Useless Parents.

"Sir, sir, please help, it's urgent" begged Andy. The waiting room was full, but so far all I'd seen was kids with sniffly noses and scratchy throat. Andy seemed genuinely worried so I motioned for him to come to the front of the queue.

Andy strode into my office and stood hovering over me as I sat at my desk. "You can sit down Andy" I said. "I can't sir, I'm too worked up, I'm friggin scared sir." "It's ok Andy. Sit down and tell me what's wrong." Andy sat down and began to tell his story.

"It's my eyes sir, I keep seeing things" Andy explained. My ears perked up at this. This was a far cry from the usual complaints. "What exactly are you seeing? Describe as accurately as you can" I replied.

Andy's symptoms had began about a month ago. He started seeing jagged lines at the edge of his vision. At the start he only noticed the lines a couple of times a day, but now he was constantly seeing lines on the edge of his vision. There was no pain, and his vision was otherwise unimpaired. I asked the usual questions like: How often, How long, What makes it worse/better etc. But the biggest shock was still to come.

"Have you ever had problems with your eyes before? Problems of any kind?" asked. Andy seemed surprised by my question "Of course I have. I spent five days in an eye hospital in the states getting all sorts of things done. But you know this. Mum's told you before." It was my turn to be surprised "Ah, sorry Andy, but your mother has never said anything about this at all." I then produced his medical records to show him that his mother had never informed us of her son's medical history regarding the eyes.

Andy was taken to the local emergency eye hospital where he spent the next 16 hours getting every examination possible. The doctor eventually sent Andy and I home. He said there was no danger to Andy's vision, but he said he urgently wanted a copy of the records from when Andy had five days of testing at an American hospital.

"Hello, is the Andy's mum?" I asked. "Yes, how can I help" came the reply. "I'm calling about Andy, I'm the nurse who took him to the eye hospital. We urgently need his medical records, or reports, anything you have" I said. I then spent the next ten minutes explaining everything the eye doctor had told me. "All right, I'll see what I can do" said Andy's mum. The line went dead.

Two weeks later and nothing. No medical notes, no emails, no contact at all with Andy's parents. Andy was becoming angrier every day with his family. After receiving no reply to my emails I phoned Andy's mum for the tenth time and finally got through. "I've contacted the doctor and they'll fax the records through" explained Andy's mum after I'd politely berated her for doing nothing. "How long ago did you fax them" I asked. There was a pause, "Ah, an hour ago" again, another pause, "Ah, what's the fax number by the way." I hung up the phone.

Andy's mum was a liar and not dong a thing to help her son.

I eventually tracked down the records a got a copy sent from the American hospital and sent then to the eye hospital here in Europe. As soon as the doctor here got the report he requested to see Andy that same day.

Thankfully Andy's vision is going to be ok, although he will probably always see these lines.

No thanks have to go to Andy's mum.

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What you don't know

"He's such a quiet guy" were the words that people usually used to describe Pete. This was then followed by something like, "Yeah, he's a nice guy. Never bothers anyone." Even though I knew Pete on a 'friends of friends' kind of basis and knew his life style, even I never knew how sick he really was.

Pete got out of bed and wandered to the kitchen, lighting up a joint in the process. Smoking a joint wasn't anything special to Pete, at least in that it wasn't a special occasion. He never sat down with friends and smoked, there was no ceremony about it. Pete smoked marijuana as if he was smoking a regular cigarette.

Pete then went to work where he spent the day killing chickens. His day was broken down into morning tea break, where he smoked some pot, lunch break which meant more marijuana, then it was off home and dinner whereupon he smoked another joint. His evening was then spent in front of the television. He would then have one final toke then off to bed.

Whenever the boys' went out on the town Pete was always such help. "Who wants to be the sober driver tonight" someone would ask. No one would volunteer, then someone would say "Hey Pete, you haven't been drinking tonight. Will you drive for us?" In his typical monosyllabic way Pete always said "Yep"

In fact no matter what we did, where we went, or who we met, Pete was always there, somewhere. He rarely talked, was always helpful, and for someone who spent their life completely stoned to pieces, he seemed rather level headed. In fact we sometimes wondered if he had developed some natural resistance to the stuff as we never knew quite how he still managed to function.

I left that crowd, and I didn't see any of them for ten years. Then I bumped into Pete by accident.

The doorbell rang. "I'll get it" I offered and headed out to the security door. When I got to the door I stopped and stared in surprise at the person on the other side of the reinforced glass. Pete looked the same and behaved the same. He showed no surprise when I opened the door. "Gudday, it's been a while" was all Pete said. "Ah, Pete" I stammered, "It sure has...Ah, what can I do for you?" I asked. "I've come for my injection" he said. I was a bit slow catching on. "Ah injection for what?" I asked. In his usual calm, unhurried way, Pete said "My schizophrenia medication of course" Pete said with a knowing smile as he walked past me and down the corridor.

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The rich kids health

The rich kids behave differently from the poor kids. It was time to send them a message. All the kids got a message from their favorite, caring nurse:

"When you get sick, do you expect to be cured? How many of you think there's a medicine that will fix all your problems?
Unfortunately there's not a lot we can cure. We hope to find things to relieve the symptoms a little, but your body does all the work, it just takes a bit of time sometimes.

What's my point? A lot of you seem angry that you're not getting antibiotics from the health center. Guess what, antibiotics work for bacterial infections. 99% of you have viral infections, meaning antibiotics are useless.

There are certain things we look for to help us decide if an illness is bacterial or virus, we know what we're doing.

So, don't get angry, don't be obnoxious, and remember to say please and thank you.

If you're not happy about something, discuss it in a polite and calm way like a normal human being.

Some do's and don't when entering the health center

Don't say "I just need..." or "Give me some..." or "Only one minutes, that's all..."

Try "Can you please..." or "May I please have some..." or "What time suits you..."

Don't complain that we've made you wait till lunch clinic about your sore knee when it's been sore for the last week and you've not bothered to come to one single clinic in all that time.

Don't tell me that you mum said you need to rest, sleep, go on antibiotics or have surgery. Your mum isn't here, plus about one third of your parents never bothered to return your health information forms.

Don't put on make up. Confused. Well the last girl who came to see me with apparent horrendous diarrhoea and vomiting had immaculate make-up, lovely perfume, and smiled a bit too much. Real sick people don't do this.

Don't tell me you "Can't breathe" in long, rambling 20 word sentences.

Don't tell me you need to see a specialist doctor. You probably don't know what one is, and if you did want to see one, the waiting time is usually two weeks or more. Fortunately, due to the aide of our local doctor, we can usually get appointments much quicker.

If at any stage you think you can get better help, go ahead and do so. I'm sure there are plenty of over paid doctors in Geneva happy to take your parents money when any experienced general practitioner could have dealt with your problem.

Do tell us your health problem, especially your past history. I am shocked almost on a weekly basis when people complain to me that nothing is being done about their illness which they've had since birth, but never bothered to tell us about it in the first place.

Do use your common sense and be patient.

It is a fact that the poorer the patient, the poorer the family, the better manners they have, the more appreciative they are, and the better care they receive, and all because they not only know how to be nice, but they are nice. In fact the poorer people bring in the nicest chocolates, even though they can't afford it.

So, try being nice, try saying 'please' and 'thank-you' and you might find life in the health center a little easier.

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Racist not, just Culturally aware

"It's your job to tell the ones faking and the ones that are sick" moaned Marco, "So do your job" he added with a touch of venom. Poor Marco, he just doesn't know when to keep his trap shut. I was beginning to feel sympathetic towards him, but now he's turned me against him.

"Ah, Marco, when did I say you were faking your illness" I asked with forced politeness. "C'mon sir, you know I'm sick, just let me sleep. Don't send me back to class, please" he begged. Three years looking after teenagers and it still amazed me how the kids could be rude and obnoxious one moment and then pleading the next. But what amazed me more how they expected sympathy even after they insulted me. When I was their age I know I wasn't stupid enough to offend the person who I was hoping would help me.

There are two problems with Marco. The first is that he is Italian. I'm not being racist, just more culturally aware. All the Italian kids I look after insist on being sent to bed at the slightest sign of a sniffly nose or scratchy throat. They act like they are dying.

The second problem is that Marco is not used to being told what he can and can't do. All his parents have ever done is throw money at him, and sent him off to boarding school for someone else to raise.

"Marco, you're your own worst enemy, did you know that" I said. "What do you mean sir?" Marco replied sounding genuinely confused. "Well, you just don't know when to keep your mouth shut. I was going to let you have some time off school to rest, but now you've made me angry."

"I'm sorry sir, so sorry. You know me. I'm real sorry."

What to do. Well, I guess I'm just soft. I let the lad rest.

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Compassionate Triage

As Doctor Pru stood there reading the file her mouth turned down into a frown. "Who triaged this patient?" She called out across the room to anyone who would pay her attention. Everyone ignored her except me. I knew whose file she had and I knew she'd make a fuss, not because there was a problem, but because she loved to pick faults and seemed to relish making people squirm in front of her.

"A name would help Pru" I said, "Whose file you got there?"

Pru glanced at the file in her hand "Mrs Smith. Did you triage Mrs Smith?" She said accusingly. "Yeah, I did, what's the problem?" I asked.

"Could you tell me why she's in the triage 3 box. She's at most a four, or maybe even a five. For goodness sake why? why? why?"

"Well, she is 93yrs old Pru. She's from a resthome and it was a big deal getting here. They had to get an ambulance to get her here, then have to arrange one to take her back. She's got a carer sitting with her as well. I'd thought I'd sneak her in first. It just doesn't seem right to let a 93yr old lady wait for three or four hours" I explained.

Pru sighed and rolled her eyes, "We do not triage on age" she said as if this was the end of the argument and placed her file in the triage four box. "But Pru, it'll only take ten minutes to get her fixed. All we need is for you to take a look at her and I'll do the rest. C'mon Pru, I'm not going to leave a frail old lady sitting there for ages."

Pru grabbed Mrs Smith's file from the drawer. I felt hope. She then put it in the triage five box. She grabbed another triage three file and marched out to the room.

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Saving the patient, and my Friends

It began with a simple hello and went down hill from there.

“Ah. Hi,” I stammered, as my mind frantically went into overdrive trying to figure out where I’d seen this pretty blonde woman before. “Can I buy you a drink? It’s the least I can do,” she offered.

Something definitely was amiss because attractive young women didn’t generally offer to buy me drinks. I peered closer at her face. Recognition hit me like a sledge hammer. “Ah, I’m fine. I’m, ah, drinking water tonight--designated driver, you know? Thanks for the offer.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe another time,” she said, then turned to the barman. I made my escape.

“Hey, you gonna introduce us?”Jake said to me when I returned to our table. “Yeah, if you’re not interested, introduce her to me,” offered Simon. Both the boys had been behind me when Sophie (I’d remembered her name by now) had offered to buy me a drink.

“Ah, she’s not interested,” I said. The guys were angry. “What are you talking about? If you like her, that’s cool, but if not, don’t be selfish,” said Jake. “Yeah man, don’t be selfish,” echoed Simon.

What could I say? I couldn’t tell them who she was—that I had vivid memories of her foaming at the mouth and of her painting her room in feces. I couldn’t tell them that I’d looked after Sophie for two months in the psychiatric ward and that, even at her best, she would never be quite right.

So I suggested another bar, I bought a round of drinks, and Sophie was soon forgotten.

What do you think? Did I mistreat Sophie by not introducing my friends? Was I prejudiced? Well, probably, but for the right reasons. I was just using my common sense. I kept them safe, kept Sophie safe, and kept my mouth shut at the same time. We were all winners.

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