I woke up this morning, got dressed, got on the bus to work, and sat down in what I am almost positive was urine.
That was 8.15am.
Thankfully, I work in a job where no one is going to think it’s all that inappropriate if I go about my day dressed in blue pyjamas. So en route I went into the theatre changing rooms and borrowed a pair of scrubs.
And then got in the lift to go up to my ward and stepped in the puddle of vomit that was on the floor of the lift.
I found a packet of the big alcohol wipes and wiped off my shoe.
And finally started my ward round and made a theatrical gesture and sent a patient’s full glass of Irn Bru flying.
There are days when you just have to call it good and try again tomorrow.
Sitting in ill-advised places. I’m blaming it on the Bossa Nova.
Beth: It’s for a patient with a background of Yadda Yadda who has come in with Symptoms, and has a new acute kidney injury. So, I’ve spoken to renal and…
Person To Whom I Am Handing Over: [interrupts] Oh, my God, what happened to their kidney? Did they fall on it?
For the non-medically minded, sometime about five years ago it was decided by the universal powers that be that we couldn’t call acute renal failure “acute renal failure” anymore. The only other time I’ve ever encountered confusion is from the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, who panics and starts asking questions if you don’t point out on the death certificate that “injury” =/= “trauma”.