When hospital rounds go bad

Early this morning I went to the hospital to check on Mrs. Tinystroke. She'd been doing much better last evening, so my plan was to get her home today.

I walked in the room to see two nurses standing by the bed. Mrs. Tinystroke looked awful. Unconscious, limp, drooling and very pale.

Dr. Grumpy: "What happened? When did this start?!!!"

Nurse Nightshift: "She's been like this all night."

Dr. Grumpy: "WHAT! Why didn't anyone call me!"

Nurse Nightshift: "Because..."

Dr. Grumpy: "This is unbelievable! My patient burns down overnight and you guys don't think to call me? Holy crap! I need a STAT head CT and..."

Nurse Nightshift: "DOCTOR GRUMPY!!!"

Dr. Grumpy: "What? I don't want some lame excuse..."

Nurse Nightshift: "LOOK! The reason I didn't call you is because THIS ISN'T YOUR PATIENT!!!" Mrs. Tinystroke is in room 17. You're in 16."

(long pause)

Dr. Grumpy: "These gray heads are all starting to look alike."

Nurse Nightshift: "Yes, and you're giving both of us one."

(another pause)

Mrs. Tinystroke: "Dr. Grumpy, is that you out in the hall? Can I go home today?"

More Important Research

Want to avoid bar fights? Don't go to bars frequented by heavy drinkers with a history of violence!

You didn't know this already?

Well, SOMEBODY had to research such an important issue. So from 1997 to 2002 somebody did just that. And found that bar fights tend to occur in places that are poorly lighted, dirty, and crowded, with patrons that are younger, angrier, impulsive, less considerate, and heavy drinkers.

They also found that women who get in bar fights have had 4 times as many drinks on those nights as they normally do (normal presumably meaning non-bar-fighting nights).

Here's the abstract for the main article. The complete article can be found in the Journal of Studies on Alcohol (which rejected my 1988 submission on cow-tipping).

They actually got 2 articles out of this, with this one focusing just on women. The second article was published in Aggressive Behavior (they're coming to my house next week to see if siblings fight).


Thank you to JoAnna for bringing such important research to my attention.

Attention mean commentors!

Now here's a lady who takes her blog seriously. Briana Greathouse.

She was so upset over internet postings that she went on a 4 hour road trip, with her gun, to kill a man who she felt had said mean things about her online. Fortunately, she was picked-up before she could hurt anyone.

Here's the original story.

I don't have such a lenient policy as she does. You piss me off, and I'm leaving my kids at your house.

Thank you, Tabby, for sending this in.

Mooooooooooo!

I'd like to thank my reader Salma for submitting this fascinating research that affects all of us. Namely, scientific data on the physics of cow-tipping.

The study suggests that cow-tipping is very difficult, if not physically impossible, for the majority of attempts.

I now feel vindicated, as I personally researched this subject in one occasion in the late 80's (Grumpy, I., et al. "Why the hell is it still standing?", Journal of Inebriated Nights Spent at a Camp in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, 1988), with similar results.



Boffins debunk cow-tipping myth

Not possible, even when drunk

By Lester Haines
9th November 2005

Two scientists at the University of British Columbia have rather disagreeably debunked the myth that you can - when suitably refreshed after a night on the sauce - stagger into a field and tip over a sleeping cow.

According to the Times, Margo Lillie, a doctor of zoology, and her student Tracy Boechler did a few calculations pertaining to bovine bothering and concluded that it would in fact take five sozzled pranksters to tip a cow.

More specifically, "a cow of 1.45 metres in height pushed at an angle of 23.4 degrees relative to the ground would require 2,910 Newtons of force, equivalent to 4.43 people," according to Boechler.

To read the complete article, click here.

Idiots

Today it POURED here in Grumpyville. But my car was running low, so on the way home I pulled into a gas station to fill-up.

It was one of those places that has an automatic car wash, where you can pay at the pump for a wash, then drive through the thing.

So guess what? In FREAKIN' POURING RAIN I saw 3-5 cars go into the car wash, get cleaned up, THEN DRIVE BACK OUT INTO THE DOWNPOUR and go on their merry way.

Seriously. WTF people?

Do you hear what I hear?

Dear CNN,

I usually skim your web page a few times a day, and noticed your health headline yesterday on "Secrets you shouldn't keep from your OB/GYN". Since I personally don't need the services of an OB/GYN, however, I didn't read it.

This, as my reader Webhill later pointed out to me, was a serious mistake.

Most of the article was fairly helpful, inoffensive, medical info. But it was the last paragraph that got Webhill's (and my) attention.

Quoting Dr. Lissa Rankin (OB/GYN): "When a woman comes into my office, we sit on two red leather chairs across from each other. I give them a hug. I offer them a cup of tea. I ask them, 'if your vagina had a voice, what would it say?' "

WOW!

I've been a neurologist for quite a few years, but it's NEVER occurred to me to ask what a brain, spinal cord, or carpal tunnel would say. Maybe I'm just being remiss. I've never offered patients tea, either, and I don't have leather chairs.

Talking vaginas are nothing new. The movie "Chatterbox" (1977, starring Candy Rialson) was (I swear!) based on the premise of a woman with a talking vagina. The vagina was talented and went on to a singing career (REALLY!). It was sort of "Deep Throat" in reverse (uh, um, I mean, that's what I've heard).





But back to your topic. I took an informal poll of women I know, and posed the same question. I received several answers:

"It says it wished it hadn't pushed out four kids. C-sections are starting to look better and better as I sag."

"No more fucking pantyhose! I need some air!"

"Eat me!"

"It would say you are a whack job, please forward a copy of my records to my home address at your earliest convenience."

"Hello?!!! Why the hell are you talking to a vagina?"





Another point that a (unidentified) member of Dr. Pissy's staff made: "You know the tiny little cover-nothing-but-a-few-pubes paper things that we have to put on at the GYN? They don't cover your butt AT ALL. So if I'm sitting bare-assed on a leather chair, MY vagina is going to ask if the chair gets sanitized between patients."

I think this is also something a female doctor could get away with, that a guy couldn't (which is interesting, because you interviewed a female doc, but had a picture of a male one). Let's face it: Take away the medical atmosphere, and you've got 2 people in leather seats who've just hugged, one has bought the other a drink, and now wants to talk to the others genitals.

Obviously, I don't have a vagina. But, let's say I went to a doctor: He puts me in a comfy chair, offers me a Diet Coke, tries to hug me (I don't think that's going to happen) and then says, "So, Ibee, if your penis could talk, what would it say?" (Does that sound like a pick-up line from a gay bar?).

My mouth (not my winkie) would likely say "Get away from me!" grab my pants, and be grateful he hadn't gotten to the turn-your-head-and-cough part. Tell me this- if a male urologist asked guys that, would you feature it in an article about good medical practice?

I have nothing against Dr. Rankin. I'm sure she's an excellent physician, with far better taste in office furnishings and beverages than me (the red leather chairs, by the way can be seen on her blog. It's called "owningpink.com". Honest!). But I personally would be a little skittish of doctors wanting to have a conversation with my nether regions.

Yours truly,

Ibee Grumpy, M.D.

Things that make me grumpy

Dear Dr. Irritating,

I'm just writing to let you know that there is NO cure for Alzheimer's disease. There are some marginally effective treatments to slow it down a bit, but NOTHING that cures it.

I thought you knew this, but obviously you have no freaking clue. Or are just stupid. Or ignorant. Or don't care. Or believe whatever the pfarmaceutical reps tell you.

Patients and families say funny things, and sometimes hear only what they want. So if one makes an odd comment about you, I tend to ignore it. But when I start hearing it from others, and see a trend, then I think differently.

I treat patients to the best of my ability with what I have. In the case of Alzheimer's disease, it isn't much. They all get worse. I tell families that in advance, because reasonable expectations help all of us.

What doesn't help is YOU. Several families have told me that when they say the memory is getting worse, you immediately tell them to return to me "so he can do something about it."

And then, yesterday, a referral from your office showed up on my fax. You'd written: "Please refer back to Dr. Grumpy for Alzheimers. His treatment isn't working, as she keeps getting worse. Needs to change meds to get her better."

I know your handwriting. Now you can't blame your ignorance/stupidity on anyone else.

Being realistic with patients and families is the best treatment for anything. No matter how many times I see them, there are limits to what I can do. But at least I can do better than you in telling them the truth.

Yours truly,

Ibee Grumpy, M.D.

Loose associations

Dr. Grumpy: "Okay, I'd like to start you on Lyrica..."

Mr. Goofball: "Oh, no. That drug doesn't work for me."

Dr. Grumpy: "I didn't know you'd taken it before?"

Mr. Goofball: "I haven't, but it gave my cousin's buddy a stomach ache."

I prefer to check the old fashioned way, thank you

Yesterday Local Radiology Place brought lunch. I wanted to hear about their new MRI, but the sales rep was determined to give Dr. Pissy and I her complete sales pitch about everything. Of course, that covers a lot, so she was talking incredibly fast. At one point she threw out this line:

"Doctors, our new digital mammogram system is extremely accurate at determining the presence or absence of breasts, and is faster than previous methods of doing so."

Concerned children

I picked up the kids from school and headed home.

Dr. Grumpy: "Okay, gang, listen up. Mom had to go home sick from work today, and is not feeling well. So when we get home, she's probably in bed. I want you guys to be VERY quiet when we go in the house."

(long pause)

Craig: "Dad, I have a question."

Dr. Grumpy: "What's up?"

Craig: "So Mom is already at home?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Yes."

Craig: "Then can I get my potato chips out of her car?"

Lost in translation

Yesterday I saw a nice lady, who spoke reasonably good English, but her primary language was French.

So she was accompanied by her niece, who said she was here to translate.

I only speak English. And guess what? So does the niece!

Her idea of "translating" was like the old SNL "News for the Deaf" skit. Like this:

Dr. Grumpy: "Where is the pain?"

Ms. Niece: (pulling on patient's sleeve and shouting in her ear) "THE DOCTOR WANTS TO KNOW WHERE YOUR PAIN IS?!!!"

This went on for an hour. The patient spoke good English, and could hear perfectly well. By the end of the appointment I think we were both ready to strangle the niece.

Sorry, dude

I hear some great excuses, and Mrs. Grumpy hears more. Some are less believable than others.

But, look dude, if you're in a car by yourself, AND the cops find a bag of cocaine crammed in your butt, it's really not going to fly to claim it ain't yours.

Like this guy.

I'd like to thank my reader Lee for submitting this.

Get down! Get funky! Get green!

I'd like to thank The Mother for sending this in.

Yes, the economy is getting better, but I think we're all looking for ways to save money. Of course, we all want to be environmentally conscious, too.

So here's a truly heartwarming (or whatever you're warming) story of how a brothel is giving clients who ride a bike there a discount. Isn't that nice?

To read the article, click here.

Nice job, ad agency

While catching up on journals this weekend I found this ad, featuring a June Cleaver (ideal American mom, circa 1950's) knock-off. To me, it seems June is unlikely (not impossible, but unlikely) to be this guy's mother. But hey, that's just me.

(click to enlarge)