Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Gods of “Ain’t Nobody Got Time for This,”

Let me tell you about my weekend. Picture it: I’m minding my own business, living that solitary confinement nurse life (you know, where the only thing shorter than my patience is the inmate’s actual free time), when I get called over because one of my patients says he’s feeling “short of breath.” Oh, really now? I love when they self-diagnose. It’s always so dramatic, like they’re auditioning for an Oscar.

I go to assess this “shortness of breath,” and guess what? Zero—yes, zero—symptoms. No wheezing, no coughing, no gasping for air. Just a perfectly fine man playing the part of a wheezy Victorian child. But because I’m a professional (and I did at least minor in Sherlock Holmes in nursing school), I checked his chart. Lo and behold, the guy actually has asthma. Fair enough.

So what does that mean for me? It means I have to haul my happy butt all the way to the infirmary, which is about the same distance as a pilgrimage. I swear, by the time I get back with his inhalers and nasal spray, I’ve basically qualified for a marathon.

I get to his cell, and this guy has the nerve to tell me that he thinks he got sick because he was walking while on the phone. You know, just casually walking and talking, a medical phenomenon that apparently only affects people in prison. I gave him nothing. No reaction. Just the dead-eyed, I-haven’t-had-enough-coffee-for-this look.

Standing there with the corrections sergeant (who, bless him, is as done with this situation as I am), I ask, “Which inhaler do you want?” No sarcasm, no tone—just business. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in corrections nursing, it’s that the best way to win the game is not to play at all. And this dude’s game? Weak.

He takes one of the inhalers, gives it a couple of puffs, and hands it back like we’re at some kind of asthmatic drive-thru. But oh, he’s not done. Nope, he’s still feeling “congested.” Apparently, he caught the common cold of talking on the phone, and this is where he’s hoping to pull us into his web of melodrama.

Without missing a beat, I smile and say, “No worries. I brought nasal spray for you.” The look of defeat on his face was nothing short of glorious. It was like he realized, in that moment, that I wasn’t here to play his game—I was here to win. He took the nasal spray, gave himself a couple of snorts, and handed it back, visibly deflated. And honestly? It brought me so much joy. I may have been smirking. I won’t confirm or deny it.

I told him to keep an eye on actual symptoms of shortness of breath (because apparently, he needs a refresher on what that actually means) and suggested he lay down and try to sleep it off. The next morning, I checked on him, and—surprise, surprise—he’s feeling so much better. A real miracle. Yay for modern medicine.

Moral of the story: If you’re going to try to get attention with a fake illness, at least commit. And remember, I’ll always have nasal spray in my back pocket, ready to ruin your day.

Love,
Your Ready-for-the-Next-Ridiculous-Complaint Nurse