Mr Lice

Some shifts start in a way that you know the rest of the shift is going to suck. Today was no exception. I arrived in the afternoon to start my 12 hours of listening to incoherent babbling about insignificant complaints and went in to see my first patient. The patient had been transported to our facility from his desert dwellings by the not so local EMS. In fact, they came from 90 miles away and crossed the county line in the process. A move that would make our job impossible as the night wore on.

I picked up the chart and transcribed his vitals onto our portion of the chart, and went in to evaluate the patient. I ambled into the trauma room and planted myself onto the rolling stool, and stared at the patient. I marveled at the lice so present and obviously enjoying their host. They were squirming on the patients head like teams in a rugby scrum. I’ll be itching for the rest of the shift even if I don’t touch him, I thought.

So, what brings you to our ER today, I asked.

I just can’t do it anymore, he responded.

Ok, I asked, can’t do what?

I’ve been living in the desert for the past three years… I just can’t do it anymore. I ran out of food about a month ago… I need help. I just don’t have anything. I lost everything including my home, my job, and my family. I’m so hungry and I haven’t eaten for a month, he related to me.

I had to walk six miles to the road to get help. I made a sign out of cardboard that asked people to call 911 or the fire department for help, he said.

Damn, I’m starting to itch already, and I haven’t even touched him. And that beard, what’s with the greasy scraggily beard. Eww. Gloves, lots of gloves, and I’m still going to itch, damn.

I’m just so tired and I need some help, can you get me on social security disability, he asked.

Actually, my first thought was, I can tell you where to find a job. The chances of me helping you get on social insecurity even if I were able, are nil. I don’t believe my hard earned tax dollars that are allocated to the Ponzi scheme called social security, should go to help pay people to not work, especially when they are capable.

I listened and did not make an immediate reply. I could tell there was a greater portion of the story he was not telling me.

He continued.

After I lost my family and home, the neighbors let me move my camper onto their 40 acres. I made a little money when I sold the house and bought a bunch of dried goods. When the canned food ran out I lived on beans and rice for almost 2 ½ years. My food ran out about a month ago and I have not had anything to eat for the past month.

Are those lice playing volleyball, I thought.

Uh, yea, when did all this start, I asked?

Well, about a year ago I became depressed and wanted to kill myself. I ran a hose from the truck exhaust and through the truck window. I started the engine and sat in the cab until I passed out. When I woke up my face was really red and the engine was stopped. The truck ran out of gas before anything bad happened.

I even tried to hang myself. I threw a rope over a tree branch and jumped off a rock. The tree branch broke and hit me on the head.

Right, I thought, this sounds like a bad “B” movie on Stars at two in the morning. I stared closely at him. His scrawny physique and the obvious prison tattoos he displayed on each arm betrayed a story hovering under the surface he wasn’t yet willing to tell me.

What kind of work did you do before all this happened, I asked.

I was an over-the-road trucker. I drove big rigs until I got too many tickets and had to give it up, he responded.

Ok, I thought, if you lost your job because you got too many tickets, whose fault is that?

After I lost my job, I got behind in the house payments and gave the house back to the bank. I sold off the motorcycles, trucks, everything. I had all the toys and a great family. It’s all gone now…

What happened to your family, I asked.

After we got through the counseling, we just couldn’t go on together. The neighbors were real upset and wouldn’t have anything to do with me anymore. My daughter and I went through the counseling together but it was never the same. I’m a registered sex offender, he blurted out.

Now I’m seeing a clearer picture. He sexually molested his twelve-year-old daughter and everything fell apart after that. Living in a hovel in the desert for the past three years was much too good for you. Maybe if you were pulling a Saddam and living inside a septic cistern there would be some justice. At this point I wanted to give him a copy of “Final Exit”. At least his next attempt at killing himself might be successful if he followed the instructions carefully.

I ordered labs and the social worker went in and did an evaluation. She came to the same conclusion as me about the situation. Something just did not add up and the sexual assault of his own daughter was probably at the root of the situation. She told him he would have to find a way back to his own county and seek assistance there.

The nurses got a meal for him and drew labs. After about an hour I got the labs back and everything was completely normal. This guy’s FOS, I told the social worker. She arranged a ride to the local shelter and in less than twenty minutes Mr. Lice and his mobile volleyball teams were on their way.

And on the lighter side.

I was fortunate last night in that I was busy when a chart was placed into the rack for a new patient to be seen. It seems a woman came to the ER because she was miscarrying with her sixth child. She complained of severe pelvic cramping and vaginal bleeding. She had no idea how many weeks pregnant she was, and had not sought any prenatal care. She said she had three living children and two previous spontaneous abortions. Two of her children lived with her ex-boyfriend and the third child lived with a relative out of state.

She told the doctor she had started to miscarry and tried her usual method to stop the labor. She used all the meth she had but the cramps and bleeding just wouldn’t stop.

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