E.R.Doc Says METH-HEADS Are To Blame For Drug-Resistant, "Super Bug" (MRSA) Staph Proliferation
As you all know, I fell in the shower and split my elbow open at my home in Sleepy Southern Hometown at the end of the summer. Oh, and it had to be on a Friday night. When I collected my dignity and my keys, I ended up in a tiny, but serviceable emergency room in the picturesque mountain town, surrounded by some interesting faces.
There was the too-young-to-be morbidly obese woman who, along with her oxygen tank and equally obese extended family, took up most of the small waiting room. There was a young, fit man with an exaggerated "headache" who was clearly shopping for some strong medicine. Don't get me started about the mouth-breathers only there for a $62 Tylenol. And then there was the Meth-head.
Filthy, emaciated, bleeding, and thankfully, handcuffed, this strung-out piece of garbage was talkative beyond his current apparent physical capability. And stiiiiink? My Handsome Escort remarked, "He could knock a buzzard off a sh*t wagon". Indeed.
I cowered in the corner tending my wound, sheltered by Handsome Escort's broad body against the stench radiating from the sideshow in the chair nearest the nurse. When they finally called my name, I went the long way around to avoid the agitated addict and was met by an exhausted doctor only moments older than myself.
He warmed considerably when he realized that I was a Marine's wife who would have preferred to stitch her own arm could she have but reached her elbow. I assured him that I would not have the same trouble undoing his handiwork. After an anecdote about dating a veterinary student who neutered a stray on my kitchen table during a few rounds of Cuervo Gold, the conversation turned to why I had such a strong urge to embroider myself.
"Because of the staph colony crawling all over this gurney and every nook of this fine medical establishment.", I said frankly.
He chuckled at my candor but his face turned grim as he related a sad statistic. The cases of anti-biotic resistant staph in this rural hospital had positively exploded on the heels of the Meth-amphetamine boom in the hills just out the window. Two hundred and sixteen cases in the last year alone. The details he shared with me of the sad state of our politically correct medical system left me deeply afraid. I glared at the writhing scumbag who had by now been strapped to a bed too nearby.
As the doctor began to clean up the suture kit, he paused thoughtfully, then bundled the metal tools back into their crumpled container. We just throw them out now anyway, he assured no one in particular. He discreetly pressed them into my hand with a thanks for HH's service and wished me luck on my next surgical procedure. "And Jose is not alowed to scrub in."
