Nicole is a particularly southern NA. She would honestly say things like “My boyfriend and I work re-po on the weekends,” in as twangy a drawl as you can possibly imagine. One day she yells to me from the other end of the hall, “LuLu, come!!” First of all, my name is not LuLu. My nickname is not LuLu. LuLu is just what Nicole called me because that’s how country she is.
I start down the long hall.
“LuLu!! Run!!” I hate running in the hospital. Nothing freaks out patients (or other staff) quite like seeing a nurse run down the hall. “LuLu!”
I kick it up a notch and start to jog.
Pamela, in room 17, is no longer in room 17. She’s in Bob’s room across the hall. Thankfully, Bob is off getting an X-ray. I look around and put the pieces together. Pamela had to poo. She got up, wandered into the hall, went in Bob’s room, used the bathroom, and then got in Bob’s bed. Unfortunately she left a, um, “trail” everywhere she went. The discovery of the trail was the only reason we discovered quickly that something was amiss.
Now mind you, two hours ago Pamela was a normal, middle-aged lady who knew how to find the toilet and use it. To you nurses, what would you do next? Yep, get a blood glucose. Her “sugar” was really low. Four juice boxes later, she was back to her old self and had no memory of her exploits. Too bad I’ll never forget it!