Friday
Jan152010
Week Two: Call Me Troi
Friday, January 15, 2010 at 4:30AM
There I lay, on my back, comfortable in bed. As I was rolled over to my side, something cold was pushed against and under my back. I was rolled over what seemed like Mt. Everest, perhaps the largest speed bump I've ever encountered, and as I laid down flat, a gigantic pole with a cage on the end was being wheeled my direction.
Only four chains? Four chains, each less than half the size than the ones that held my childhood swing? Those FOUR chains, they claimed, would be strong enough.
They swung about wildly, a little too close to my head and knees for comfort. Nothing hit me, but still, it was unnerving to watch four dangling metal snakes flailing around. More unnerving was the cage that was slowly being lowered over my body.
Each of the chains, hanging from the mysterious cage, was soon attached to an inky black mat that was under my body. Presumably that was the Mt. Everest I rolled over.
My arms were folded over my chest and suddenly my neck started to leave the bed. Then my thighs. My chest felt compressed. Then my butt lifted off the bed and I started to eerily float over my bed. My feet, dragging along the bottom of the mattress, decided they wanted to take the blanket and sheet with them as I was swung wildly off the bed.
I won't even get into my slumped landing in a wheelchair.
I'm certain there are many models of bed lifts used in hospitals around the world. And I'm equally certain that most of the operators haven't "taken a ride" in them. Call me crazy, but the thought of a pole or two the size of an average forearm being able to support my weight (I weigh 170lbs) doesn't quite compute. Of course I knew this was a demonstration and a training exercise, but I can only imagine what a patient might think when we wheel this contraption into their room.
Terror? Confusion? Apprehension? Revulsion? Spin the wheel, make a deal. They are all seemingly valid answers.
And that was only a slim part of our patient transport training this week.
The more I'm on the receiving end of the things we're learning, the more Counselor Troi-ish (N.B. I am a Trekkie) I think I'm becoming. I've heard lots of people say that you cannot teach empathy, but this week I really understood what they meant. We dealt with mock scenarios where patients could not ambulate and needed complete assistance with ADL (Activities of Daily Living).
Yes, a simple mani and a back-rub were delightful when we practiced, but if I really couldn't move enough to wash my body, let alone my genitals, that'd be an awfully large slice of humble pie to eat. The bed bath section was fascinating, with lots of hospital products and supplies to learn about, but it was the perineal care section that made everyone blush.
From labia to foreskin, nothing was taboo. The discussions about ways to refer to the various bits and pieces humans have took on a jovial air, most likely because folks were embarrassed. We changed adult diapers, brushed the teeth of someone else (when have you ever even thought of that?), and learned lots about moving patients to prevent perhaps the most terrifying threat of all, decubitus ulcers.
Do you remember in your driving classes how you were shown photos of car wrecks to "motivate" you to drive safely? Well golly, what do we see on the news each day and hear on the radio? This car was wrecked, there was a twelve car pileup, two fatalities in a high speed collision, etc. We're numb to them.
Folks, the pictures of Stage I through IV decubitus ulcers WILL haunt me for quite sometime. I don't have a weak stomach, nor have I been terribly squeamish in life thus far, but the thought of any such ulcer on my own skin makes me want to scream like a banshee and withdraw to my safe place.
Which in my mind happens to be anywhere there are mass quantities of piping hot fudge covering cold, creamy peppermint stick ice cream.
There are some of my fellow students who are utterly empathic whenever we practice a skill on each other. A firm hand, a gentle reminder of what we are doing, the occasional query asking about my comfort. I find myself drawn to those people because, in all honesty, they seem like good people and they seem like the kind of CNA I want to be.
Then there are the taskmasters, those who wish to gedditdone and gedditoverwith. Consciously, I try not to partner with them. I'm certain I'll encounter as many in the medical world as I've met in tech, but that's life, isn't it?
Not that I relish the thought of washing mountains of incontinent stool and urine off of a patient, but this week my inner Troi realized that I'm not going to be touching patients or residents. I'm going to be touching people. No matter how much or how little of my help they need...
...there's people in them there gowns.
Only four chains? Four chains, each less than half the size than the ones that held my childhood swing? Those FOUR chains, they claimed, would be strong enough.
They swung about wildly, a little too close to my head and knees for comfort. Nothing hit me, but still, it was unnerving to watch four dangling metal snakes flailing around. More unnerving was the cage that was slowly being lowered over my body.
Each of the chains, hanging from the mysterious cage, was soon attached to an inky black mat that was under my body. Presumably that was the Mt. Everest I rolled over.
My arms were folded over my chest and suddenly my neck started to leave the bed. Then my thighs. My chest felt compressed. Then my butt lifted off the bed and I started to eerily float over my bed. My feet, dragging along the bottom of the mattress, decided they wanted to take the blanket and sheet with them as I was swung wildly off the bed.
I won't even get into my slumped landing in a wheelchair.
I'm certain there are many models of bed lifts used in hospitals around the world. And I'm equally certain that most of the operators haven't "taken a ride" in them. Call me crazy, but the thought of a pole or two the size of an average forearm being able to support my weight (I weigh 170lbs) doesn't quite compute. Of course I knew this was a demonstration and a training exercise, but I can only imagine what a patient might think when we wheel this contraption into their room.
Terror? Confusion? Apprehension? Revulsion? Spin the wheel, make a deal. They are all seemingly valid answers.
And that was only a slim part of our patient transport training this week.
The more I'm on the receiving end of the things we're learning, the more Counselor Troi-ish (N.B. I am a Trekkie) I think I'm becoming. I've heard lots of people say that you cannot teach empathy, but this week I really understood what they meant. We dealt with mock scenarios where patients could not ambulate and needed complete assistance with ADL (Activities of Daily Living).
Yes, a simple mani and a back-rub were delightful when we practiced, but if I really couldn't move enough to wash my body, let alone my genitals, that'd be an awfully large slice of humble pie to eat. The bed bath section was fascinating, with lots of hospital products and supplies to learn about, but it was the perineal care section that made everyone blush.
From labia to foreskin, nothing was taboo. The discussions about ways to refer to the various bits and pieces humans have took on a jovial air, most likely because folks were embarrassed. We changed adult diapers, brushed the teeth of someone else (when have you ever even thought of that?), and learned lots about moving patients to prevent perhaps the most terrifying threat of all, decubitus ulcers.
Do you remember in your driving classes how you were shown photos of car wrecks to "motivate" you to drive safely? Well golly, what do we see on the news each day and hear on the radio? This car was wrecked, there was a twelve car pileup, two fatalities in a high speed collision, etc. We're numb to them.
Folks, the pictures of Stage I through IV decubitus ulcers WILL haunt me for quite sometime. I don't have a weak stomach, nor have I been terribly squeamish in life thus far, but the thought of any such ulcer on my own skin makes me want to scream like a banshee and withdraw to my safe place.
Which in my mind happens to be anywhere there are mass quantities of piping hot fudge covering cold, creamy peppermint stick ice cream.
There are some of my fellow students who are utterly empathic whenever we practice a skill on each other. A firm hand, a gentle reminder of what we are doing, the occasional query asking about my comfort. I find myself drawn to those people because, in all honesty, they seem like good people and they seem like the kind of CNA I want to be.
Then there are the taskmasters, those who wish to gedditdone and gedditoverwith. Consciously, I try not to partner with them. I'm certain I'll encounter as many in the medical world as I've met in tech, but that's life, isn't it?
Not that I relish the thought of washing mountains of incontinent stool and urine off of a patient, but this week my inner Troi realized that I'm not going to be touching patients or residents. I'm going to be touching people. No matter how much or how little of my help they need...
...there's people in them there gowns.
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