Drugs Keep 'em Quiet

I apparently walked in to work too late this morning. They'd already "drawn names" for the crazy, drug-seeking, crack-whore and I was the lucky one. What that really means is one of two options. Either:

1. Sorry, Sister. You weren't here to defend yourself or
2. You're the only one who is crotchety enough to take this patient on.

Probably a mix of both, but it doesn't set me off well in the morning. It's not a great sign either when I sit down for report and the Nurse starts to laugh instead of giving me report. So I steel myself for the worse and go in to meet the Nut Job.

She is sitting quietly in bed. She turns and smiles sweetly at me as I introduce myself. She responds graciously, introducing herself. And then it starts: "Do you think it's time for my medicine yet? My back is hurting soooooooo bad." Hm. Kind of early for this, but let's play!

"How would you rate your pain in the scale of zero to ten?"

"Oh, it's really, really bad. Like a knife stabbing in my back."

"Ok. How would you rate that pain?"

"My head is kind of hurting too. I have a pretty bad headache. Could I get something for the headache?"

"Sure. How would you rate your back pain and headache?" Is she ever going to answer my freaking question?! It's way too early in the morning for this dance!

"It's so bad it's making me really nauseated. I've been vomiting all night."

I look at her bedside table, completely covered in empty take-out food boxes. Mexican, too. And it's starting to stink.

"Well let's start with this." I clean off her bedside table. "Now what number do you give your pain?"

"It's a 7."

A seven! Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea. At a seven you'd better be squeezing out at least a teardrop. This one's bone dry. "Well that's pretty serious. Being as you are nauseated and vomiting, along with this intense pain, I think we'll hold breakfast until we have things under control." Not so much a bitch move, just a I-don't-want-to-clean-up-vomit move.

The day proceeded. Every hour and a half she was calling out for Morphine. At some point, though (and I'm embaressed to admit it), I just lost my resolve to fight. I mean hey - drugs keep 'em quiet, right?!

Late in the afternoon the patient's Doctor made rounds. She made no secret that she was appauled at the amount of narcotics this patient was receiving and quickly cut her off following an extensive discussion with the patient. It wasn't 10 minutes later that the call bell went off and she was asking for Morphine again.

"I'm sorry, didn't you just have this whole conversation with your Doctor? You no longer have any narcotics ordered. I was under the understanding that this was discussed with you."

"Yes. She said that. But didn't she order anything else?"

Ugh. No. Good try. Better miss.

Two hours later, she's sweating and writhing in bed, bordering on full-blown withdrawl. I look up and the night shift is walking in. Praise the Lord. It's now officially a Night Shift Problem.