My first indication that things might not go so well, given to me in black and white within a few minutes of walking in the door, was her blood alcohol level. It was .323. That's high, in case you didn't know.
Actually, some drunks are kinda fun. You know the ones: they're amorous and amusing and likely to break out in song and dance. They'll put lampshades on their heads. They get all philosophical and want to discuss Marxism, Pink Floyd during the Sid Barrett years, and the cultural significance of Cyndi Lauper and the Budweiser Frogs. And oftentimes they're chatty--which works quite well for me.
And some of them are just plain mean.
I'll give you one guess as to which category this little charmer fell into.
It doesn't bode for happy times ahead when someone tells you, in no uncertain terms, using quite colorful language, what you can do with yourself within 40 seconds of sitting down to fix them.
I then tried to give her my script (ask a lot of questions, some may seem personal, method to my madness, blah, blah, blah....)
She insisted on smoking first.
Which is fine, except hello? Hospital room. Hell, hospital period. Most hospitals now have rules that state people can't smoke on the grounds. Which, in essence, means that in order for someone to smoke without breaking any rules, at least four wheels and a shiny metal box is required to get said person from point A to point B and back again in a reasonable amount of time.
As it was 2:00 a.m., I wasn't willing to wait.
Let me amend that: I might have been much more inclined to wait if she had utilized the whole "catch more flies with honey" approach.
Instead of, you know, flipping me off.
So I tried the compromise route: Answer my questions, then I'll ask your nurse about smoking (making no guarantees that she would actually be able to because it's not my decision. I know better than to take that power away from the nurses. Please. I need them as my ally, and they can make your life most unpleasant if you're not).
She wasn't biting. Well, she WAS. She was biting my head off and cussing me out, but she wasn't taking my "I'll let you smoke later" bait.
And she dug in her heels.
So I did too. (Herein lies the "stupid" part.)
It was a long ten minutes.
I tried to get some questions in through the back door. I tried to redirect. I tried to ignore the language. I never raised my voice. But I could only get so far, and frankly, I can only take so much. When she threw the F bomb specifically my way for the third time (as opposed to just using it as adjectives and nouns in general conversation), coupled with some hand gestures I'm sure you can well imagine, I came up with this elegant and highly professional prose:
Me: You need to calm down. I'll come back in ten minutes
I might have even allowed the door to slam behind me on my way out.
Brilliant.
In reality, it was ME who needed to calm down as I was fuming (I had to walk outside to get some air.) In reality, I was the professional in the situation and should have been able to keep my feelings in check. In reality, blaming her for the power struggle was wholly unfair, as I'm the one who allowed it to continue.
It was just a cigarette, for crying out loud. ->