The Hunger Games and Nursing

Published

Game time! Post an example of why you know Nursing Practice today to be similar to The Hunger Games :)

I'll start: Some days you just have to survive, nothing more heroic than that!

C'mon....you know you want to...!

Specializes in LTC & home care.

Once in LTC I painted my face various shades of peach to blend in with the ugly wallpaper. Then I set up a trap on my med cart. The tribute from District 3 (aka East Wing LPN) fell for it. As soon as she touched that pudding, I stabbed her in the neck with my bandage scissors. The DON wasn't impressed, but my sponsors sent me a new pulse ox.

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Once in LTC I painted my face various shades of peach to blend in with the ugly wallpaper. Then I set up a trap on my med cart. The tribute from District 3 (aka East Wing LPN) fell for it. As soon as she touched that pudding, I stabbed her in the neck with my bandage scissors. The DON wasn't impressed, but my sponsors sent me a new pulse ox.

I wish I could hit the "Like" button a few more times for this one :D

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At first, there is a hush across the unit as the manager click-clacks to the bulletin board to post the holiday schedule.

You sigh with relief when you see that for once, the dreaded Christmas day shift has passed you over.

Then the young mother of two, who is slated to work on Christmas Day, begins crying, her face crumpling as her body sags against the wall. You find yourself running toward the board, desperately calling, "I volunteer!" Your manager, perfectly coiffed and pressed, looks out at you through her rainbow eyeshadow and blue mascara and smiles with greed.

You go home, you wait, and you prepare, marshaling your resources so that you can survive the day.

Once Christmas arrives, you are pulled to the desk and presented with your costume, Santa's Elf. You put on the felt ears, your posture reflecting your resignation. The little hat jingles every time you take a step. You can feel your face flaming with humiliation.

As soon as you are free of the secretary, you run to find the resources you need, only to find that the costume drama has delayed you and every single mobile workstation that works has been taken and hidden by your foes.

Desperately, you search patient bathrooms and storage closets, until you find #8! Crowing with exultation, you remove the sticky note, planning to claim that you thought the note was by Jessica from night shift. You lock the screen with your log-in, rendering it useless to any passerby.

Delayed and desperate, you begin the hunt for flushes, skin prep, and chlora-prep. You count your pens carefully, hoping they will last the day. You manage to elbow one of the younger nurses aside and grab enough secondary lines to cover you for the shift, along with, (gasp!) two Kangaroo bags! Success!

As you run down the hallway to hide in your first patient's room, you see day shift Jessica, standing forlornly by the water fountain, a new bruise forming on her cheek and an unidentifiable stain on her scrubs. Apparently, she lost the toss to put Dementia Dan on the bedpan.

Stricken by guilt over #8 and deviled by the last shreds of human compassion you have, you lead her to the break room and order a set of scrubs from OR. You give up one piece of your precious chocolate stash, and she rewards you with a teary smile.

Once Jessica is settled, you see Peter coming down the hall. You are elated. An ally, at last!

The two of you have each other's backs all day as you battle through the med passes, the phone calls, and MD rounds. Peter hangs your cipro in room 5018 as you rush your patient down to CT. You see Peter wilting around 3pm and steer him into the break room, plying him with water and graham crackers until he is revived.

It is five o'clock and you hear the Sound. The dreaded cacophony of bed alarms. The sweet little old ladies and gentlemen, who have been so appreciative and cooperative all day, have been transformed into the monstrous Sundowners. Each of them mutate and begin kicking, screaming, and jumping out of bed. You hear the weak cries of the debilitated, "help me, help me, help me," repeated over and over.

You and Peter run up and down the hall, dodging punches and flying emesis basins. You carefully restrain each Sundowner, suffering bites and bruises. Eventually, you emerge victorious and the hall is quiet.

Finally, the shift is over.

You and Peter stand together at the time clock, panting, waiting the last two minutes for 1923 so you can punch out.

Suddenly, the intercom blares to life. "All nurses to the desk, please. All nurses to the desk."

You know something is wrong.

The two of you stagger to the desk. You are the only ones who show up, the last two to have survived the day. The secretary pretends not to be paying attention and a CNA lurks in the documentation room, hoping for juicy gossip.

The grizzled nursing supervisor stares at you with beady eyes and announces, "There have been two call outs. I need one of you to stay."

You look at each other, dread in your eyes. You know you can't face going on. You know Peter is at the end of his rope. You know what you have to do.

"Sir, I'm having palpitations, and my chest is killing me. I need Peter to take me down to the ER."

The supe narrows his eyes, but can't call your bluff. Chest pain is serious. He knows he will have generalized mutiny on his hands if he doesn't go along.

Peter plays his part, putting an arm around your waist and supporting you until you have reached the employee elevators.

You can't believe you made it! Victorious, you do your boogie dance in the elevator and Peter gives you a high-five, then straightens your elf ears. You do a token run by the ER, claiming your symptoms have resolved and you're pretty sure it was a panic attack. Peter corroborates your story, listing a set of vitals and symptoms that is concerning, but not alarming.

You head out together, then go your separate ways in the parking lot. Once home, life goes back to normal, until the next round of The Holiday Games.

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"I VOLUNTEER! I volunteer to stay home when the census is too high!"

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At first, there is a hush across the unit as the manager click-clacks to the bulletin board to post the holiday schedule.

You sigh with relief when you see that for once, the dreaded Christmas day shift has passed you over.

Then the young mother of two, who is slated to work on Christmas Day, begins crying, her face crumpling as her body sags against the wall. You find yourself running toward the board, desperately calling, "I volunteer!" Your manager, perfectly coiffed and pressed, looks out at you through her rainbow eyeshadow and blue mascara and smiles with greed.

You go home, you wait, and you prepare, marshaling your resources so that you can survive the day.

Once Christmas arrives, you are pulled to the desk and presented with your costume, Santa's Elf. You put on the felt ears, your posture reflecting your resignation. The little hat jingles every time you take a step. You can feel your face flaming with humiliation.

As soon as you are free of the secretary, you run to find the resources you need, only to find that the costume drama has delayed you and every single mobile workstation that works has been taken and hidden by your foes.

Desperately, you search patient bathrooms and storage closets, until you find #8! Crowing with exultation, you remove the sticky note, planning to claim that you thought the note was by Jessica from night shift. You lock the screen with your log-in, rendering it useless to any passerby.

Delayed and desperate, you begin the hunt for flushes, skin prep, and chlora-prep. You count your pens carefully, hoping they will last the day. You manage to elbow one of the younger nurses aside and grab enough secondary lines to cover you for the shift, along with, (gasp!) two Kangaroo bags! Success!

As you run down the hallway to hide in your first patient's room, you see day shift Jessica, standing forlornly by the water fountain, a new bruise forming on her cheek and an unidentifiable stain on her scrubs. Apparently, she lost the toss to put Dementia Dan on the bedpan.

Stricken by guilt over #8 and deviled by the last shreds of human compassion you have, you lead her to the break room and order a set of scrubs from OR. You give up one piece of your precious chocolate stash, and she rewards you with a teary smile.

Once Jessica is settled, you see Peter coming down the hall. You are elated. An ally, at last!

The two of you have each other's backs all day as you battle through the med passes, the phone calls, and MD rounds. Peter hangs your cipro in room 5018 as you rush your patient down to CT. You see Peter wilting around 3pm and steer him into the break room, plying him with water and graham crackers until he is revived.

It is five o'clock and you hear the Sound. The dreaded cacophony of bed alarms. The sweet little old ladies and gentlemen, who have been so appreciative and cooperative all day, have been transformed into the monstrous Sundowners. Each of them mutate and begin kicking, screaming, and jumping out of bed. You hear the weak cries of the debilitated, "help me, help me, help me," repeated over and over.

You and Peter run up and down the hall, dodging punches and flying emesis basins. You carefully restrain each Sundowner, suffering bites and bruises. Eventually, you emerge victorious and the hall is quiet.

Finally, the shift is over.

You and Peter stand together at the time clock, panting, waiting the last two minutes for 1923 so you can punch out.

Suddenly, the intercom blares to life. "All nurses to the desk, please. All nurses to the desk."

You know something is wrong.

The two of you stagger to the desk. You are the only ones who show up, the last two to have survived the day. The secretary pretends not to be paying attention and a CNA lurks in the documentation room, hoping for juicy gossip.

The grizzled nursing supervisor stares at you with beady eyes and announces, "There have been two call outs. I need one of you to stay."

You look at each other, dread in your eyes. You know you can't face going on. You know Peter is at the end of his rope. You know what you have to do.

"Sir, I'm having palpitations, and my chest is killing me. I need Peter to take me down to the ER."

The supe narrows his eyes, but can't call your bluff. Chest pain is serious. He knows he will have generalized mutiny on his hands if he doesn't go along.

Peter plays his part, putting an arm around your waist and supporting you until you have reached the employee elevators.

You can't believe you made it! Victorious, you do your boogie dance in the elevator and Peter gives you a high-five, then straightens your elf ears. You do a token run by the ER, claiming your symptoms have resolved and you're pretty sure it was a panic attack. Peter corroborates your story, listing a set of vitals and symptoms that is concerning, but not alarming.

You head out together, then go your separate ways in the parking lot. Once home, life goes back to normal, until the next round of The Holiday Games.

Fanficalicious!

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Fanficalicious!

Some people have amazing writing skills! It's nice to see the Nursing Hunger Games allowing it to flourish :)

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Making a stealth trip to CVICU to steal back monitor wires that were probably stolen from us in the first place when a kid transferred to their unit.

Fighting with the transporter when a kid who just came from ED wants to keep the toys that the ED gave him, even though they clearly are marked ED on them. Who can argue with a sad-eyed child, especially when a mean nurse is behind him?

The best way to speed up lengthy and chatty handoff reports is to tell off-going nurses that there are treats in the breakroom.

Each round of the clock holds its own challenges.

--At 8PM we get Colostomy Fell Off and Kid Fingerpainted With Contents and There are No More Colostomy Sets at Beside.

--Between 8 and 9PM it's, 1001 Bedtime Meds for Chronic Kids.

--Then at midnight you get Toddler Without Parents Who Won't Settle, NPO Infant, and I Think My Dad in Room 301 Is Going to Wake the Whole Unit With His Snoring.

--At 4AM you get Feeding Bags Running Dry alarms all over the place.

--At 5AM you get Multiple Medical Students Taking Turns Asking You the Same Questions About Your Patients.

--At 6:30 Am you get Simultaneous Bed Blowouts, and Totally Out of Chux, Sheets, Washcloths, and Gowns.

And hopefully there really are some donuts in the break room at the end of handoff.

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Specializes in critical care.

I win! I win! I win!!!! Low census!!!!! I've been spared!

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Fanficalicious!

Nah, real​ fanfiction is much, much creepier.

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Nursing school version!

The children of the colleges rested poorly the night before the dreaded TEAS. Who would be the 'winners' of the three hour lottery to come. At the end of the day, there would be sobbing and crying. The tributes would soon be off to the capital where they would train extensively before being sent off to the Clinical. Everyone would be watching them. Some would crack before the first day. Some would be sent off alone for their transgressions. No one would win. Some would even fall at the last minute the game masters whipped out their evil mastermind, NCLEX. The only hope would be to survive long enough to become a Victor and RN. Still it seems like a hollow victory, teaching new tributes and sending them to their deaths.

Nursing school really isn't that bad, but this thread is fun.

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...and the Victors always seem to be a little shell-shocked in the end, like those Walking Dead emerging from the Pearson Vue test centers!

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Nah, real​ fanfiction is much, much creepier.

...says the guy dressed as MRS. DOUBTFIRE.

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