Diagnosis of the human condition
I’m fairly certain this blog would be more interesting, or at least more regular, if I actually was able to write about everything going on in my life. But as a healthcare practitioner, I can’t just blab any old thing I want to. Much as I would like.
From my recent HCG-inspired trip to the ER, when I asked the nurse taking my BP and O2 levels if she’d seen a lot of strange things come into the hospital, she replied, “Ayup,” as if to say, “Darlin’, you don’t know the half of it.”
The point of an anonymous blog is to be able to safely spill the beans on one’s life, and unfortunately, I have to censor some of the more juicy and precious bits. After all, I would hate to come across - for instance - my doctor’s blog, telling the world about the time she painted my cervix with iodine, and not knowing I had a hidden allergy to shellfish, watched my tender bits swell up mightily, and despite a healthy injection of benadryl, walk out of her office on an imaginary donkey.
So what to do. I have to guarantee and uphold patient confidentiality. But with nothing more than curtains that often divide patients in a room, and having worked in offices where I could hear conversations through the air vents, HIPAA is pretty much a joke. And oh the stories I could tell. Maybe I’ll figure out a way to that doesn’t involve enrolling in a witness protection program.
So without going into specifics, I can pretty much attest to the fact that after some things I’ve seen this week, people are weird.
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