The RN II: In My Defense

By RJ Austin

What feels like the end is often the beginning. What if the man you killed was more than just a common thug? Read as Jacob Morales, from The RN, fights his inner demons and for his life in jail. Jacobs troubled past continues to reek havoc on his present and threatens to interfere with his future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483561653

Book preview

Ride

Preface

So you’re back? All 33 of you. Thank you guys for reading part one of my bi-ology collection. And to my mom, thanks for buying 30 of them, even if the only reason you bought that many was because you couldn’t figure out how to download it to your iPhone so you just kept hitting the purchase button. My fault though, everybody knows old people can't be trusted with modern day technology. And to the one of the other three remaining, I apologize that a certain online retailer would not let you return your book for a full refund. I would like to give you the refund myself, but I lost my ass in a bad advertisement investment for my first book, The RN. Who knew, The RN, signature designer Foley catheter bags would be a fail? Replacing the clear plastic with a nice red designer plastic cover that made the bag look like it was filled with bloody urine. That, and the fact that I personally signed all 100,000 units myself, making the whole kit unusable. Fuck my life.

I’m really happy my first book didn’t scare you all away, maybe just the ones that have their heads stuck up their own asses. I lost and gained a lot of good friends after that masterpiece came out. So many touchy people. It’s like I can’t say a bad thing about the nursing profession without someone telling me to quit. Well fuck them. It’s a fiction book.

I would like to address one issue with my fellow nurse gang, nurse brothers and nurse sisters though (shout out). There’s a flood of young nurses coming into the field that have chosen this profession based on income alone. You’re stupid. Yes, I said it. I won’t sugar coat it. You have to have some sort of compassion to do this job. While I may seem burned out for the stuff I write, I still every day, give one hundred and twenty percent to my patients. There is no half-assing this job for me. Hands down, pound for pound, I’m probably one of the strongest RN’s in the country. So please, if the money is all you’re after and you still insist on being an RN, join the IV team, work for an insurance company, become a charge nurse or case manager so you don’t have anything to do with primary care.

I’ve often heard you should write about what you know. In that case, I have no right to really write about much; but there is one thing I’ve come to know about all too well, karma. And karma, my friends, is a real-life bitch. It pokes its ugly head out at you when you least expect it. For so long I’ve turned out to be my own worst enemy. My karma’s been sitting pretty, just waiting to get me. And she did.

Along this book I’ve laid out the sound track to my life. I highly suggest when you come along a band or song title you stop reading and look it up on your smart phones and then read along with it. It will give more of a feel of what I was going through at that very moment in my life. The emotions I was having.

Now that I have your divided attention please allow me to begin. I feel like with a fan base this small I can be more intimate with each of my readers. It feels more personal to have such a tiny following. Like a remedial class. Like riding the short bus to school and I’m one of the passengers and my readers are the drivers.

Allow my second literary offering to cleanse your confused minds–a kind of mental disimpaction. I know that my first masterpiece left many questions about Jacob that need to be answered. Like, why is he like he is? At what point did he snap? Why do you want to love him but feel like you shouldn’t? How can I have sex with RJ Austin? So please let me debride the gaping wound that is your head and pack you with peace and GCP twice daily. Grab your favorite alcoholic beverage; pop yourself an anti-anxiety pill; put on your favorite jammies; and sit on the couch in front of the fireplace. Allow yourself 30 minutes for the medicine to take its full affect before you begin reading.

Now if you're ready, let’s take a deep breath together and begin.

Intro - Love knocks

Thirteen, Tyrone says is his pain number as he laughs at what's on his television; even after I specifically asked him on a scale of zero to ten. This is why, from now on, I'm only using the face card for all my patients. Either that or the undisputable non-verbal pain scale. That zero to ten shit is a fucking joke. And yes, I know they taught us that the patient’s pain is whatever the patient tells us it is, in school; but fuck that. You can’t be a ten, eat ice cream, and drink 20 Shasta’s. A lot of the shit we learned in school needs to be rethought and even removed.

Tyrone is one of my patients today. He's a 48 year old homeless male, that doesn't look a day over 65, with cellulitis on his antecubital that he claims started off as a mosquito bite. He's obviously lying though. The wear and tear on his body says otherwise. He's been rode hard and put away wet. He was found in his home in St. Petersburg's Tent City unresponsive. The person that found him called the police and told them there was a dead body in a tent based off the smell alone. But he was alive and is now my patient. His UDS more positive than one of Joel Osteen's Sunday morning sermons.

I think you have the pain scale in reverse, I explain to him, but all he cares about is giving me a score that's high enough to get him something intravenously. Oral doesn't work in hospitals. Ever.

But I'm in no position to judge. I'm so high right now that my pupils are on pin point. It feels like i'm looking through a fish eye lens with a red filter. I'm numb right now and this is how I want to be.

Does he know how fucked up I am right now? I'm floating in air. I think to myself. Can he smell the marijuana on my breath? I hope I rinsed my mouth out good enough. Florence Nightingale would shit herself if she knew I just used an Incentive spirometer as a bong. I held the yellow dial between the two arrows until my lungs couldn't take it anymore and the bulb hit the very top. That and the fact that my lighter burned the hell out of my thumb. My lungs fully expanded on the inhale, fuck you pneumonia I said on the exhale.

You can't tell me what my own pain level is, Tyrone tells me because he knows the system better than I do.

I think you're lying to me, I reply with a smirk on my face. Regardless I have two things here for you. I have Lovenox and I have your pain medicine.

Lovenox is an anticoagulant that, just like insurance (of any kind), is a scam that only makes old fat white men rich beyond my wildest dreams. See also EGD diagnosis: gastritis.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out and look at it. It’s my IG. Richard8g7 just posted something. He’s an ER nurse, but I don’t hold that against him. We all got to start somewhere. He’s my Los Angeles connection. I put my phone back in my pocket.

Thanks man, but I'm not lying, Tyrone says with his smokers voice.

I brought him the Lovenox with his pain meds because this asshole would refuse this subcutaneous injection if it was by itself otherwise. But because it comes with his pain meds he somehow feels obligated to take it so he doesn't look like he's completely bullshitting me about being really deathly ill right now.

This is why I'm a bad ass nurse. I use my brain. Kind of like Spider-Man, but I got bit by a woman (don't ask, it's a long story) so now my critical thinking skills are at an all time high. Only coming out during pointless arguments of course.

Here, I'll prove it to you, I say. Let me see your wrist.

For what? he asks.

It's a test, I answer. I'm gonna feel your pulse and at the same time ask you a series of questions. I'll start off with some questions we both know are true. Just so I can get a baseline, you know? I explain.

Come on man, are you fucking with me?

Not at all, it's legit. They taught us this in nursing school, I say with the room spinning and beads of sweat building on my forehead. But if you're lying to me I'll be able to tell because your pulse will increase. He hands me his wrist. He's got a nice strong radial pulse. Okay good, let's begin. Is your name Tyrone?

Yeah man, he answers.

Good, I reply. Are we in Tampa?

Yes, he answers.

Excellent. Are you in the hospital? I ask with a grin.

Come on dawg. This is stupid. Just give me my fucking pain medicine, Tyrone says with increasing agitation.

I'm almost done. Just answer the question. Are you in the hospital right now?

Yes! he yells.

Good. Good job so far, I explain.

That’s it Jacob! I’m not answering anymore questions. Just give me my medicine and stop trying to be funny.

Okay okay. I just have one more question. Have you ever dreamt about chocolate pudding and woke up with a spoon in your ass? Tyrone snatches his wrist out of my hand.

What the fuck kind of question is that? I could report you for that stupid shit.

Sorry. I'm just messing with you. There's no way I would be able to tell if you were lying by doing that, I say laughing. That last question though, had his pulse clocking in at about 100 beats per minute and rising. Sick bastard was lying about the spoon.

Fuck man. You had me going, Tyrone says as he starts to laugh a little. You're a crazy motherfucker.

I laugh a little more. Okay, sorry about that. Here's your pain medicine, I say.

Tyrone Justice 7 14 68, he says not missing a beat and handing me his arm with the IV in it.

Right on the money, I reply looking up at the MAR on my WOW. But I can't seem to focus long enough to locate his date of birth or name on my computer screen right now so I'll just have to take his word for it.

I'll do your pain med first. I draw up the Dilawda, no dilution, and take out one of the 200 alcohol swabs I have stuffed in my pockets. I turn to Tyrone who has already selected the port he wants me to use; which just happens to be the closest one to his IV site.

Use this one, he tells me.

I got you boo, I reply.

Tyrone wrinkles his forehead. Can you flush it afterwards?

Of course I can, I have the chaser right here, I answer him showing him a 10cc flush. His forehead flattens out. He's happy now. I scrub the hub and push the 2mg's over 5 seconds and then flush the line equally as fast with the saline. Tyrone lays his head back on his pillow. He's high.

That was a good push, he mumbles to me. I love the rush.

Yeah I know, I reply. Okay, now I gotta see your stomach. I have to give you your shot.

Tyrone picks his head back up and looks at me beady eyed. Ugh, what a buzz kill, he grunts back, lifts his gown exposing his large abdomen, lays his head back down and closes his eyes. Here. I can't look.

I bend over him and pinch his fat between my thumb and index finger. This won't hurt a bit, I tell him.

Fuck me. I can barely see straight and everything is blurry. I jab the needle right into the back of my hand. I flinch but don't make a sound. I look down and I just shot myself but I can't let Tyrone know that. I push down on the plunger and give myself a dose. Please dear god, let my platelet count be normal. I don't remove the needle. I stand up straight, turn around quickly and move to the sink.

There, I'm done, I say as I pull the needle out, take my gloves off and turn the water on.

That didn't hurt a bit, Tyrone tells me looking at his stomach as I rinse my hand under the warm water. The sanguinous fluid turns pink once it meets the water and then swirls down the drain.

I told you it wouldn't.

I can't even tell where you stuck me and those things usually hurt, he says looking for the puncture mark. From now on I'm going to have you give me my shots. Those other nurses don't know what they're doing.

I grab a paper towel off the dispenser and put pressure on the top of my hand to stop the bleeding. I turn around and look at Tyrone. I know right? It's almost like I never gave you the shot.

I hold the Lovenox syringe eye level trying to focus on the needle. There's a single drop hanging on for dear life at the bevel. I stare at the needle and press firmly down on the yellow plunger, releasing the safety cover. The quick sound always surprises me. Click!

Chapter One: Solid Steel

Click! Click! I hear the sound of the cold solid steel jail door closing and locking behind me. Cattle Decapitation’s Your Disposal plays in my head as I look over my right shoulder for further instruction. The yellow paint flakes off in small uneven sections, exposing the silver and rusted parts of the over used door like a puzzle missing several pieces. The smell of the old mop water that was used to clean the floor earlier invades my sense of smell. The least they could do is change the water every now and then.

Turn around, Jacob, the guard says sternly. Bring your hands over here, asshole.

I don’t answer, but I was thinking a simple go fuck yourself was in order.

I put my hands up to the 10- by 20-inch rectangular trap door and the douche bag guard unlocks my handcuffs. I turn around and massage the indentation that the handcuffs have left on my wrists. I rub my left wrist with my right hand and alternate because the fucking handcuffs were on so tight. The guard had to prove he was in charge of me and made them extra snug. In his defense, it’s easy to be a bad ass when the other person is in hand cuffs. On the outside I would have given him the nurse’s dose of Dilawda and a Benadryl just for being an asshole.

The nurse’s dose is a little extra of whatever the doctor ordered to keep the patient from being a complete cocksucker to me or anyone else he or she may have in their crosshairs. So let’s just say you’re my patient and you’re being an asshole to me and the doctor has 0.5mg of Dilawda ordered for you. The vial holds 2mg so I’m actually going to give you 1 to 2 mg from that vial, depending on the severity of your assholeness. I’ll also go through your MAR and see what colorful array of sedatives and narcotics I can come up with to keep you off my ass for 12 hours. I’ll let you slobber all over yourself until my shift is over and then Narcan you back to life before I leave.

What many people fail to realize is that, no matter who you are, rich or poor, white or black, at one point or another you will end up laying on a hospital bed. You just have to be careful of who’s on the other end of that syringe.

Take off all your clothes and give them to me, the guard demands.

I get completely undressed.

Turn around, spread your cheeks and cough.

I turn around and spread my ass. Ughh! I stand back up.

What gang are you from? the guard asks me.

None sir, I answer.

Come on. You have Texas on your back, the Dallas Cowboy Stars on your chest and brown pride tattooed on your stomach. That’s all gang shit isn’t it? Here put these on. The guard hands me orange scrubs that are two sizes too big.

It’s from when I lived in Texas sir. I’m not in a gang. I live here in Tampa.

Sure. I got my eyes on you boy, the guard adds.

I never thought I’d end up in these kind of handcuffs again. The real kind. Just a week ago Reyna was using pink fluffy handcuffs to restrain me to the head board of my bed while she did incredibly nasty things to me. Not exactly the same thing, but whatever. I’m going to have plenty of time to reminisce now that I’m in county jail. Road head, one of my personal favorites and Reyna was incredible at it. Fucking on the interstate all the way home after partying in St. Pete. Damn! I think my eyes are actually watering just thinking about the good times. These memories may be the only thing that’s going to keep me half way sane during my unforeseen stay here though.

The small trap door closes and the sound of the key turning, locking it, echoes in my bedroom, slash living room, slash bathroom, slash kitchen, slash family room. I 360 the room and look at my new 6- by 8-foot home. No windows. Who needs natural light? I’ve worked night shift. My new room as cold and non-luxurious as a semi private hospital room. No perks. But, you know I’ve always been an optimist, so lets just call this my studio apartment…without a view.

A stainless steel sink, slash shitter, slash washer combo is anchored to the floor and wall to my right. My vanity is composed of one 6-inch steel shelf and an aluminum mirror that only reflects a blurred image of myself. Strangely enough, that’s all I’ve ever seen of myself, even with a real mirror. I pat my hair forward with my right hand while trying to digest how fucked I really am right now. The walls are made of flat canary yellow-painted cinder blocks. Not my first choice in color, but I guess I have no room to complain.

I look at myself and realize I’ve just traded my black Wink scrubs in for a county