Follow me on Twitter, and quit yer bitchin’.

At the end of the first week, he finally got his chance (it was a slow month). We stood in the trauma bay, waiting for a fairly routine-sounding MVA to be rolled in — positive LOC on-scene but now conscious with a GCS of 15, along with an open tib/fib fracture.  Pharmacy-wise, this patient wouldn’t require much: antibiotics, tetanus vaccine, and maybe some pain meds.  No intubation meds, mannitol, or anything fun like that.

Kipp: A few months ago, I went and saw the movie 127 Hours at the theater. It was awesome. When they got to the part where James Franco had to cut off his arm, I watched the whole thing. Other people were closing their eyes and looking away, but I’m like, “This it’s nothing!” My favorite part is when he plucked the nerve in his arm like a guitar string…

And then EMS brought in the patient. Unfortunately, the leg fracture was just a regular old closed fracture, so I couldn’t make this resident do the aminoglycoside dosing. There wasn’t even so much as a laceration to deal with.

Cranky Surgical Attending: Pharmacy, can we get 50mcg of fentanyl?

Kipp: I got it…

As Kipp went to the back of the trauma bay to pull fentanyl out of the Pyxis machine, I chatted with one of the respiratory therapists. Suddenly, there was a loud crash, as metal carts and trays were upturned behind us. I turn around, and there’s Kipp, slumped on the floor next to the fluid warmer.

Apparently the lack of blood and guts was just too much for his nerves of steel to handle.

As I’m trying to work, one particular tech, Med Rec Betty, always feels the need to narrate to me what happened with every single med history she has attempted. Sometimes I politely act like I’m paying attention. Just as often, I lose patience and put on a pair of headphones. Today, I listened.

Med Rec Betty: I just spent a half-hour in the room of the patient that the helicopter just dropped off. His whole family was in the room. It was really awkward — everybody crying while I try and figure out which pharmacy he uses.

PharmNerd: Mmm-hmm.

Med Rec Betty: Now that I think about it, they seemed kind of rude. Excuse me, but it’s my job to get med histories on every patient that gets admitted.

PharmNerd: Wait… are you talking about the guy in Room 2?

Med Rec Betty: Yeah, him! Hey, what’s that tube sticking out of his mouth? It kind of looked like a breathing tube, but it wasn’t hooked up to anything.

PharmNerd: Yeah… that was a breathing tube. Call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure he’s not being admitted.

How do you expect me to take this mandatory online education seriously when you start it out with a picture of this guy?

I simply can’t concentrate when Captain Snappy-Coat is glaring at me with those angry, judging eyes.

It’s Pharmacy Week!!

In the past, my employer has given its employees sweaters, umbrellas, and fleece blankets to celebrate.

This year, we got news that overtime will now be paid as straight-time instead of time-and-a-half.  Wa-hooo!

Dr. Sherlock:  Hey, lady.  Open your eyes.

Ima:  …

Dr. Sherlock:  If you don’t wake up, we’re going to have to paralyze you and stick a breathing tube down your throat. <sternal rub, sternal rub>

Ima:  …

Dr. Sherlock:  Come on!  Quit playing possum on me!

Ima:  F**k you! I’m not playing possum! Give me some Dilaudid for this damn chest pain!

Here they are.

It’s nice to see technology looking out for my career like this. Luckily, I’m sure that our physicians totally respect the professional opinion of someone who drives a car like the Facepuncher.

Well, I’m off to update my profile pic with a sweet MySpace angle and send some mass emails to everyone at work…

How do you not realize that you shot yourself in the chest with a nail gun?!?

From the International Journal of Emergency Medicine

You know that it takes a special level of maturity to find humor in some boring piece of plastic with the words “prepierced”, “male”, “plug” and “long” in its name.

That stated, I find this to be absolutely hilarious.

Anyhow, this co-worker uses my office to change into his fancy biker shorts every morning.  So, I always have to be extra careful that I don’t walk in on naked dude when I get to work in the morning.  So far, so good.

However, once he’s changed, he sticks around to chat.  Or to discuss benefits with human resources.  Or he might attend a morning CE.  In his biker shorts.

I don’t have words to express the awkwardness, so I’ll let this picture do it for me.

Today at lunchtime, Karen, Sherril, Michelle, and I climbed into the Facepuncher 2000, and we made our weekly run for the border.  After lunch, I was driving back to work with my tires squealing and flames shooting out of the exhaust.

Conversation ensued…

Sherril: Michelle, I swear sometimes you have ass burgers!

Michelle: Yeah, sometimes I think so, too.  My neighbor actually has a son with ass burgers.

Sherril: You know who I think really has ass burgers?  The receptionist at work.

Michelle: I know… the way she just sits there and stares at you…

Me: What the HELL?!

Then they explained.  Asperger Syndrome.

People with Asperger’s have limited social skills, lack of empathy, and they’re physically clumsy.  Me, basically.

Anyhow, it’s nice to see that good old Hans Asperger put lots of forethought into naming this disease.  As a scientist, it’s awesome to finally get a disorder named after yourself, but is it really a good idea to label the person with the debilitating social disease as an “ass burger”?  Hilarious, maybe;  just not the smartest idea.

In addition to drugs, we also keep these little guys in the refrigerator at work.  Leeches.  They’re occasionally used to drain excess blood from previously injured body parts.  I always thought that this was kind of cool (and gross… but not as gross as the maggots that are sometimes used to clean rotting flesh wounds).

I don’t have anything particularly witty or humorous to say about this.  (It’s pretty questionable whether any of my posts meet that criteria.)

I will note that I’m relatively sure our current supply of leeches (shown here) are all dead.  Don’t let the one stuck to the glass fool you.  Up close, it looks like his guts are spilling out.

Priuses (”Prii”?) aren’t just for dirty hippies.  Awesome piles of testosterone like me drive them, too.

Unfortunately, driving a Prius also turns me into a giant douche-monster on the road.  Last week, my goal was to get over 50 miles-per-gallon on that current tank of gas.  I didn’t quite pull it off, but I’m sure I pissed off a fair share of people who were stuck behind me while I drove 5mph under the speed limit.