Newguy and I are taking an older gentleman into the hospital having an active stroke. It’s a legit stroke: all of a sudden he couldn’t move his left arm or leg, and his face started drooping, then his slurred speech started.
“Hot stroke” as we call it.
I’m giving my report to the nurses, and apologizing for sticking the guy 5 times without getting an IV.
Literally, all I did on the way to the hospital was 1) call a report on the radio, and 2) make this guy a pincushion.
I’m in the midst of a bad IV streak. I was 2-for-9 that day.
Some new doctor I’ve never seen before walks into the room. Most physicians in this emergency room wear scrubs, and occasionally a white coat, but this guy looks like a Brooks Brothers catalog cover model. Pressed khakis, cordovan wing tips, light blue pinpoint oxford, and a regimental rep tie.
He listens to the rest of my report while he walks over to the patient.
As I’m finishing up my report and grabbing a signature from the nurse, he looks at me.
“So y’all didn’t get a line?”
“No. I tried a bunch, but I didn’t get one. Sorry.”
“That’s cool, don’t worry about it” he says as he turns to the nurse. “Let’s go ahead and get him over to CT, and call Neurology.”
He takes his stethoscope off and begins listening to breath sounds, and turns back to me.
“Did y’all get a sugar on this guy?”
“Yeah, it was one-forty-four.”
“Good. We need to know the sugar. That’s some important shit.”