The following post may not appeal to some of the list members as it lacks
any mentioning of reverse biasing tunnel diodes, or the use of UV light
to reveal glue lines in furnishings, but it is nonetheless quite funny,
and those of you with some medical training will find it even funnier and
will be ROTFL.
As the list moderator I am entitled to post one piece of humor a week to
make up for my dry technical TSCM postings that put everybody to
sleep.
LOTR has never been so Precious.
-jma
http://ambulancedriverfiles.blogspot.com/2007/09/sumdoods-army.html
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Sumdood's Army
"What is your last name, Sir?" I ask, watching the guy with the
dank, greasy hair sitting at the triage desk, nervously wringing his
hands.
"Gol," he simpered. "G-O-L."
"And your first name?"
"Smea. S-M-E-A," he answered, baring his rotted teeth in an
obsequious grin. He grimaced and cleared his throat painfully.
Eeeeewwww. Somebody has the meth mouth.
"So what brings you to the ER today, Mr. Smea Gol?" I ask
absently, looking over his shoulder at the gathering horde in the waiting
room.
Jesus, it must be a Malingerer National Holiday or something. Every drug
seeker in three parishes is out there.
"My handses," he whimpers. "Oh, the pain in my
handses..."
"Did you recently injure them somehow?" I ask, examining his
long, gnarled fingers. He smells vaguely of fish.
"No, nobody hurtses," he assures me, shaking his head
vehemently. "Nobody hurtses us! Chronic, it is!" Again, he
swallows and clear his throat painfully.
What is it with this guy and the repetitive swallowing? And what's up
with the drool?
"Something wrong with your throat, Sir?" I ask. "You seem
to be having some trouble swallowing. We can swab your throat and run a
quick test, maybe see if it's strep..."
"No!" he snaps, then swallows again. "My handses hurt!
Fibromyalgia, it is! It's Vicodin we needs, yes Precious! We mussst have
Vicodin!"
I fucking knew it. Do these people think we're stupid?
"Vicodin, huh?" I grunt skeptically. "Who's your doctor?
Do you see a pain management specialist?"
"Dr. Simmons it is, Precious - gollum! - Dr. Simmons! Always, always
he gives us Vicodin! We wants it. We needs it!" At the mention of
Vicodin, his eyes took on a feral gleam.
"Uh huh," I grunt noncomittally, "and Dr. Simmons
prescribes Vicodin for your chronic pain? Are you out of your pain
meds?"
"No more," he moans mournfully. "Someone stole it, they
did. Filthy, tricksy thieveses! Baggins stole it, he did, and leaves poor
Smeagol to suffer... no more Vicodins we has - gollum! - no more Somas,
no more Xanaxes..."
Riiiight. It's always someone else's fault.
"No problem," I say cheerily, flipping the chart closed and
sticking my pen back in my pocket, "all we have to do is call Dr.
Simmons, and see about getting your prescription refilled. We don't do
that in the ER, you see."
"Nooo!" he cries in desperation, "Mustn't call Dr. Simmons
- gollum! - Mustn't believe Dr. Simmons lieses. Wicked! Tricksy! False!
Gollum."
"You look awfully familiar to me," I muse. "Have you been
here before?"
"No! - gollum! - Never been to nice hosspital before! We just
needses Vicodin for our poor, aching handses...no one cares about usss -
gollum! -no one knowses what it's like having fibromyalgia," he
whines pitifully.
"I have seen you before!" I accuse, remembering the exact
occasion. "You were in here a couple of months ago, trying to score
Lortabs for your kidney stones! Smea Gol...Smeagol?? I gave you 50 of
Demerol and 25 of Phenergan in good faith, and your fucking renal CT scan
was negative! Oh yeah buddy, I remember you."
"Wassssn't usss," he hisses, eyes darting shiftily.
"Sure it wasn't," I sneer. "Well, have a seat in the
waiting room, Smeagol. We'll be with you as soon as we
can."
"Smeagol wants Vicodin now," he hisses threateningly.
"Complain on you, we will! Fuck up your Presss-Ganey scoreses, we
will! Oh yes we will, Precious!"
"That's spelled D-R-I-V-E-R," I furnish helpfully, holding out
my name tag. "As in Ambulance Driver. Be sure to spell it right on
the complaint."
"Massster will not be pleased," he snarls. "Smeagol
needses his Vicodin. Smeagol wasssn't supposed to come back without his
Vicodin! Master Sum-" Too late, he guiltily claps his hand over his
mouth and stares at the floor.
"Master who?" I demand, grabbing him by the throat and pinning
him against the wall. "Who sent you? Tell me!"
"Smeagol doesn't know what Fat Paramedic isss talking about!"
he whines in protest. "Smeagol just wants his Vicodin!
Gollum!"
"Sumdood sent you, didn't he?" I demand. "I want an
answer! Where is he?"
"No one can find the Massster," Smeagol sneers spitefully.
"Fat Paramedic is too late! And Smeagol brought friendses, yes he
did!" he gloats, eyeing the waiting room.
I look at the bloodthirsty horde in the waiting room, and from the corner
of my eye I catch a glance of my trauma shears in the pocket of my scrub
top. They're glowing with a pale blue light.
Shit, that means fibromyalgia orcs, and now we're surrounded. Sumdood has
changed tactics and caught us unprepared.
"Bar the doors and call the ambulance!" I yell desperately to
the bewildered clerk as I fling Smeagol bodily through the ER doors into
the waiting room. "We need reinforcements now!"
I turn and sprint back into the ER nurse's station. Dr. CandyMan and the
Ex Missus both look up from their charts.
"We have a problem," I tell them grimly. "Sumdood has
recruited an army. They're massing on our doorstep as we
speak."
"Sumdood doesn't work that way," Dr. CandyMan yawns,
unconcerned. "He's strictly a solo act."
"He's using surrogates now," I insist. "One of them as
much as admitted it, right out there at the triage desk!"
"Let me tell you how Sumdood operates," CandyMan smiles
condescendingly. "Sumdood jumps people with no warning, and for no
reason. Sumdood plants drugs on innocent citizens. Sumdood steals
-"
"He knows how Sumdood operates," Ex Missus cuts him off.
"He was thwarting Sumdood when you were still memorizing the cranial
nerves in gross anatomy class."
"Oh- Oh- Oh- To- Touch- and- Feel- a- Virgin- Girl's- Vagina- and-
Hooters," Dr. Candyman quotes automatically. "It's a really
good mnemonic for - "
"Shaddup, Doogie," Ex Missus says dismissively. "We have a
real crisis here. How many are out there, AD?"
"Company strength, at least," I answer, my eyes betraying my
concern. "Mixed forces. Toothaches, fibromyalgia, migraine patients.
Maybe a dozen more wanting work excuses. Throw in maybe thirty with viral
gastroenteritis, and probably a good twenty-five more involved in minor
fender-benders a week ago that just want to be 'checked out.' And four
cave trolls wanting free pregnancy tests."
"Shit, we'll be overrun," Ex Missus breathes. "We need
reinforcements. They outnumber us 10:1. We'll be like the Spartans at
Thermopylae."
"I've got the clerk calling the ambulance service, and I've barred
the doors. Can we get the sick patients transferred out? We need everyone
here who can wield a Foley."
"All the other ERs are on diversion," Ex Missus says, fear and
realization dawning in her eyes. "There's no place to send them. And
the ambulances are all tied up on calls. Medic One is bringing in a
combative meth head, and Medic Two is on scene with a frequent flier with
toe pain."
"This is not just a probing attack," I confirm. "He's
massing an all-out assault on all fronts. He'll stop at nothing short of
the total collapse of our emergency health care system."
"Now we don't know that," Dr. Candyman admonishes. "I'm
sure they're all just simple sick people, in need of prompt and
professional relief of their pain and suffering. We should welcome them
in. That's why we got into health care."
"You make a move toward opening those doors, and I'll strangle you
with your fucking stethoscope," Ex Missus warns. "I'm not so
sure you're not a collaborator. I've seen how they tend to come around
when you're on duty."
"I am most certainly not!" he huffs. "Besides, how do we
know Sumdood sent all these people?"
"They come bearing the Mark of the Beast," I inform him.
"A Medicaid card. And several of them were asking for you by
name," I accuse.
"That proves nothing!" he cries desperately, looking at Ex
Missus for support.
"No, it doesn't," she agrees, looking at him appraisingly.
"But there's one way to prove your loyalty. Go out there and use
It."
"No, not that!" Doc CandyMan shakes his head vehemently.
"It's...it's too drastic!"
"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Doc," I inform
him. "Sumdood has shifted tactics. We have to adapt."
"But surely there's a better way!" he whines, desperately
seeking an out. "People will complain! Our patient satisfaction
scores will suffer! I'll risk my bonus!"
"Sumdood has gotten inside your OODA loop, Soldier," I tell him
flatly. "He's dictating the terms now. We have to take back the
initiative. You have to go out there and tell them that we require a $50
copay for all non-emergent cases."
"I won't do it," he says obstinately. "You can't make
me."
"You're the doctor," I retort. "You're supposed to be our
leader."
"You must understand, AD," he whines. "I can't do it! I
would use this Copay out of the desire to do good, but through me it
would wield a power too great and terrible to imagine!"
Pussy. We need a tougher wizard doctor.
I look at Ex Missus for guidance, and she nods decisively.
"Do it," she orders. "I'll keep an eye the
traitor."
I pull a document from the file cabinet, march out to the ER entrance,
and gird myself for battle. The ER clerk, fear and desperation etched
into her features, stands with her back to the barred door. Outside, the
howls of the fibromyalgia orcs herald their thirst for blood.
Stout heart, AD. And if you go down, go down swinging.
I heft the six-foot, carved rosewood caduceus adorning the ER hallway off
of its hanger, and hold it before me like a scepter. Taking a deep
breath, I nod for the ER clerk to clear out, and I fling open the doors.
The patients charge.
Standing resolute, I plant the caduceus on the scarred linoleum at my
feet and wave the piece of paper in their faces. Taken aback, they
screech to a halt and eye my paper suspiciously.
"YOOUUU SHALL NOT PAAASSSS!"I bellow fiercely, eyes glinting
with the light of battle.
This is my moment of truth.
"What is that he has in his handses?" Smeagol sniffs
suspiciously. "Fat Paramedic thinks he can drive usss away, he does?
Kill him and takes all his Vicodins, we will! Gollum! Yess, yesss and all
his Demerols and Morphines too, Precious! And we won't be paying for it,
no we won't, Precious! We gets them for free, because Masssster gave us
The Card!"
"I hold in my hand a magic talisman to defeat your card," I
shout boldly, waving the paper for all to see, "for I stand here
before you with the requirement of a CASH COPAYMENT OF FIFTY DOLLARS if
your condition is not deemed to be an emergency!"
"Gah! Get it away!" Smeagol recoils in horror. "It freezes
us, it burns! It aggravates my herniated discs, it does!"
Behind him, a murmur of fear and disquiet ripples through his comrades.
What seemed to be certain victory only a few seconds before, now doesn't
look so sure.
Emboldened, I stride forward and sweep the crowd with a piercing glare.
Smeagol cowers in abject terror, and Sumdood's Army quails before my
wrath.
"Let it be known from this point forth, all throughout Middle Earth,
or whatever part of it is our catchment area! Those who would utilize the
Emergency Department of this fair hospital as their 24-hour free clinic
or personal pharmacy shall now be required to remit cash payment in the
amount of $50 at the time of services rendered for all conditions deemed
by the medical staff to be of a non-urgent nature! At most, you will
receive your medical screening examination as set forth by the Emergency
Medical Treatment And Labor Act, and be given instructions to follow up
with your Primary Care Provider!"
Blank looks abound as I glare triumphantly.
Shit, forgot who my audience was.
"Yo yo yo, that mean if we think yo problem is bullshit, homey ain't
gonna be gettin' no free drugs or pregnancy tests up in here! This be a
cash bidness, bitches! Noamsayne?"
And just like that, Sumdood's Army runs squealing into the night, leaving
only empty coffee cups, Doritos bags and mangled copies of last year's
Time and Newsweek to mark their passing.
"Get thee gone, hirelings!" I shouted at their retreating
backs, "And tell your Master Sumdood that I'm coming for him! And
Hell's coming with me!"
********
"...and that's when I woke up," I tell Ex Missus as I thumb
quarters into the Coke machine. "Pretty freaky, don't you
think?"
"I think you need to stop reading Lord of The Rings to unwind after
work," she answers, shaking her head. "Call Babs or something.
Oh, and about you talking to the hospital board in support of the
copayment plan?
"Yeah, this Thursday at 1:00, right?"
"Never mind. The last thing I want is you speaking to the hospital
board. Thanks, but no thanks."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
James M.
Atkinson
Phone: (978) 546-3803
Granite Island
Group
Fax: (978) 546-9467
127 Eastern Avenue
#291
Web:
http://www.tscm.com/
Gloucester, MA
01931-8008
E-mail:
mailto:jm..._at_tscm.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/jamesmatkinson
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the
enemy until it is ripe for execution. - Machiavelli, The Prince,
1521
Received on Sat Mar 02 2024 - 00:57:24 CST