The title of this post sums up my shift at work on Tuesday night. Pt A lay dying in his ICU bed, officially placed on comfort care measures, in a peaceful morphine drip slumber. Our unit chaplain had held a small ceremony with his family earlier that afternoon, sprinkling rose petals over him and playing some soft music. Pt B, two doors down, was admitted with urosepsis and needed a foley catheter placed. The urologist was called, and he attempted several times to thread a small catheter through his urethra into his bladder...using a wire he had inserted into the urethra and into the bladder previously as a guide for the foley. This was unsuccessful; the doctor surmised the urethra was narrowed due to strictures and/or tumors (dx: bladder cancer). So...let's open up the narrowed area! He then inserted seven- inch long steel rods, about the size of a ball-point pen, into the pt's urethra, each one larger than the last, and wiggled them about a bit. All the while grasping the man's p*nis tightly (Ack! So tightly!) between his fingers while it weeped blood and urine. The pt winced a bit, and reported that it "hurts just a little." Eek. Poor fellow. I later had to call his doctor several times to get an order for something more than 1 mg of morphine for his pain. Good grief. I wanted the morphine just for having watched the procedure.
Also, I am dead inside and I hated Narnia. Again, good grief. Talking animals? Sons of Adam? Gross. And no, I never read the books. I don't think that would have helped. Still, yuck. And did you see the fur coats the children were wearing? Grody. I could smell the moth balls. Give me a good old zombie movie any day. Maybe a zombie movie where the zombies eat fur-coat wearing children and their talking beaver friends. Wheee!