Emergency Room at Mercy Hospital

Say you’re a rural Midwestern farmer in bed recovering from a major illness at your local hospital. It’s time for nurse’s check in, but there’s no knock on the door.

In the next stanza, the poet describes “A figure walking towards cloaked in blue/ Beeping/ Tubes/ Needles.” The poem addresses the routinely and monotonous aspect of being in the hospital for long periods of time. It is a critique of the biomedical model and how the hospital system is created where patients are tended to by multiple doctors, nurses, and allied health professionals. The patients and healthcare professionals are unable to form a relationship that consists of what Kleinman describes as “empathetic witnessing” (Kleinman). Therefore, detachment between patient and health workers is developed and established, to which the patient cannot recognize or know the people assisting them. In addition, Grealy discusses this in her earliest accounts and appointments with doctors. She states that there is a layer of “condescension” and is an “endemic in the medical

“Right this way,” the nurse ahead of me was prompting me to a brightly lit hall that was completely foreign to me. I couldn’t help but be terrified by the sights and sounds around me: people chattering, machines methodically beeping, gurneys rushing past. It was my first time in a hospital and my eyes frantically searched each room looking for any trace of my father. She stopped suddenly and I turned to the bed in front of me but I could not comprehend what I saw. At such a young age, I idolized my father; I had never seen him so vulnerable. Seeing him laying in a hospital bed unconscious, surrounded by wires and tubes was like witnessing Superman encounter kryptonite. My dad’s car accident not only made him a quadriplegic, but also crippled

I looked around the cramped waiting room and took a deep breath. I took another one as I tried to sink further into the uncomfortable black plastic chairs that everybody who waited for him sat in.There were a lot of things about this room that made me want to bolt out of the door- the sound the secretary’s long claws made as she typed on her computer, the smell that could only be described as a cross between sterile hospital and forest, Everyone else that was sitting inside of that office pulling at their collars and making noises to draw attention away from themselves, and the big gold letters on the wall that spelled out Dr. Luke Jones M.D..

“Code One - Code One - Emergency Delivery!!”. A pregnant woman involved in a motor vehicle accident was in labor and headed to the emergency room by ambulance. The announcement was quickly drowned out by the clamorous activity of nurses and physicians preparing the triage room to receive the patient. In a matter of moments the room was filled with medical equipment and specialists - obstetrician, trauma physicians, triage nurses and members of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unite. I stood back observing the scene - choreographed chaos.

Standing almost six feet tall, she walks down the looming white halls of the hospital, her lithe-framed body softly oscillating.. Wendi Briseno combs her thin fingers through her medium-length pale brown hair; a breath of warm air sweeps from between her lips. Lives are saved by the hour because of her, and the wellbeing of many is enhanced due to her imminent solicitude. As she thinks of her contribution to the vigor of many, a smile stretches across her face, and her shiny braces become evident. Lightly applied makeup is smudged as she gently prods at her ice blue eyes. A long hallway lay before her, and her eyes trail along this hallway. Eventually, they discover her destination: the break room.

“She’s in pain!” Lizabeth shouted, when her mother winced after trying to sit up. “Can’t you see that? Do something! Get the doctor!” she snapped at the attending nurse in Room #152 at Outer Drive Hospital.

As a medical scribe in the Emergency Department at St. Agnes Hospital, I constantly work in a fast paced environment and learn something new everyday. Some days are good days. Some days go badly. My third day of training as a medical scribe was a bad day. Eight hours into my shift alongside my assigned physician, Dr. David Hale, we had already seen a myriad of symptoms and ailments from nearly twenty patients. Suddenly, an urgent overhead page called out, “Code Heart Emergency Department Room 5.” Dr. Hale sprinted to Room 5 with me rushing to keep up. The space was filled, shoulder-to-shoulder, with emergency medical services (EMS) and several nurses. I squeezed my way through the gathered crowd. A paltry three days of training left me simply awestruck amongst so much activity.

It was the 2 in the morning when I arrived home, shoes soaked with what I would pay to be able to say was just water.

In the dim light and still silence of the hospital, nothing is sweet or mellow. The sound of children hasn't been heard by these walls for years, and neither have they seen any happiness. The hospitals are no longer a place for recovery, for there is no need. The hospitals are places for birth, and for the most part, death.And Bliss makes sure of that.

Yells and screams bounce off the walls from a desperate woman and child. Nurses rush trying to see what can be causing such horror. Nurses with eyes so wide open at what they see like seeing a ghost…”Someone, please call pediatrics.” by numerous nurses. A kid holds his deep scar from his head tightly, trying not to let the blood seep out. A pediatrician walks in, and it is like a calmness filled the room; for pediatricians are greatly educated doctors, who which are trusted by kids and parents.

The unit and facility I chose for this paper is the emergency department at St. Mary’s Medical Center in Evansville, Indiana. I chose this unit because it is where I work full-time as a registered nurse. St. Mary’s emergency department (ED) is a Level II Adult and Pediatric Trauma Center that is open twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. The nurses are all certified in basic life support (BLS), advanced cardiac life support (ACLS), and pediatric advanced life support (PALS). The majority of the nurses are also certified in trauma nurse core curriculum (TNCC). The nurses work eight or twelve-hour shifts. Nurses are either weekend-option meaning they only work weekends or must work every third weekend.

There is a strong need to obtain further evidence regarding refugee health needs, and to carry out policy evaluations on sector specific impacts. For example, policy makers must remain aware of the cost and benefit implications of utilizing emergency room and acute care staff to treat primary health care concerns and estimate patient demand accordingly. Given the complexity and inequity associated with IFHP, it has been suggested that creating a tailored social welfare policy and healthcare model suited to the characteristics of refugees may hold promise (Barnes, 2013). There has been a range of further suggested changes to regulations, including suggestions that fewer categories of migrants be delegated to simplify the system with respect

A sedated 72-year old male was admitted to the emergency department of a county hospital. The patient was complaining of chest pain and shortness of breath. This patient has a history of COPD, type-two diabetes and has quit smoking for nearly seven years.

{Hospitals are an oddly cold place. Goosebumps cover your legs, and the open-backed gown sends an inexplicable breeze in unwanted places. The fluorescent lights flicker harshly overhead. When bare feet meet floor, there’s a strange sticky residue left. Unoiled stretcher wheels shriek loudly against every corner. The smell is the worst bit; like bleach that had tried and failed to scrub away things that should never have met air. My theory is that the hostile environment is deliberate. Lion’s Gate Hospital isn’t a place you would want to revisit. Something that people often point out about hospitals is that the strangeness that on one floor someone could by dying and on the floor below them someone could be giving birth. On a different floor,