SharptonsRaceCard
01-29-2018, 07:42 PM
*some details have been changed for HIPAA compliance and to avoid being identified. The gist remains, however!
Hi all,
I was a member of CO way back when and have only just now caught up with this site. Life's been tumultuous, but things are settling in. I'm now a grown up PA, who swings between an emergency room and a family practice/urgent care clinic in the Midwest. Niggers make up a minuscule portion of our population, but at least half of my patients are coons. I'm suffering though this job, hoping to pad my resume for a sweeter gig. Most of the time I like my job, and the other half of the time, I'm maintaining obsolete farm equipment that's doing everything they can do destroy themselves.
A while back, I was working a shift in an emergency room, when Ricardo came in. Ricardo is a chronically homeless, alcoholic, frequent flying nigger. Sometimes he comes in malingering so he can get a turkey sandwich and a warm bed for a few hours while we waste tons of resources doing workups for whatever bullshit complaint he has. But Ricardo is a morbidly obese, poorly controlled diabetic. He's also dumber than a bag of hammers.
One night I look at the board and I see Ricardo's dreaded name. He's complaining of shakes and sweats, and the nurse has already drawn labs. And he's all mine. Fucking great. As I walk towards his room, I catch a whiff of what can best be described as death inside of a can of pears. Yes, Ricardo the homeless nigger is most likely in DKA. But this smells fucking RIPE, even for DKA. Now I'm recollecting the last time I saw Ricardo, and my mind is starting to spin.
The last time Ricardo was in, he was complaining of foot pain. He had a wound on his foot called a decubitus ulcer. This is basically a huge fucking bedsore but on the bottom of his heel. During that visit was when we found out our shit skinned friend had type 2 diabetes with a glucose of over 400, our high score for that day. I cleaned up his beetus hoof, and prescribed metformin and insulin, with a nurse showing him how to measure and inject his medicaid approved drugs.
Back to present day, and I'm now in Ricardo's room. I ask the nurse to get me some peppermint oil because this smell is RANK. I look at Ricardo's vitals and everything is pointing to DKA. I ask Ricardo how his foot wound is doing, and his answer is what I both did and did not expect. I expected the part where he says he doesn't know. What I didn't expect was "I don't fuckin' know, I ain't had that fuckin' sock off." Shit. Shit. Shit.
Well, now I have to take off this nigger's socks to check his feet. The first sock is pretty much run of the mill niggerstink. The second sock? As I pull it off, I'm treated to a smell that even overpowers the peppermint oil I've smeared under my nose, and lots and lots of angry red streaks. Oh man. And as the sock gets pulled the rest of the way off, I now see a foot that resembles charcoal and is minus a big toe.
"Ricardo, when did you lose that big toe?"
"What the fuck you talkin' about? I told you I ain't taken off that sock since I saw you last."
Well, for once a nigger wasn't lying. Not only had he not done any self care as I directed on that wound, that sock had indeed not come off his foot, as upon further inspection, his toe was stuck to the inside of his sock that I just removed. At some point this ignorant yard ape's toe had rotted clean off his foot and he didn't notice it. To sum things up, his foot was charcoal black, minus a toe and red streaks are going up his calf. This nigger just walked himself into a below the knee amputation, copious amounts of IV antibiotics and (maybe) narcotics and a long hospital stay. How did things come to this? I got my answers as I continued asking questions as my H&P progressed.
When I got to the part where I assessed his medication compliance, things got clearer. Ricardo did indeed take the metformin tablets as I prescribed, but evidently the idea of injecting Lantus once per day and Humalog once per day gave ol' Ricardo some pause. Even though Ricardo had zero trouble letting nurses start IV's when narcotics or other drugs were on the menu, he was a bit squeamish about the idea of injecting himself subcutaneously four times per day. "But I did good, doc! [I'm not a doctor, I'm a PA--SRC]I wasn't down with gibbin' mahself shots, but I did take my medicines!" It turns out this tire-lipped layabout was carefully drawing up his meds with a fresh syringe each dose, as I directed, but would then promptly shoot the insulins into his cockholster and swallow them. <insert thatsnothowthisworks.gif> And counting his carbs and being mindful of his diet? Do I really need to say anything?
As I arranged Ricardo's transfer to the surgical team, Ricardo's labs came back and his diagnosis was confirmed. Diabetic ketoacidosis, with not only a new blood glucose personal record, but a monthly record for our ER: a staggering 600. How he was not only not dead, but conscious and talking is beyond me.
To bring this long, undoubtedly boring story to a quick end, Ricardo survived to frequent fly another day, albeit minus one hoof, calf and knee. He's still homeless and now alternating between crutches and a wheelchair, depending on where he's staying. He's still a shiftless, drug seeking, stupid fucking nigger who, although has gotten over his fear of needles, still thinks he knows enough to decide when he should and shouldn't take his meds, and it ends up exactly how you think it would end up. I'm sure one day Ricardo will niggerfuxate himself badly enough that either Lord Beetus will claim the other hoof, he'll end up in a nursing home, or he'll make himself good. But natural selection can be a fickle bitch, so it's a tossup as to which one will happen, and when. But soon....soon.
Hi all,
I was a member of CO way back when and have only just now caught up with this site. Life's been tumultuous, but things are settling in. I'm now a grown up PA, who swings between an emergency room and a family practice/urgent care clinic in the Midwest. Niggers make up a minuscule portion of our population, but at least half of my patients are coons. I'm suffering though this job, hoping to pad my resume for a sweeter gig. Most of the time I like my job, and the other half of the time, I'm maintaining obsolete farm equipment that's doing everything they can do destroy themselves.
A while back, I was working a shift in an emergency room, when Ricardo came in. Ricardo is a chronically homeless, alcoholic, frequent flying nigger. Sometimes he comes in malingering so he can get a turkey sandwich and a warm bed for a few hours while we waste tons of resources doing workups for whatever bullshit complaint he has. But Ricardo is a morbidly obese, poorly controlled diabetic. He's also dumber than a bag of hammers.
One night I look at the board and I see Ricardo's dreaded name. He's complaining of shakes and sweats, and the nurse has already drawn labs. And he's all mine. Fucking great. As I walk towards his room, I catch a whiff of what can best be described as death inside of a can of pears. Yes, Ricardo the homeless nigger is most likely in DKA. But this smells fucking RIPE, even for DKA. Now I'm recollecting the last time I saw Ricardo, and my mind is starting to spin.
The last time Ricardo was in, he was complaining of foot pain. He had a wound on his foot called a decubitus ulcer. This is basically a huge fucking bedsore but on the bottom of his heel. During that visit was when we found out our shit skinned friend had type 2 diabetes with a glucose of over 400, our high score for that day. I cleaned up his beetus hoof, and prescribed metformin and insulin, with a nurse showing him how to measure and inject his medicaid approved drugs.
Back to present day, and I'm now in Ricardo's room. I ask the nurse to get me some peppermint oil because this smell is RANK. I look at Ricardo's vitals and everything is pointing to DKA. I ask Ricardo how his foot wound is doing, and his answer is what I both did and did not expect. I expected the part where he says he doesn't know. What I didn't expect was "I don't fuckin' know, I ain't had that fuckin' sock off." Shit. Shit. Shit.
Well, now I have to take off this nigger's socks to check his feet. The first sock is pretty much run of the mill niggerstink. The second sock? As I pull it off, I'm treated to a smell that even overpowers the peppermint oil I've smeared under my nose, and lots and lots of angry red streaks. Oh man. And as the sock gets pulled the rest of the way off, I now see a foot that resembles charcoal and is minus a big toe.
"Ricardo, when did you lose that big toe?"
"What the fuck you talkin' about? I told you I ain't taken off that sock since I saw you last."
Well, for once a nigger wasn't lying. Not only had he not done any self care as I directed on that wound, that sock had indeed not come off his foot, as upon further inspection, his toe was stuck to the inside of his sock that I just removed. At some point this ignorant yard ape's toe had rotted clean off his foot and he didn't notice it. To sum things up, his foot was charcoal black, minus a toe and red streaks are going up his calf. This nigger just walked himself into a below the knee amputation, copious amounts of IV antibiotics and (maybe) narcotics and a long hospital stay. How did things come to this? I got my answers as I continued asking questions as my H&P progressed.
When I got to the part where I assessed his medication compliance, things got clearer. Ricardo did indeed take the metformin tablets as I prescribed, but evidently the idea of injecting Lantus once per day and Humalog once per day gave ol' Ricardo some pause. Even though Ricardo had zero trouble letting nurses start IV's when narcotics or other drugs were on the menu, he was a bit squeamish about the idea of injecting himself subcutaneously four times per day. "But I did good, doc! [I'm not a doctor, I'm a PA--SRC]I wasn't down with gibbin' mahself shots, but I did take my medicines!" It turns out this tire-lipped layabout was carefully drawing up his meds with a fresh syringe each dose, as I directed, but would then promptly shoot the insulins into his cockholster and swallow them. <insert thatsnothowthisworks.gif> And counting his carbs and being mindful of his diet? Do I really need to say anything?
As I arranged Ricardo's transfer to the surgical team, Ricardo's labs came back and his diagnosis was confirmed. Diabetic ketoacidosis, with not only a new blood glucose personal record, but a monthly record for our ER: a staggering 600. How he was not only not dead, but conscious and talking is beyond me.
To bring this long, undoubtedly boring story to a quick end, Ricardo survived to frequent fly another day, albeit minus one hoof, calf and knee. He's still homeless and now alternating between crutches and a wheelchair, depending on where he's staying. He's still a shiftless, drug seeking, stupid fucking nigger who, although has gotten over his fear of needles, still thinks he knows enough to decide when he should and shouldn't take his meds, and it ends up exactly how you think it would end up. I'm sure one day Ricardo will niggerfuxate himself badly enough that either Lord Beetus will claim the other hoof, he'll end up in a nursing home, or he'll make himself good. But natural selection can be a fickle bitch, so it's a tossup as to which one will happen, and when. But soon....soon.