So this ER that I'm in right now is all about trying to become trauma-certified. We had this big long lecture from management today during our pre-shift huddle regarding how we're pretty much awesome and a trauma center already and the only thing we lack is the designation.

During this lecture a few people were singled out about how they filled out the trauma charting wrong, by putting "4 hours ago" as the time of injury as opposed to "Sunday 4/28/13 @ 0400." Not a huge deal, and something that seems easily remedied by a quick mention instead of a berating. We were also all given a stern talking to about how the triage nurse and the secondary assessment nurse cannot under any circumstances be the same person. "These are huge issues, people! This is the kind of stuff that makes us trauma!" said Management.

Except, not.

Eight hours later, when my room gets a direct bed from triage, I find a little girl sitting in a wheelchair because her drunk friends got in an accident and were too scared to call an ambulance. They called another friend to come pick her up and drop her drunk self off at our door. I'm like, "hey girl, I see your obviously fractured femur, and I'm gonna help you."

I'm gonna help by putting on that Hare traction splint. But wait! There isn't a single traction splint to be found in this ER. Anywhere. I had to borrow one from EMS.

Because we're a trauma center. Except, not.

I can't even imagine how terrible we'd be if I had also charted both a primary and secondary assessment under one name. Oh, the horrors.

Oh hai everybody! Remember that time I got lazy and only blogged like twice a month? I bet you do remember, because that time is now. Sorry about that. I've got a bunch of amazingly witty and heartwrenching stuff drafted out that will probably win me the Pulitzer or something, but, yeah. Laziness.

So in the interest of good interwebz reading, I bring you this: Shepherd of the Gurneys. Go forth and read now. Srsly. Don't believe me? Here's a little excerpt of the fun, from "Diagnosis of the Week:"

That fact notwithstanding, please accept as gospel, that unless you produce either the winning Powerball ticket, serial 24K solid gold nuggets, or the body of Jimmy Hoffa, there is nothing in your barf that I, the other staff, the doctors, or anyone in North America wants to "take a look at". I don't care if you ate alphabet soup and coincidentally horked up the entire Revelation of St. John, in Greek, or launched out something that's the spitting image (you should forgive the pun) of DaVinci's Mona Lisa. Keep it to yourself, and leave it at home. Don't even use a clear bag.

Like I said. Comedy gold.


Also, I promise I'll get myself in gear and start writing regularly again soon because I have lots to say about this travel assignment and how much I'm going to miss it and how fast six months flew by. I'll be back, but probably not until next March or so. I'm gonna miss Texas something fierce, especially the friends I've made here.
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