The challenges of being a traveler: I never know my schedule ahead of time, where the patient's rooms are, what their goals are, how much help they need with mobility, what type of assistive device they use, or how they "transfer" to and from their wheelchair. More often than not, I have to wander the halls looking at all the name plates, asking the nurses (some are more friendly than others...), then essentially ask the patient what they have been doing in therapy. I spend the first 5 minutes just deciphering exactly what they need from me in the remaining 60-minutes, so I can give them the best possible treatment that day. Every day in SNF is one more day a person is away from their home, their family, and their independence... every day and every treatment session matter greatly, and I want to make sure I give them the best care I can give that day. But, with the fast pace and pressure to be thinking on your feet all the time, it takes a whole new set of skills to be a floater therapist! I don't get time to pore over their medical chart, examine their evaluation, or read through the treatment notes from previous sessions, let alone build rapport with the person so they trust me enough to help them move their body. Some days, that rapport comes easily and I am able to quickly come up with a couple fun activities to address their goals. For some patients, having a different therapist is a good change of pace and added variety, by having a new set of eyes to help address their disabilities or challenges. For others, it's taking a step back; people are complex, and it takes more than 5 minutes to completely understand all of their needs.
Thursday, my day starts out at the skilled nursing facility where I've filled in a bunch of times. As it turned out, my patient schedule was more of the latter type: difficult cases that I had to figure out on my own in a few minutes. My first patient, scheduled for 9am, was still eating breakfast. I went on to the next one, who was scheduled for 30 minutes. She refused to get out of bed, but had a 10-day report due (which I had to write). I run back to the therapy gym and grab a laptop to sit with her while I write up the report . She still refuses to get out of bed. I do some bed-level activities with her, to get to the 30 minute mark with her that I can "bill."
By now, it is about 9:55, and I get the warning that the power is going to shut off at 10. I was warned about this the previous day, but told I would be able to take the stairs to do in-room treatments, and that the only real restriction was that patients wouldn't be able to travel between floors. 10:00 rolls around... I am unable to save my report I just wrote on the laptop. Perfect. I surrender, grab a couple therabands and some cones, and start heading to the second floor for the next patient. The stairwell doors are blocked by facility staff: "Didn't you know about this? What's your name? [guy writes down my name] And you're with the rehab department? They didn't tell you about this?"
"Yes, I mean I knew about this, but I thought I'd still be able to go and see patients..."
"Uuuh, NO. You can't SEE..."
I've been at the building 1 hour and 15 minutes by this point, and have a solid 30 minutes of treatment logged. Great start.
I give up, leave the facility and go to see patients at my home site, a retirement community with high level residents, who I know everything about, I know exactly what their 60-minute treatments are going to be that day, and I know I can get in and out. Everything went relatively smoothly from there on out; just stressed by the anticipation of all the remaining work I had the rest of my afternoon. Calculations in my head told me I wouldn't be leaving before 7pm. Awesome. That and I completely forgot my lunch at the other building. Great Thursday.
By 2:45, I have wrapped up everything at my home site, and I'm ready to go back to the SNF. I gather up my coffee mugs, water bottle, handbag, notebook, etc. and walk out to the car. As I'm sitting the drivers seat placing all my stuff in the cupholders and the passenger seat (like I do 3-5 times a day every single day)... I feel........
Wetness.
What..... the...
OH MY GOD IT'S COFFEEEEE.
.....All over my crotch. Of my light khakis.
All I can do is laugh. Apparently God decided I needed to laugh, and this was just the start of how he chose to make it happen. It worked. I haven't laughed like that in soooo long...... And he must have also decided my coworkers and patients that afternoon were going to need a laugh too...
I run back to the clinic, and our office administrative assistant starts to call around other departments, asking if any of the nurses had packed an extra pair of scrub pants I could borrow. She calls over to the other building to let them know I'm running behind. She gets a call back from second floor assisted living: "I've got something up here for her... just tell her to come on up!" Thinking it's a pair a scrubs, I wrap a sheet around my waist to cover my stain and run upstairs.... to be offered these:
Mrs. B was the absolute CUTEST lady on second floor... she was 103 years old, about 4'11", walked all over the place, she had dementia and was a little bit of a wanderer (or a follower...she wanted to be where other people were), and her speech was kind of difficult to understand. She passed away last week. And these gems... these elastic-waist, pleated, tapered-leg "slacks".... got left behind in the laundry room.
I can't say these were what I was expecting... but what choice do I have? I put them on... they're a little big so I fold the waist down... they're a little short so I cuff them at the bottom. A little bit bright for the shirt I was wearing... But hey, at least they matched my pumas!
Like I said... God must have decided me and my patients and coworkers needed a laugh, because I rocked these babies for my last 4 patient treatments, had a dang great time telling my patients about my terrible "accident", had some really good treatments, and was out the door by 7!
And I'm keeping the slacks...
No comments:
Post a Comment