"M" Doesn't Like Helmets.

"M" loves to tell stories.  She'll tell you about who drove her to work in the morning, who she sat next to during her day program, and who picked her up in the afternoon. She also has plenty of stories to tell you about her family.

Problem is, M sometimes forgets who she's told these stories to. So she'll tell you again, just to be on the safe side.   Which means I've heard some of her tales so many times, I can repeat them word for word.
I know that:

1.  Her brother and sister wear glasses, just like she does.

2. She's left handed, and so is her sister!

3. Her mother had a really high forehead.

4.  When her father moved to Colorado, he was a widower!

Over the past two years, it's safe to say that I've heard each of these facts about 100 times.   While M can't remember the amount of times that she's told me about her sister's pet duck, she's perfectly capable of remembering how I styled my hair two weeks ago.

One conversation:

M: You have your hair in pigtails!


Me: Yes I do "M".


M: Yesterday, you had your hair in a ponytail! Braided!  But usually you wear your hair to the side!

I do usually wear my hair to the side, or I did, until I got a haircut.  "M" was the first to notice.

Every once in awhile I hear something new. Yesterday was one of those days.

Me: How was day program?


M: I'm sitting in "CF's" old place.


Me: Really?


M: I hate "CF".


Me:  Why?


M: He wears a helmet . . . and he never takes it off!  He wears it all the damn time!


Me: . . .So . . . you don't like helmets, huh?


M: I don't even want to look at him! 

In "M"'s world, helmets are a big don't.

One of the Greatest Things I Ever Heard

It was the overnight.  I was settling in and preparing lunches when I heard a client talking to herself; something that was nothing new for this particular client. What was odd was what she was saying.  It was mostly, mutters and what sounded like gibberish.  The only words I could make out were "Charlie Sheen."

Charlie Sheen.  Charlie Sheen. She was saying the name like a prayer, as if she was asking him for something.  Her voice was pleading, almost intense.

Intrigued, I made my way down to her room.  More gibberish, more "Charlie Sheen."

Finally, there was this exchange:

Me: "K" what are you saying?


K: I'm saying Charlie Sheen!


Me: And why are you saying Charlie Sheen?


K: BECAUSE CHARLIE SHEEN IS GOING TO MAKE THE SNOW COME!

It was one of the most amazing, brilliant, crazy things I have ever heard in my life. Charlie Sheen was going to make the snow come.  Not Jack Frost, not Jesus, not Santa, Charlie Sheen. I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from informing her that Charlie was involved in a different kind of snow.

I had visions of Charlie, dressed up like Saint Nick, riding around in a black sleigh that was being pulled  by a group of hookers wearing antlers and giant platform heels  Drinking whiskey from the bottle, Charlie would wave his other hand around, allowing pure white snow to fall to the ground.  Until he crashed into the Hollywood sign, of course.

It made my night, possibly my week.

The next day K yelled that she was "sick and tired of Charlie Sheen." I guess Charlie didn't come through with that snow.

Rectal Valium!

Diastat is the brand name for diazepam rectal gel.  Valium in a suppository form.

It's used to treat seizures.  It's effective because the rectum is super absorbent, which allows the drug to enter a person's system quickly, and because you really can't give a pill to someone who is thrashing on the floor.

Where I work all the controlled meds have to be counted three times a day.  A controlled med is basically anything that can get you high and can be abused.  Vicodin, Oxycontin, Valium etc. The fun meds.  The kind that when prescribed you try to hide your excitement, because you know if you get too excited the physician will think you're an addict and suggest you treat your gallstone with massive amounts of Advil instead.

Back to the butt drug:

Because Diastat is Valium, and therefore a controlled med, it has to be counted.  In case someone steals it.

Have on person who is prescribed 15mgs of diastat.  The applicators don't come in 15mgs. So he gets 20mg applicators, which are set to only dispense 15.  Which means when given there's 5mgs left over.  Which also means we have to save the damned things so they can be properly destroyed.

How desperate does a person have to be for a high to steal something that has to go up their ass?  Furthermore, how desperate does someone have to be to steal something that might have been stuck up someone else's ass first?

Don't think the rest of the people who I work with haven't pondered this.  They have.

Which let to this exchange:

"Would you be able to put it in food?'

"You mean, eat a suppository?"

"Well, would it have the same effect?"

930pm at night and I'm texting a friend who's an RN, asking about the side-effects of eating a suppository. Her reply was "I think it would make you sick."  I did a get promise that if she ever runs into it at work, she'll give me some details.

So while friends get married, have kids, buy house and work on prosperous careers, I lie awake at night wondering about suppositories.