No wicks

It seems there was an older couple who made candles on the edge of the village. One afternoon Angelina grew tired and decided to nap.

"I'm going to nap," she said. “Please don't touch any of my things."

When she returned to the workshop two hours later, however, all of her wicks were gone.

"Where are my wicks?" She insisted.

"Well, you see dear," said her husband. "There is no wick for the rested!"

Creative Writing

Democracy/freedom

Ben Franklin wrote; “Democracy is a sheep and two wolves voting on what’s for lunch. Freedom is when the heavily armed sheep question the vote.

A Pocket full of smiles

Back in the 70s, the healthcare environment differed from today. HIPAA would not be enacted until the mid-’90s, and a pandemic was not considered. Extended hospital stays were covered by insurance and could be justified on the doctor’s word, or even at the patient’s or caregiver’s request.

Back then, people often had elderly kin under their care admitted for a week for a rest and a checkup. While the senior was being looked after by the nursing staff, the family could take a much-needed vacation.

Such was the situation I found myself in one evening while doing my nursing school clinical rotation. I was working the afternoon shift from three to eleven, and putting the patients to bed was a responsibility of ours. While attending to an elderly, pleasantly confused gentleman at bedtime, I removed his robe and was about to hang it up. It was heavier than it should be, and it was emitting a gentle clanking sound, like the pockets were full of seashells. I took a moment to investigate his pouches and discovered they were both overflowing with dentures. He had been collecting them from patients up and down the wing all evening.

To make sure all the people had their own grins the next morning, the staff spent the rest of the night calling dentists across that part of the state. The conversations went something like this, “Hello Dr. Blithers, sorry to wake you. This is Virginia Plump. I’m a nurse at Holy Moses Hospital in Townville. One of our patients, trying to be helpful, collected everyone’s false teeth this evening and stuffed them in his pockets. We are eager to return them all to their rightful owners. Here is a list of our guests who have dentures. Are any of them your clients?”

Submitted by;

Mary Hawn, RN

A little off the top

Back in 1975, I was laboring through my first years of marriage, and my first years of graduate school. Graduate school years are notorious for poverty and mine were no different. My wife and I had two girls under the age of three and were struggling to provide the necessities for our little family. Even though gainful employment was forbidden in my grant contract, I began looking for work in order to make dining a more regular affair.

While still in my undergraduate life, I had become a registered respiratory therapist. This, I felt, would give me the means to support my family while in school. There were five hospitals within a ten-mile radius of the college. There should be a therapist position open in at least one of them. With the goal of finding a part-time position in mind, I set out one Saturday morning. I struck gold on my third visit. A small general hospital near our mobile home park was looking for a registered therapist to work nights and weekends. I leapt at the opportunity.

Now, there is another fact which must be mentioned here. Even at that young age, I was quite bald. A month before our story begins, my grandmother, for reasons I will never fathom, bought me an expensive hairpiece. Out of respect for her, I taped the hairpiece in place every morning before starting my day.

Toward the end of my first week of employment at, let’s call it Holy Moses Hospital, while walking down a hallway, I saw one of my patients sitting in a phone booth. At first glance, everything appeared normal. Mr. Strepcock was sitting in the phone booth, dressed in his robe and slippers. He appeared to be leaning against the payphone in a relaxed manner. When I came closer, however, I noticed he was dead. Dead is a clinical condition we are trained to recognize in R.T. School, and I had received top grades in my ability to spot it.

Following a preliminary check of his condition to verify my initial diagnosis, I called out to the nearby nurses’ station, “Code Red, Code Red. Call the CPR team. This patient is near death.” I didn’t specify which part of death he was near. Was he about to be dead or had he passed into the great beyond, stating his level of deadness would call for a medical opinion. To pronounce a patient dead is considered practicing medicine without a license unless you are indeed a doctor. Even if the patient is dead, doctors guard their right to pronounce him so. Here, Mr. Strepcock was cold as a mackerel, his eyes were staring, and he had the numbers 3–7 pressed into his cheek from leaning against the buttons of the phone.

As soon as I called the code, I pulled the patient out of the phone booth and onto the floor. I opened the front of his robe and gave him a goodly thump on the chest. Still unable to detect any signs of life, I began CPR. I opened the patient’s mouth and gave him the kiss of life. Following the CPR protocol, I gave him five quick breaths while observing his chest to make certain it was rising and falling with each breath.

By the time I moved down to begin chest compression, the code team had arrived with the crash cart. One nurse on the CPR team moved up to the head of the patient and, using an Ambu-Bag, began administering a breath with every five chest compressions. Another nurse unlocked the crash cart and stood ready to hand drugs and equipment to the doctor, who had arrived by that time. A third nurse stood with a clipboard, ready to record the time of every step taken by the team, as well as all drugs administered. There was a pair of nurses manning the defibrillator, one to work the controls and the other to wield the paddles. Of course, there was also a supervisor present without whom the team couldn’t be expected to function.

And so we began. Pump, pump, pump, pump, pump, breath. It was a brand new crash-cart, and the CPR team had never worked together before that morning. Everyone knew the job that was expected of them.

“Check him with the paddles,” the doctor said.

The paddle nurse placed one paddle on the front of the patient’s chest and the other on his side under his arm. All action ceased as the team stood and watched the small monitor on the defibrillator. “Beeeeeeee,” a small yellow dot sped across the screen from left to right, straight as an arrow.

“Continue compressions.”

I continued my rhythmic chest pressing and watched the team try this and speculate on that. As we worked, it became warmer in the corridor. Regardless of what you may see on TV, chest compressions are hard work. Small beads of sweat were forming on my forehead, running down and dripping off my nose.

“Lets shock him,” the doctor said. “Maybe we can get a rhythm started.”

Again, the paddles were placed on the patient’s chest and the defibrillator charged. When the device beeped showing it was ready to deliver its life restoring voltage, the nurse said, “clear,” and we all stood away.

I should mention that this small hospital had never had a CPR team prior to my arrival. All of this was new to everyone there, everyone but me, that is. I had been on a team in another, much larger hospital. One night at the larger hospital, our team was called out eleven times. Experience told me that if we could bring Mr. Strepcock around, it would be a true Lazarus event. This guy was very dead before we started. Let me again say, however, it was above my pay-grade to bring that fact to the team’s attention.

As I mentioned, it was getting warm down there on the floor. My uniform was showing sweat, and my hands were getting slippery.

“Let’s try an intracardiac injection. Get me some Epinephrine.”

As soon as the doctor turned to take the syringe from the nurse, I paused my compressions. The instant I stopped pressing on the patient’s chest, the sweat on my bald head caused the toupee tape to let go, and my hair piece fell right in the center of the patient’s chest.

When the doctor turned back around, he saw a bunch of hair right where he intended to stick the needle. Unsure what it was, he picked it up and threw it over his shoulder. The charting nurse saw a dark, furry thing fly past her out of nowhere. She smacked it with her clipboard, dropping it to the floor. The nurse, who had just given the doctor the syringe, witnessed a strange, dark, furry object falling to the ground close to her. She screamed, stomped on it several times, and kicked it into a corner.

When the doctor pronounced the patient dead, everyone relaxed. It was then that one nurse looked at me and said, “who in the hell are you?” No one on the hospital staff had ever seen me without my hair piece. To them, I was a bald stranger kneeling over the patient.

In shame, I collected my expensive toupee in a bag, punched out, and went home, intending never to return.

After arriving home, the Director of Nursing called. “This is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure no one on the staff will think any the less of you. It could have happened to anyone.”

I doubted her sincerity, however, because the words were barely past her lips when she erupted into hysterical, uncontrolled laughter.

When she finally managed to reign in her levity, I informed her my mind was made up. I could never show my face there again.

“OH, well,” she squeaked. “I guess it’s up to you,” and once again, she lost her composure in fits of laughter.

I never went back to that hospital, and I never again wore the toupee

living with pain

Jan. 7, 2023

I have been blessed with arthritic pain for the last twenty years. I have discovered there are at least two ways to deal with pain. The first, and most obvious, approach to pain management is medical, ie, to consume pain medication, subjecting yourself to nerve-blocking procedures, etc. The second approach is more difficult and requires much more personal commitment. I refer to this method as the mental, or spiritual pain management approach. I will contribute blog entries on these pain management approaches in the coming days.

I am a writer, and writing is a mental exercise that can be influenced by one’s surroundings and psychic state. Pain can overshadow any psychological environment one happens to be in and completely dominate your thought process. I have, therefore, found it necessary to find a dependable method of dealing with the, at times exquisite, pain in my daily life. I hope you find this line of discussion helpful in creating your writing milieu.

First, a few notes and comments on the medical approach to pain management. It is not uncommon to have two pain management drugs prescribed. One drug for long-term maintenance such as Gabapentin, and one for breakthrough pain. A drug commonly prescribed for acute breakthrough pain spikes is the opioid Hydrocodone HCL (5MG, 7.5 MG, or 10 MG) combined with 350 MG of Tylenol (Acetaminophen).

My prescription is considered fairly low. I currently take 600 MG of Gabapentin three times each day. For pain spikes that break through the Gabapentin, I have Hydrocodone/Acetaminophen (5MG/350MG) which I can take as often as three times each day.

In the past, I have had, in addition to the Gabapentin, prescriptions as high as 7.5MG/350MG Hydrocodone/Acetaminophen as often as every six hours. At the same time, I wore a 100 mcg/hr. transdermal patch of Fentanyl

In addition to the pain control medication, there are several pain nerve procedures the staff at the Pain Clinic can perform on-site. These procedures include Variable Radio Frequency Ablation, Spinal Blocks, and Steroid Injections to name the most common. In the treatment protocol I have designed, the purpose of the breakthrough medication is to bring the pain level down to where I can deal with it Spiritually or Mentally.

As my ability to mentally compartmentalize, or spiritually accept my pain grows stronger, my need for breakthrough meds decreases.

We will explore the Mental, and Spiritual approaches next week. I look forward to seeing you then.

January 14, 2023

Spiritual and Mental Pain Management

One form of spiritual pain management is to view your pain as intercessory pain. Intercessory pain is the pain you willingly suffer for someone else, or for some intention outside of yourself. As an example, there could be a critically ill child who is much less capable of enduring pain, confusion, and fear. You could, by requesting the intervention of Christ, offer your pain in place of the child’s. Or, you could offer your suffering to Christ for intentions known to Him alone. You could say, “Christ, let my suffering be of help to someone.”

Christ sanctified suffering by suffering for us. When He said. “Pick up your cross and follow me,” suffering became a sanctified tool to act out our love for one another. Don’t let your suffering go to waste.

One of the most successful methods of mental pain management I call compartmentalization. I have known individuals who could compartmentalize their pain and then distance themselves from it. One old Native American had perfected the technique so effectively that he was able to undergo facial surgery without anesthesia following an auto accident. He told me that the pain was the concern of his body and had nothing to do with his spirit. He said that he would push the pain down to his body, and imagine his spirit getting on a train and leaving. Periodically the train would return to the station. If the pain was still there his spirit would stay on the train and leave again, if not, his spirit would get off.

There is one major difference between these two techniques. Intercessory pain management involves accepting your pain, mental techniques are designed to reduce your pain as much as possible. With either technique, you must seek medical assistance for diagnosis and treatment. Personally, I have a Primary Physician, a Rheumatologist, and a doctor who specializes in pain.

When I wake up in Pain, I know I’m alive Tuesday Morning, March 14, 2023

I’m getting ready for work and my pain level is between 8 and 9. This would be a great time to bring up another aspect of personal pain management. This is a mix of the first two mentioned above, and actually builds a synergistic path on the strengths of both. I’ll call this the Lazarus approach because when you arise from the bed you feel like you’re coming out of the tomb!

With the Lazarus technique, you take just enough pain medication to reduce the pain level to where you can handle it spiritually. Anyone suffering from chronic pain will know how much that is. (The temptation is to take more, and completely overwhelm the spiritual part.)

Note: Like many chronic pain sufferers, there is a short period after I first get up in the morning during which the pain is exquisite. I am forced to take into account that the morning pain will drop down on its own (in my case) in about an hour. If I medicate at a level sufficient to eradicate the morning pain, in an hour I will be over-medicated. Again, the goal is to take the pain down to a level where you can use your spiritual approach to deal with it.

pot please, hold the wax

12/31/22

Many years ago I took a classical Latin class. I'd like to share the following.

The word Sincerely at the close of a letter is taken from the Latin phrase SINE CERA which literally means Without Wax!

Cracks in statues and pottery were often disguised by pouring melted wax into them and allowing it to cool. Therefore, the small inscription Sine Cera on the base meant you were getting a good product, you were getting your money's worth. Perhaps we should  start signing our letters:

Without Wax,

JM Amley

My Annual Physical

January 1, 2023

The other night when we were getting ready for bed, my wife exclaimed, “how in the world did you get those scratches on your butt?”

I went to the clinic today, I told her, for my annual physical. After hanging around most of the afternoon, being prodded and poked, and answering a thousand questions, I was beginning to feel confident the worst was behind me.

Suddenly the doctor said the most feared sentence a grown man can hear, “slide your shorts down and bend over the exam table.” Believe me, I knew what was coming.

“I won't, and you can't make me,” I said while slowly backing away.

“Oh, yes I can,” she growled through clenched teeth as she slowly advanced.

“Get away from me with that,” I said pointing at her gloved and vasolined finger. Then I screamed and began running around the exam table with her in hot pursuit. We knocked over chairs and bounced off the walls.

“Get back here you old Fart,” she screamed. “You can't get away, now stop acting like a fool.”

Around and around we went. I was screaming and she was yelling, “I haven't got time for this foolishness.” Every time she got close she grabbed at the waistband of my Y-fronts, and her fingernails would dig into my backside. That's how the scratches got there.

“Don't worry,” I told my wife, “They're not going to charge us to replace the furniture – as long as I promise to see some other doctor for my next physical.”

Oh, Muse, give me a golden line of bullshit, and the wisdom to know when to stop spreading it.