor, but decided the floor was much comfy-er.
Next thing you know, I’m waking up at 6:30am with a balled up pair of pajama pants for a pillow, wrapped in a dog blanket staring at my wretched face in a mirror. I groan, and crawl back into bed with Angela. My body definitely loosed two separate shotgun farts that were loud enough to wake me. Angela didn’t stir at all. Probably better she remain oblivious, or our friendship would never be the same.

When 11:15am rolled around we dragged our asses out of bed. Off to Denny’s we go.

Now Sunday mornings at Denny’s, there are two types of people generally eating: the hungover people, and the church people. It’s like a meeting of the light and the dark. Usually you can tell by sweaters. All the church people wear cardigans, and are neat and matchy. The hungover people are either wearing what they wore the night before with a sweater over top, or its hoodies galore.
Eggs Bennie brought me from a 4 to a 6 out of 10. I went to the bathroom to have my first of three eye-watering bowel movements. The girl in the stall next to me must be crying, but I have no shame.

Somehow by the end of breakfast we are bouncing back. We decide to go shopping. While standing in line at the GAP, Angela doubles over in pain and gives me the shirts she’s buying and her VISA. She says she’s going to the bathroom, it’s an emergency. I can’t stop laughing in the lineup for the GAP. It’s her first of two in the next 30 minutes.

She has to go on a date tonight. Baha.

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The Return, the Recap, and ER

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Its been a small hiatus while I have had final exams and whatnot. In short the last two weeks, I passed my course portion of EMT, I went home and got some days off, I pigged out, went blonde (more on that later…) and started my hospital practicum in a rural hospital north of Edmonton, AB.

Now I’m very sleepy and it’s my 24th birthday tomorrow, but the hospital has been great. I’ve learned three good lessons:

1. Young South African doctors are hot, have hot accents, but unfortunately the moment you walk into their emergency room with “student” on your uniform, you are now a nuisance, invisible, and have no chance.

2. Watching a woman have a biopsy on her breast in a table in front of me has taught me I will probably never do well in a surgery. I can handle having to take action in stuff…but watching a scalpel on a breast was unfortunately enough to make me woozy in the legs. Thankfully the nurse said if I had fainted, it wouldnt be the first time that’s happened in the room. I guess some lady’s husband dropped flat while she was giving birth, and all the doctors and nurses were so busy, there was nothing you could do but grab him by the shoes and drag him to the corner out of the way. Hilarious.

3. Never ever make a pirate joke to a one-eyed patient. Had to help change a dressing on a guy who got his left eye and sinus cavity removed. Way gross, and cool, but as in taking his vitals and talking to him, he’s telling me he’s got big plans for the night. In my head I thought “yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.”
“Sir, do you smoke?”
Patient: “Uh, we’ll that’s complicated”
“The doctor needs to know. It’s an Arr or no question”
Ok I didn’t say THAT but I thought about it.

Anyways, sleep is coming, and I’m hoping they call me in the middle of the night for a guy that’s shot or something. You know…good stuff.

Night 🙂

An Educational Moment About Feces

I made the mistake of asking the paramedic I work with about a term I learned in my EMT textbook.

Fecal vomiting.

Yes you heard it. I was reading about gastrointestinal illnesses and medical conditions when I came across this. This…symptom…occurs when a person has such a severely obstructed bowel that their SHAT has nowhere to go…but back where it came from.

Ahem. Yes, I am aware you are grossed out.

I was so awestruck though because I had never heard of it. My textbook only claimed the person you would be treating with an obstructed bowel would have “breath that smelled of fecal matter”. When I asked the female paramedic I work with about it however, it’s safe to say I got more than I bargained for.

Not ONLY did she go on to explain the condition, but she opened my eyes to the fact that a person will actually vomit feces. Although I was completely grossed out, that didn’t stop her from complimenting the explanation with a story of a person she knew. This other female she spoke of indeed was suffering from OB. The doctors did everything for her, and she was throwing up feces like mad, people gagging all around. They tried a soap sud wash finally after an enema, and suppositories. When it wasn’t looking good, and the doctors could not figure out why her bowels were not moving, they played their last card. A treatment, believe it or not, called….DIGITAL STIMULATION.

Your finger is a digit. Stimulation is stimulation. 1+1=who the F thought of that?

(on a side note, how on earth do you train for that in school? Hello students! you are going to put your finger in a….)

Anyways, while the doctor was doing this, apparently the girl with OB felt the soap suds kick in, and she uncontrollably (I use the word again) SHAT everywhere in the doctors office. I could not stop laughing.

And the moral of the story?

FIBRE.

The end.