“Miss Clover, please proceed to the 29th right after you finish your tea. There is a high blood pressure patient there, but hurry not. If you decease now, there will be no one to save him.”
“Yeah, true,” I throw a candy in my mouth, take a couple of sips on-the-go and pull my parka on.
Valera cheerfully flashes his torch and steps ahead through the snowdrifts.
I precisely follow in to his footsteps. We enter the department.
I go to the observation unit. There lay a man of unknown age with slant eyes, huge hands, lean and with multiple scars all over. His speech is dysarthric. He is muttering something unintelligible and is dressed after the latest dear nut house fashion.
“Girls, the history,” I say to the nurses, “give me the pressure.”
I see the title page inscription: Michael Nameless. It’s a conspiracy of Michaels today, but a duty shift. Then, I start reading myself into the case. It turns out that Misha has been living in the department for about 40 years. The diagnosis is imbecility. It’s the congenital dementia or low IQ. Once he accidentally ended up in the hospital with no documents or life events available or known. He has been here for his entire life. Dear nut house is his home. The staff treats him with attention and compassion.
It is 200 over 120. So, let’s see.
“Michelle, let us sit, I need to examine you.”
People from the staff seat him up, but he’s unable to hold his back and his body leans aside.
“Lateral paralysis”
“Come on, dear, look and follow the pen with your eyes.”
It is complicated, since the congenital deformity does not allow the diagnosis anyway. The pupils seem to be of the same shape.
Show your tongue, let’s make faces.
I show by my own example as if to a kid in a kindergarten. Misha happily shows me his navel.
“No, dear, we need the tongue.”
From the twenty-fifth attempt the trick works out. The deviation is existent, the instructions are followed extremely difficult.
“Can you squeeze my fingers with your hands?”
Definitely, there is weakness on his left side. It is the “lateral” all the same.
Most likely, it is the acute cerebrovascular disorder. “Oh, Misha, Misha.” “Prepare him for transition. I go to disturb the hospitalization department,”
I instruct the staff, take Valera and we go to the inspection checkpoint.
I am dialing up the hospitalization department.
“Hello, this is the doctor on duty from the Clinical Psychiatric Hospital No.1. Can I talk to the adviser? We most likely have a transition.”
“What’s happened?”
“There is s patient of about 60, suspected to have a CVA3. We have a mental retardation.”
“Who’s ‘We’? Name?”
“’We’ stands for our institution where he dwells in with dementia. The name is Michael Nameless.”
“Are you joking me? About 60. How old exactly is he? What kind of a strange last name is that?”
“He is unknown, with no documents. The age is also unknown, eye estimated. No information available.
“Okay, the adviser is on the way.”
I was so tired that didn’t even want to engage myself into the controversy. The ambulance with the advisor arrived in 40 minutes. The neuropathologist confirmed the diagnosis.
“Well done doctor, good job. You have spotted. Yet he needs an MRI to be made.”
“Then take him and make it.”
After long disputes and scandals, through my bursts and manipulations like: ‘Document the refusal to accept your profile patient in the history. Afterwards, I will file a complaint and report against you!’ I managed to prevail and Misha had finally been taken for an MRI. I have never seen a person being so much happy while loaded into a car. Most probably, this would be his first car experience. He saw ambulances only in pictures and through the hospital windows.
“Miss Clover, what about tea?” inquires Marina thoughtfully. “With pleasure.”
It’s about 30 minutes before the duty shift ends up. I go to the break room and find an apple in my bag. It is merely divine by its taste. I guess the rule of haute cuisine is to keep guests hungry as long as possible before the meal. I smile to myself: “What a day! Well, it’s time to get ready for Alevtina’s birthday.” I’ve got my dress and high-heeled boot in the bag. I put my make-up on. The friend girls, that gather at her place will, as usual, be in fine dresses and pretty make-up, smelling of clean and freshness. All this is not an option for me today, but there is a chance to eat something at the birthday party. The gift prepared, an envelope of cash, always a good asset.
3 cerebral vascular accident (TN)
She will buy what she wants to for the amount gifted. I change into a dress, put on the heeled boots and the coat, inspect myself in the mirror. I see tired eyes, pale face, but it’s fine. We’ll add some blusher and put some mascara on, somehow will match the event.
“The ambulance,” I hear Marina’s voice. I look at the telephone screen, it’s 19:55. What the hack is going on?
I go out to the admission. It is the correct denomination for the patient admission sanitary inspection facility, usually slang called ‘the checkpoint’. Misha Nameless has been brought back.
“Hello, why are you bringing him back?”
The ambulance doctor, clearly out of humor, begins to attack me right off the bat. One may clearly tell that it is obviously an ordinary ambulance squad, not a psychiatric one.
“So, in which medical institution shall we leave him? He’s a complete fool! Will you provide an escort? Will you provide your aid-men, to watch him? We’ve made the MRI. Nothing serious there, just an ischemic stroke. Therefore, you treat the guy. Neuropathologists have prescribed everything. They have concluded that patient has no need in their institution hospitalization, therefore, the treatment can be performed in your hospital.”
“But we are the psychiatry, where do we get the needed drugs from?” What kind of inhuman are you!?”
“Don’t care, let him kick off. What’s for us in him? It’s your patient, you deal with him. Who needs him anyway at all?
On that note I decided to interrupt the argument. “Will you drive him up to the department? “ “Drag him yourself…”
That’s the final straw for me. My personality has a peculiar feature. When being very much emotional, I don’t raise voice to shout, but bring it down to hiss. At that moment, I think, I can start splitting poison:
“Listen up, DEAR COLLEAGUE. The likes of you, in general, should not be allowed to people at all. Have you completely lost your human face? Do you at all have mother or wife, or son at home? Then just imagine any of them to get an ambulance with the same kind of… I don’t even have a proper word to name you… non-human, like you yourself. Karma is a Goddamn tricky thing, you know. It returns back all your bloody favors. Have you completely stopped seeing people behind earnings? Look at you, worked too hard, yeah? I’ll grind you down to death by complaints and reports, bitch. Pick your shit together and bring him to the department, now!”
The ambulance doctor waved his hand, turned around in an emphatic manner and left, but brought Misha Nameless to the department.
At these very words Ivan comes to change me at the duty shift. “Clover, why are you raging?” he asks kindly.
“Oh, it’s a nightmare, who the hell do they think they are?” I briefly retell the story to him.
“Sweetheart, this is what he is, what did you expect? He is to hand in the shift and there you appear with your imbeciles. Plus, you, our little sparky, sent the guy for an MRI. Well done, you are all passion to work, I was the same at your age. By the way, looking good!”
“Thank you, Mr. Willow, your praise is extremely valuable to me.” “Did everything go smoothly?”
“Well, what can I say? It was a bit complicated,” I narrate all the episodes, which in fact becomes my meeting report.
