Anesthesiamama: And Then There Was Patient Number Three

My day was going really, really well today. Nice OR staff, surgeon with whom I love to work, and super nice, appreciative, gracious patients.

And then I met my third one for the day. 26 year old male, 2 pack per day smoker, twelve-pack a day drinker. Flipped over his redneck-mobile, I mean ATV, and hurt his finger. And this next detail is the best of all. He's gets a monthly disablity check and free health care through Medicaid. For what? Depression. I like to think of myself as empathetic and all. But there is something enherently VERY wrong with this picture. We, the taxpayers, are paying for this guy to smoke, drink and play on his ATV all the damned day. Because he is too sad to work. And now we get to pay for his finger to be fixed, because while we were all working hard yesterday, he was at home flying around on his property drunk on his ATV.

Any-hooooo.... I decided to swallow my bitter pill of reimbursement for the case (that will barely cover the overhead back at the office for the hour it takes to actually do it) and go meet the patient. I knew that, as is usually the case, I would get to know the guy as a person, and would find something to like about him.  This rarely fails.

As I approached his stretcher in the holding area, I could tell he was a character. He was covered in piercings and tattoos. And he had facial tattoos, which I rarely see. Skulls, naked women, swastikas and, get this, a vulva. On his neck.  (It took several of us a while to figure that one out, but, yeah...that's what it was.) He looked WAY older than his stated age and glared at me as soon as I approached.

I intoduced myself, he looked me over, and then commenced watching "The Price Is Right." Never looked at me again. He answered my questions with grunts and huffs making it nearly impossible to get much more of a history from him. But what more did I need to know? He was a heavy smoker and drinker but had enough cardiac fitness to ride his ATV like a bat out of hell.

So we went back to the room where he continued to display his unfriendly, and at times hostile, manners.  And I put him to sleep. The nurse then placed his operative arm on the surgical table and this is what we were greeted with: