Unintentional physical comedy

My first week on the floor went well. By the end of it, I'd gotten to take a stab at doing electronic chart notes for two patients, which was thrilling. Working on the general surgery/diabetes floor (in addition to the Rehab wing) has given me a chance to see a wide variety of patients. There was the former Bronx firefighter who'd had a Whipple and has Celiac Sprue (he complies with the diet "93% of the time, because anyone who tells you they are 100% compliant is lying") who drank a gallon of milk a day because he didn't have much of an appetite, wasn't able to afford Boost, and wanted to try to get some nourishment. He lifted up the sheet to show us his belly in order to describe the terrible gas pains he got (because of the Whipple) and show how he could actually see and push around gas bubbles. He mentioned that he used to drink a case of beer a day till he lost his taste for it--at which point his tastes turned to whiskey. My dietitian steered us out of there before he could really get going, though. He could have kept us in there for hours with his stories.

There was also the man who was in the hospital again due to altered mental status following a bout of meningitis a month ago. He had a BMI of 16 and was pretty out of it while we were talking with him and his wife. That is, until the end, when I was throwing away my gown and gloves and smacked my forehead on a shelf. He immediately burst into laughter, as did the rest of us. (Luckily for me, it sounded much worse than it actually was). I was pleased that I was able to bring some joy to his day. As Boden would say: "laughter is the best medicine." Later that day, I almost slammed my head into another shelf, to the amusement of my dietitian. Note to self: avoid wearing heels because they make you just tall enough to bump your forehead on the shelves in patients' rooms.