A). I walk in the room and you greet me with “Yo, what-da fuck up cuz!?”
B). You’re a drunken dope who cut his face and you keep telling me “Don’t fuck this shit up, I’m a model!” while I’m suturing you.
C). You say “Fuck this shit don’t work!” and you throw the Motrin offered to you on the floor.
D). You say “Oh my God, I’m gonna vomit!!” and then you stick your finger down your throat and then throw up.
Of there’s one thing all ER docs have learned is that there is one thing you can be certain of. Eventually all the chronically ill, drug abusing, frequent fliers die. Sooner or later you’ll walk into work and everyone will be like, “Did you hear?! So and so finally died!!!”.
For a second you are dumbfounded. Years of drug abuse, neglect of chronic illness never managed to kill them before. How could this be?! There must be some mistake. There’s no way she could die.
Then you feel relief. It’s a selfish relief because you realize that she’ll no longer be plaguing your department, absorbing resources, making demands, driving everyone that works there to the brink of suicide.
Then you feel sorry that you felt that way. Then you just feel sad. Sad about how they’re life spiraled down the crapper years ago. Sad they’re dead. And sad that they’ll be replaced by another seeker/abuser/frequent flyer.
The circle of life continues.
Top chief complaint least likely to get me rushing over to see you:
“I think I need my prostate massaged”