Sometimes there are people who I just can't find. Sometimes they just don't want to be found. Sometimes they don't know they're lost. Sometimes they're dead (and then I certainly hope they know where they are). Anyway, being lost is a relative concept, after all.
Today I saw that a patient I've been looking for over a 18-month period was actually in the hospital. Based on his history---alcohol abuse, uncontrolled diabetes, end stage liver disease, and intermittent homelessness---I figured we might just find him "in house" some day, or hear that he was dead. Luckily, he checked himself into the ER last week, inebriated beyond mentation, his ability to identify himself precluded by the alcohol coursing through his blood. Admitted as "John Doe", he eventually revealed his identity, and although he could not state the name of the hospital, his address, the date, day or year, he was eventually able to state the year of his birth. Thank God for small favors. This piece of information led to his "John Doe" bracelet being removed and our peripatetic patient labeled as no one but his own true self. Hallelujah.
Enter the Outpatient Nurse Care Manager, alerted to the presence of said patient on today's in-patient roster, diligently dashing to the Neurological floor of the hospital to make some semblance of a connection with the lost lamb. Although said lamb did not seem to completely understand the purpose of this writer's visit, he was able to produce a crumpled piece of paper with what turned out to be an accurate telephone number for his brother, who thankfully answered his phone and agreed to drag his infirm brother for a visit at the clinic in a few days, following discharge later today from the hospital/hotel.
What struck me at the time of my visit was this patient's similarity to a past patient who I once described. This gentleman had ignored the needs of his diabetic and diseased body, choosing to drug and drink and abuse himself beyond a level that could be imagined to actually support life. One day, despite dire warnings that a disaster was imminent if he didn't change his ways, this unfortunate gentleman began to vomit so uncontrollably and for so long that he eventually blew apart his esophagus, gastric contents pouring into his (previously sterile) abdominal cavity. Miraculously, he survived, and is now institutionalized, and will perhaps be the recipient of an artificial esophagus some day with any luck, but his battered body will never fully recover from the insults visited upon it. His response to us after he awoke from a weeks-long stupor: "I wish I had listened to you sooner." This is regret of the saddest kind. And we wonder if we could have done more to convince him.
So, here we are, faced with yet another train-wreck of a patient, taking his body to the edge, taunting death and disability with a uncaring sneer, all of that alcohol pouring over a diseased body like gasoline on a fire. Can I convince him to change his ways and avoid a fate even worse than death? The odds are slim, but we'll try.
Does he truly conjure the ghosts of patients past? Oh yes, but in many ways his own inner ghost is just waiting with baited breath for the opportunity to leap from its mortal vessel and cavort among the other ghosts haunting this city of ours. And if he's dead set on releasing his ghost, then there may only be so much I can do to deter his trajectory from this overpopulated path of self-destruction. Unfortunately, he has a great deal of willing company on this sad and nihilistic journey, and the influence of his compatriots may completely overpower any dent I could ever make in the armor of addiction.
Ghosts, armor, disease, destruction---just par for the course on a very average day. God/dess help us all.
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