Getting Fired: A Charge Nurse's Perspective

Getting fired. Those words don’t sound very good. Bad connotation. Probably a pretty scary thing for most people. But actually, that has been my goal for awhile now. Not to lose my whole job- for I love what I do- being a maternity nurse. That is exactly why I don’t relish the evenings when I have to be charge nurse for the whole unit. I don’t get to do a good job at what I like best- taking care of the moms and babies. So getting fired from being “in charge” would really be a good thing from my point of view. Then I would have the time I need to listen to the patients, reassure them and teach them how to take care of themselves and their new babies. But instead, I’m stuck with tons of paperwork. Oh wait- we’re supposed to be paperless now. So I really don’t know why the printer keeps spitting out those forms. I have to make assignments for the other nurses, distribute new admits, delegate and keep track of coworker’s breaks (did they take too long or not even get to go to dinner yet?). And of course, every patient, visitor and staff complaint is the charge nurse’s responsibility. Make everyone happy at all costs is what it’s all about. But what about me? All I get are grumbles all evening long. How happy can I be in such a situation? And my least favorite part- keeping track of the staff/patient ratio that we need to be productive budget-wise. Like I care how much money the unit is taking in and putting out. As long as I get my paycheck, that is good enough!

Most of the other nurses told the managers that they didn’t ever want to be in charge. I said the same thing, but nobody listened to me. So I had a strategy. I thought, “what if I just do such a bad job that they want to fire me from this position!” But so far it hasn’t worked. With my bad luck, most of the shifts I work are crazy and very hectic. It seems like there should always be a full moon. (And everyone in the hospital dreads full moon nights!) I said that it was my fault that the unit was full to capacity with so many medically challenged patients and not enough staff. Maybe they would see that I was jinxed and put someone with better luck in charge. But I was just told that I could handle chaos in a calm manner. So I tried looking more frantic and frazzled, but since everthing got done, I was still told, “Good job.” On the rare evenings when it would calm down slightly, I didn’t send any extra staff home early and our budget numbers came out looking really bad. I thought that would do it for sure!! But I was just told, “That’s OK. You guys deserve a break once in a while.” Arrrgh!

Meanwhile, I’m stuck telling all the dads, whose wives are in double rooms, why we can’t rebuild the maternity unit right at this very moment and give everyone a private room. Where did the secretary go and why are all the call bells going off and all the phones are ringing off the hook? How many more patients can we take from Labor and Delivery and what is that doctor so upset about? What to do about the visitors who won’t leave after visiting hours are over and the kids that are running up and down the halls screeching? And HELP- someone just wandered onto our unit, despite the locked doors and is cursing, threatening and clearly on drugs. SECURITY!

Oh- can someone please tell me what I have to do to get fired from this job?!?

Prompt: Getting Fired 9/15/07

Being Misunderstood - Greg

1 Sept 2007
Prompt: Being Misunderstood

When he told her,“I love you!” what he really meant was, “Right here, right now, in this moment falling into the sea of ecstasy, I love this bed, those curtains, the redwood forests, the ocean, the tundra, the stones in the yard, the microwave oven–-everything–-even your wretched annoying cat.”

But no, the only blunt inarticulate utterance his stupid mouth could say was, “I love you,” as he fell into the great abyss.

But even has he fell, he knew he would regret the words which had carelessly tumbled from his mouth. He knew misunderstanding had entered the room, especially as she moaned and cried out louder. He wanted to soar into his momentary heaven, but the words nailed him to the earth like a crucification. Three words–-three deadly words! She would not understand. He already didn’t understand. But maybe it didn’t matter. Not right now. All thought slipped from his mind. Maybe only this mattered . . . Only this.

Ransom Note - Greg

25 Aug 2007
Prompt: Write a story that begins with a ransom note.

I typed out the first ransom note on my mother's old Royal Typewriter and brought it to The Rat who sat hunched over the wooden coffee table covered with maps, diagrams, scenarios and plans for the kidnaping. He glanced at the note and began talking about an old episode of Mannix where the forensic scientist had told the iron-jawed private eye that every typewriter was as unique as a human fingerprint. Then he crumpled up the note and told me to do it over again.

I returned later with a new note, from my Mom’s new Epson Inkjet printer. He took one glance and pointed, “Look, there’s a black mark in the upper left hand corner. This can still identify us. Do it again,” he said, tossing it in the garbage with the other.

I drove to the local library and printed a new copy and brought it back. “It’s from the library?” he asked, annoyed. “They’ll know what town we’re in. Do it again.”

This happened several more times. Ink pen: “They’ll identify the handwriting.” Ink pen with block letters: “The can identify the pressure from the pen tip.” Ink pen left handed: “Will you get off handwriting thing!” he said.

I picked up some old magazines I had subscribed to, cut out words and letters: “You cut these out of Poet’s & Writer Magazine?” he said incredulously. “Yeah, so?” “So who subscribes to that? They’ll identify the font, they’ll go down the subscriptions list and they’ll be knocking on the door in 10 minutes. Use your damn head!”

I went to the supermarket and bought a Time magazine. I put on plastic gloves and meticulously cut and pasted together the ransom note before bringing it to him. I explained my precautions and he began to read nodding his head in approval. Then it stopped. “You freakin’ spelled ransom wrong! It’s not ‘random!’ You don’t demand a ‘random’ of $25,000, you stupid moron! Are you retarded? Do it again!”

The Rat returned to his plans on the table and I pulled out the snub nose and shot him in the back of the head. The kidnappee, who sat tied and gagged to a wooden chair, jerked and his eyes filled with terror. I dragged him and the chair behind The Rat, cut loose one of his arms, and shoved the snub nose in his hand. “Shoot him” I said, and the man grunted and shook his head. I grabbed his face and repeated seriously, “Shoot him.” The man, his eyes filling with tears raised the wobbly gun and fired, hitting instead the television across the room. The gun dropped to the floor. “Good enough,” I said picking up my bag and the collection of crumpled ransom notes. “You escaped from your bounds, grabbed the gun and shot the kidnapper in the head. You’re a hero.

"And I," I said walking out the door, “am out of the kidnapping business.”

Bob Dylan's Great Betrayal

Sept. 1 - "being misunderstood"

--

Bob Dylan is a quiet man. He doesn’t want trouble, not this late in life. He’s had a long life, he’d given a lot, to many people. His needs are, for a man of his social stature, quite simple. He really only wants the chance to eat his waffles in peace. He had thought that wasn’t asking too much.

“And I love,” says the teen, hopping up and down in front of him, “I love ‘Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues.’ Oh my god. That’s my favorite song.”

Dylan looks down at his waffles, the melting butter, the rivulets of syrup dripping on to the plate. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Really!” The teen smiles like daylight. It’s a sexless wisp of a thing, short hair and wide eyes. “Your brevity fails, and negativity won’t get you through? Story of my life! Greatest lyric ever, man. It’s so hopeful, you know? Like, yeah dude. You’re gonna screw up. Brevity! Brevity always fails. But, you know, maybe you do mess up but like, yeah man! Yeah! Negativity won’t get you through!”

“Oh,” says Dylan. “Um.”

“My best friend died,” the teen rattles on. “It was. . .man. I can’t even - it was horrible. Young people don’t belong at funerals, you know? And I was like - dude. I was going crazy, falling to pieces, but that song, that line, oh man. Turned me around, you know? Like, I changed! Cause you’re damn right. Negativity never helped a man.”

The teen sticks its hand out. “Sorry,” says the teen, laughing. “I’m like, you know. Brevity fails! Dude, it is an honor and a pleasure.”

Dylan shakes the teen’s hand. His waffles are now cold, soggy with syrup and forgotten.

“Thank you,” says the teen, vibrating with sincerity. “And your brevity fails, and negativity won’t get you through. Wow.”

“Gravity,” says Dylan.

“What?” says the teen.

“Gravity,” says Dylan again, feeling smaller and more lowdown then he’d ever felt in his life, despite having done nothing wrong. “It’s. . .your gravity fails and negativity won’t get you through.”

The teen looks like it had been kicked. Dylan felt that he might’ve.

“Gravity never fails, man,” says the teen, still and betrayed.

“I like your lyric better,” says Dylan helplessly.