Excerpt from: Secrets: My Career Behind Locked Doors
By Michael Raff, High Desert Branch
Donnie Sharp’s seizures began escalating. Most of the time, he staggered around Unit 15, unable to talk or participate in his routine. His current seizure medications had not only lost their effectiveness, but had become toxic to his system. None of my staff wanted to deal with our unit physician or ask her for another round of med changes for Donnie.
Dr. Nugyen stood an inch over my armpit. Perpetually in a hurry, she demanded perfection, especially from the medication room staff. Upon her arrival, the charts had to be stacked at the righthand corner of the desk and flagged for the current clinical issue. Staff had to halt whatever they were doing and assist her. Tossing charts at employees when they failed to meet her expectations had become routine. Even the most hardened staff member avoided the woman.
Frustrated with Donnie’s condition, I crept into the medication room. Doctor Nguyen sat at the desk, resembling a gargoyle with chronic indigestion.
“Doctor, we have to do something about Donnie Sharp,” I declared.
“What, again?” she groaned. “His labs are a bit off but he looks okay to me.” She closed his chart and shoved it aside. “Is there anything else?”
“You just happen to see him when he’s having a few good hours,” I insisted. “Most times he’s staggering around here like he’s drunk.”
Deep crevices appeared across the doctor’s minuscule brow. “I said he’s fine!” she shrieked, appearing more like a gargoyle with every passing second. “I repeat, is there anything else you want?”
I inched forward struggling to calm myself. “I’m telling you, he’s a disaster!”
“You’re not a doctor!” she roared. “How would you know?”
“Because I know Donnie,” I shot back. “I see him for eight hours a day when you see him for what? Two minutes? I don’t have to be a doctor. When are you going to start trusting staff’s observations?”
The room had grown so quiet I could hear my stomach gurgling.
Doctor Nguyen’s eyes bulged. I thought her bifocals would fog up and melt. She remained silent for an excruciating moment then the crevices in her forehead receded. She sat back and picked up Donnie’s chart. “Okay,” she murmured, her voice extraordinarily calm. “I’ll try him on something else. Some of the newer medications are supposed to be very beneficial.”
Donnie started his new med regime that afternoon. His lethargy ceased and his seizures reduced. A few days later, Laura Nash, our HSS (Health Service Specialist, a fancy title for an RN) took me aside. “Donnie’s doing a lot better,” she stated.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Thank God for that.”
She smiled and patted my shoulder. “You saved his life. You know that don’t you?”
Unit 15 had been an ordeal for me, filled with stress that kept me awake at nights. Receiving Laura’s compliment meant the world to me. Doctor Nguyen, an Ebenezer Scrooge if there ever was one, gave me a stylish pen-and-pencil set for a Christmas present, along with a card thanking me for a job well-done.