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Bedpan: Looks like a bedpan to me
Bedpan: Looks like a bedpan to me

Looks like a bedpan to me

Bedpan: 71629 coesE MedC er TESCO Away in a bedpan: A Hospital Nativity Scene. Southmead, Bristol UK 2019
Bedpan: 71629
 coesE
 MedC
 er
 TESCO
Away in a bedpan: A Hospital Nativity Scene. Southmead, Bristol UK 2019

Away in a bedpan: A Hospital Nativity Scene. Southmead, Bristol UK 2019

Bedpan: No, not a vaginal yeast infection (although I'm sure she had a bit of that too). A blood yeast infection. They had eaten their way into her vasculature through her skin, and wandered free in her blood-which was, no doubt, sweeter than it should have been, since her diabetes was poorly controlled. They had, it seemed, formed colonies in the dark rivers of her arteries, and grown there in peace and prosperity until chunks of them broke away and floated free in search of new places to live. Imagine, if you will, that you are a big lady. A really big lady in her seventies. Your husband is a mustachioed beanpole of an old man who wears tweed jackets with elbow patches, and can barely lift his bow-tie to put it on before heading out to the park for some chess. You've probably figured out by now that I have intense feelings about keeping my pts clean. That first shift, I bathed her over and over, wiping and soaking and soaping and scrubbing. I got all the shit and most of the yeast by the time I clocked out. Over the next few shifts in a row, I got her clean. I soaked, scrubbed, cut, and filed her nails, trimming away the snake-tongue overgrowth of quick-skin with a lot of shuddering and stopping to breathe. I didn't know the skin under your fingernails could grow out like that; admittedly, I keep my fingernails trimmed to the quick and meticulously hedged for hangnails, because I hate having fingernails at all. They make handy little tools, sure, but they make you pay for it in collected dirt and germs, torn skin edges, and snaggled corners that catch and tear. My fingernails are fairly inoffensive-I don't even have semilunes-but they still annoy me regularly, and the thought of thick yellow shit-crusted hag-talons with chewy curls of quick-skin peeking out from beneat... well, now you know what it takes to gross me out Now imagine that you fall out of your chair one day and can't get yourself back on your feet. Even your husband's help isn't quite enough. What do you do? .If you said anything besides stay on the floor for six months, you will probably understand the sublime horror with which I began that nightmare admission. Chunks of yeast, floating free. Yes, it looked like the fatal strokes were caused by septic yeast emboli, not by blood clots. Her brain was choked by wandering blobs of fungus. They ate her, and then they killed her C"She's very stubborn," said her husband. "She thought it would be embarrassing. She wouldn't let me get help." Well jeeze, man, what was she gonna do? Come after you?) It's strange to think that, when they buried her, she was still filled with yeast. They must have continued their feast for weeks in the grave, happily consuming until she was completely gone. The smell arrived about fifteen seconds before she did: a yeasty, creamy, purulent smell like a raw chicken breast left in somebody's vagina to rot. Between her abdominal folds, in her armpits, under her breasts, and in the creases behind her knees, yeast infections had grown with such blithe abandon that they resembled melted mozzarella, and had flayed the skin beneath down to the subcutaneous fat. Her scalp was matted with a cradle-cap fungal crust a quarter-inch thick, which shattered as we palpated it; beneath it, the scalp bled freely. Her fingernails were grown out longer than her actual fingers, yellowed and crusted with fecal material and other, cheesier substances... and curling tendrils of overgrown quick-skin pigtailed out from the filth. The shit that smeared all over her body was almost an afterthought. I also washed her hair, what remained of it. We have shampoo caps on the ICU, which are just shower caps full of dry shampoo and leave-in conditioner that you can massage into someone's gnarly tangles, but this lady got the full barber's wash. I shoved a flat bedpan under her head, grabbed a bottle of antifungal shampoo, and spread towels everywhere. Then I drenched and shampooed and massaged and rinsed, and repeated every few hours every shift until the yeast crust was completely gone and her scalp was healing under a peppery layer of gravelly scabs. pat ta END OF So. Mucn. ShiFt REPORT The yeast goo I replaced with vast drifts of antifungal powder. The crusts of overgrown skin on her toes and heels softened up and sloughed away under a relentless onslaught of petroleum jelly and intermittent scrubbing. She started to look like a human again. Her husband had come home from work (by the EMT's accounts, the house was an unlivable sty of food-refuse and pissbottles) to find her... less responsive than usual. Totally unarousable, in fact, and covered in vomit. So he did what any normal person would do: he went to Walgreen's, on foot, to buy her some Tylenol. When he returned, he found her further befouled with her own feces, and seizing, whereupon he finally called 911. Diagnosis: a series of strokes, including one in the pons. Of course, none of this could save her. The tPA hadn't helped. One shift, her right pupil blew open and fixed, indicating that the massive vascular injuries that cascaded into the original stroke were still truckin' along, happily fucking up whatever brain function she had left. She had a couple of small clots in her legs and one in her arm, but nothing you'd expect to end with a shower of strokes. A stroke in the pons-the crown of the brainstem-is one of the worst things that can happen to your nervous system. As the damaged tissue finishes dying, you lose basic life functions like breathing and maintaining equilibrium. The stroke was potentially devastating enough that, even without knowing if she was still inside the 90-minute window to effectively receive clot-busting drugs, we loaded her with tPA and crossed her fingers. Her husband really struggled psychologically with her illness. He was almost pathologically terrified of her, even now as she lay in bed perfectly still and dying. He panicked when I cut her nails, because she might not like it; he left us notes all over the room reminding us not to tell her he'd called the medics. I suspected that their relationship physical enabling. Additionally, we discovered three days into her hospitalization that she entertained herself in her (quite literal) downtime with a laptop, where she chatted with all sorts of people from all over the world. was one of catastrophic emotional abuse and After all, she had multiple strokes. It was entirely possible that some of the strokes were older, and the pons stroke was fresh. And while tPA is a dangerous drug-it's made of strep toxin and melts clot-matter on contact-it was likely her only hope. One of them actually showed up. I'm not certain he was a preacher, but he was from South Carolina, he was about forty years old, he quoted scripture constantly, and he had a pompadour. He was actually quite handsome if he kept his mouth shut-I find plantation accents and Bible verses equally boner-killing-and he drove us all completely bazonkers with his caterwauling, "affirming," and demands. We assumed, starting out, that she'd developed a deep-vein clot in one of her legs. They were tremendously swollen, and lying in one place for six months puts you at astronomic risk for clotting, so we called in the ultrasound tech to check out her legs for big chunks of cemented blood. Before that, though, we had to start cleaning her. This was a strange process; the horrors we expected were absent, replaced with other awful things we didn't anticipate. Her husband elearly gave her the most devoted care an untrained civilian in his eighties could manage. She had no pressure ulcers, a near impossibility for patients bedridden for six months with severe obesity; her nutritional status was quite acceptable; her peri-anal area was fresh as a daisy, suggesting that he cleaned her nether bits thoroughly after each toileting, even though her massive pubic apron lapped over a graveyard of yeast. The shit smeared all over her body was all relatively fresh. He had really worked hard on her. He just, you know, let her lie on the floor for six months without calling for help He stayed at her bedside for about four days. It wasn't a good visit for him. On the first day he was wearing a crisp powder-blue collared shirt with a crown embroidered on the pocket; on the third day he was wearing the same shirt with stains under the arms, and his hair was beginning to go rancid. He couldn't find a hotel room, because there was a major game in town or some such, and as often as he yelled into his cellphone that "money was no object," he couldn't find a place to stay that wasn't the Beaumonts' horrifyingly filthy abode. So while Mrs. Beaumont's husband went home and slept in familiar squalor for four days, the preacher slept in the waiting room, and despite his eye-rolling behavior, we kept him in blankets and pillows and terrible hospital coffee until he finally gave up and went home. And apparently the devoted care that kept her grundle squeaky-clean was not applied to any other part of her body. The yeast just... ate through her skin, gnawing so deeply into her abdominal folds that the wounds tunneled, stripping the skin under her breasts until bubbly yellow fat was visible when we washed the goop away He was convinced that we were killing her, that we had given her the infection that caused the inflammation that... uh... that caused the strokes that landed her in the hospital? I'm not really sure how that worked. A few days after he went home, Mrs. Beaumont also left us, overcome by her raging yeast infection. *pukes*
Bedpan: No, not a vaginal yeast infection (although I'm sure she had a bit of that too). A blood yeast
 infection. They had eaten their way into her vasculature through her skin, and wandered free in her
 blood-which was, no doubt, sweeter than it should have been, since her diabetes was poorly
 controlled. They had, it seemed, formed colonies in the dark rivers of her arteries, and grown there
 in peace and prosperity until chunks of them broke away and floated free in search of new places to
 live.
 Imagine, if you will, that you are a big lady. A really big lady in her seventies. Your husband is a
 mustachioed beanpole of an old man who wears tweed jackets with elbow patches, and can barely
 lift his bow-tie to put it on before heading out to the park for some chess.
 You've probably figured out by now that I have intense feelings about keeping my pts clean. That
 first shift, I bathed her over and over, wiping and soaking and soaping and scrubbing. I got all the
 shit and most of the yeast by the time I clocked out.
 Over the next few shifts in a row, I got her clean. I soaked, scrubbed, cut, and filed her nails,
 trimming away the snake-tongue overgrowth of quick-skin with a lot of shuddering and stopping to
 breathe. I didn't know the skin under your fingernails could grow out like that; admittedly, I keep
 my fingernails trimmed to the quick and meticulously hedged for hangnails, because I hate having
 fingernails at all. They make handy little tools, sure, but they make you pay for it in collected dirt
 and germs, torn skin edges, and snaggled corners that catch and tear. My fingernails are fairly
 inoffensive-I don't even have semilunes-but they still annoy me regularly, and the thought of thick
 yellow shit-crusted hag-talons with chewy curls of quick-skin peeking out from beneat... well, now
 you know what it takes to gross me out
 Now imagine that you fall out of your chair one day and can't get yourself back on your feet. Even
 your husband's help isn't quite enough. What do you do?
 .If you said anything besides stay on the floor for six months, you will probably understand the
 sublime horror with which I began that nightmare admission.
 Chunks of yeast, floating free. Yes, it looked like the fatal strokes were caused by septic yeast emboli,
 not by blood clots. Her brain was choked by wandering blobs of fungus. They ate her, and then they
 killed her
 C"She's very stubborn," said her husband. "She thought it would be embarrassing. She wouldn't let
 me get help." Well jeeze, man, what was she gonna do? Come after you?)
 It's strange to think that, when they buried her, she was still filled with yeast. They must have
 continued their feast for weeks in the grave, happily consuming until she was completely gone.
 The smell arrived about fifteen seconds before she did: a yeasty, creamy, purulent smell like a raw
 chicken breast left in somebody's vagina to rot. Between her abdominal folds, in her armpits, under
 her breasts, and in the creases behind her knees, yeast infections had grown with such blithe
 abandon that they resembled melted mozzarella, and had flayed the skin beneath down to the
 subcutaneous fat. Her scalp was matted with a cradle-cap fungal crust a quarter-inch thick, which
 shattered as we palpated it; beneath it, the scalp bled freely. Her fingernails were grown out longer
 than her actual fingers, yellowed and crusted with fecal material and other, cheesier substances...
 and curling tendrils of overgrown quick-skin pigtailed out from the filth. The shit that smeared all
 over her body was almost an afterthought.
 I also washed her hair, what remained of it. We have shampoo caps on the ICU, which are just
 shower caps full of dry shampoo and leave-in conditioner that you can massage into someone's
 gnarly tangles, but this lady got the full barber's wash. I shoved a flat bedpan under her head,
 grabbed a bottle of antifungal shampoo, and spread towels everywhere. Then I drenched and
 shampooed and massaged and rinsed, and repeated every few hours every shift until the yeast crust
 was completely gone and her scalp was healing under a peppery layer of gravelly scabs.
 pat ta
 END OF
 So. Mucn. ShiFt
 REPORT
 The yeast goo I replaced with vast drifts of antifungal powder. The crusts of overgrown skin on her
 toes and heels softened up and sloughed away under a relentless onslaught of petroleum jelly and
 intermittent scrubbing. She started to look like a human again.
 Her husband had come home from work (by the EMT's accounts, the house was an unlivable sty of
 food-refuse and pissbottles) to find her... less responsive than usual. Totally unarousable, in fact,
 and covered in vomit. So he did what any normal person would do: he went to Walgreen's, on foot,
 to buy her some Tylenol. When he returned, he found her further befouled with her own feces, and
 seizing, whereupon he finally called 911. Diagnosis: a series of strokes, including one in the pons.
 Of course, none of this could save her. The tPA hadn't helped. One shift, her right pupil blew open
 and fixed, indicating that the massive vascular injuries that cascaded into the original stroke were
 still truckin' along, happily fucking up whatever brain function she had left. She had a couple of
 small clots in her legs and one in her arm, but nothing you'd expect to end with a shower of strokes.
 A stroke in the pons-the crown of the brainstem-is one of the worst things that can happen to your
 nervous system. As the damaged tissue finishes dying, you lose basic life functions like breathing
 and maintaining equilibrium. The stroke was potentially devastating enough that, even without
 knowing if she was still inside the 90-minute window to effectively receive clot-busting drugs, we
 loaded her with tPA and crossed her fingers.
 Her husband really struggled psychologically with her illness. He was almost pathologically terrified
 of her, even now as she lay in bed perfectly still and dying. He panicked when I cut her nails,
 because she might not like it; he left us notes all over the room reminding us not to tell her he'd
 called the medics. I suspected that their relationship
 physical enabling. Additionally, we discovered three days into her hospitalization that she
 entertained herself in her (quite literal) downtime with a laptop, where she chatted with all sorts of
 people from all over the world.
 was one of catastrophic emotional abuse and
 After all, she had multiple strokes. It was entirely possible that some of the strokes were older, and
 the pons stroke was fresh. And while tPA is a dangerous drug-it's made of strep toxin and melts
 clot-matter on contact-it was likely her only hope.
 One of them actually showed up. I'm not certain he was a preacher, but he was from South Carolina,
 he was about forty years old, he quoted scripture constantly, and he had a pompadour. He was
 actually quite handsome if he kept his mouth shut-I find plantation accents and Bible verses
 equally boner-killing-and he drove us all completely bazonkers with his caterwauling, "affirming,"
 and demands.
 We assumed, starting out, that she'd developed a deep-vein clot in one of her legs. They were
 tremendously swollen, and lying in one place for six months puts you at astronomic risk for clotting,
 so we called in the ultrasound tech to check out her legs for big chunks of cemented blood.
 Before that, though, we had to start cleaning her. This was a strange process; the horrors we
 expected were absent, replaced with other awful things we didn't anticipate. Her husband elearly
 gave her the most devoted care an untrained civilian in his eighties could manage. She had no
 pressure ulcers, a near impossibility for patients bedridden for six months with severe obesity; her
 nutritional status was quite acceptable; her peri-anal area was fresh as a daisy, suggesting that he
 cleaned her nether bits thoroughly after each toileting, even though her massive pubic apron lapped
 over a graveyard of yeast. The shit smeared all over her body was all relatively fresh. He had really
 worked hard on her. He just, you know, let her lie on the floor for six months without calling for
 help
 He stayed at her bedside for about four days. It wasn't a good visit for him. On the first day he was
 wearing a crisp powder-blue collared shirt with a crown embroidered on the pocket; on the third day
 he was wearing the same shirt with stains under the arms, and his hair was beginning to go rancid.
 He couldn't find a hotel room, because there was a major game in town or some such, and as often
 as he yelled into his cellphone that "money was no object," he couldn't find a place to stay that
 wasn't the Beaumonts' horrifyingly filthy abode. So while Mrs. Beaumont's husband went home and
 slept in familiar squalor for four days, the preacher slept in the waiting room, and despite his
 eye-rolling behavior, we kept him in blankets and pillows and terrible hospital coffee until he finally
 gave up and went home.
 And apparently the devoted care that kept her grundle squeaky-clean was not applied to any other
 part of her body. The yeast just... ate through her skin, gnawing so deeply into her abdominal folds
 that the wounds tunneled, stripping the skin under her breasts until bubbly yellow fat was visible
 when we washed the goop away
 He was convinced that we were killing her, that we had given her the infection that caused the
 inflammation that... uh... that caused the strokes that landed her in the hospital? I'm not really sure
 how that worked. A few days after he went home, Mrs. Beaumont also left us, overcome by her
 raging yeast infection.
*pukes*

*pukes*

Bedpan: Thanks, I hate bedpan guitars.
Bedpan: Thanks, I hate bedpan guitars.

Thanks, I hate bedpan guitars.