What She Wore: you know what? I’m not telling you. It’s been kind of crazy around here, and I look like crap–just imagine me in something fabulous.
Ok, so everyone wants to know why the nurse yelled at my mother. It takes a little explaining, but suffice to say it made an already stressful day a whole lot worse–and isn’t that what healthcare professionals are for?
I should back up and say that the nurse was a male ICU nurse. Charlie was not in ICU; he was in a recovery unit. For the uninitiated, ICU is for those in critical condition and recovery units are for people who should be healing nicely, but need to be monitored in some way. Charlie was receiving mega-doses of intraveneous anti-biotics to help stave off any infections. The other main difference between ICU and a recovery unit is the amount of responsibility placed on the nurses. In ICU, the nurses are responsible for everything and parents are just visitors. In recovery units, parents handle things like feedings and diaper changes, and sometimes even the administration of oral medications.
Well, Charlie had an IV in his ankle of all places. Every time he flexed his foot it would mess with the IV. He had little pricks all over his hands, wrists, and feet, so I know they tried to find a better place, but it can be hard on a little guy like him.
In the middle of the night Charlie started to fuss, so my mother got up to feed him. I had BEGGED my mother to stay with me because I hate staying in the hospital by myself. After she fed him, he began pumping his legs up and down like he had gas, so my mom picked him up to burp him. At this point, she realizes that the bed is all wet. She calls the nurse in to show him. Apparently, the IV had come out and Charlie’s antibiotics were being pumped into the bed linens rather than his veins.
He turns to my mother and says, "That’s why we don’t pick them up."
Never mind that the IV should be taped down to prevent that kind of crap.
Never mind that an IV in a baby’s ankle is a horrible idea.
Never mind that no one told me not to pick up MY OWN CHILD.
Never mind that we were already stressed out and last thing we need is some nurse yelling at us.
Never mind that yelling at her would not, in fact, magically get the IV back into his body.
My mom burst into tears and hid in the bathroom from the nurse until he left. She then called my dad to pick her up at around three in the morning.
Add to this the fact that the nurse shushed me when I was talking and I was hopping mad. Lucky for the nurse, I was more tired than mad.
Still. . . the last thing I needed was all that drama.