My Fuckin’ Parents

by

in

About 4:00 in the morning, the paramedics brought in a twenty-six-year-old man who had been beaten by bouncers who kicked him out of a bar where he had apparently caused a commotion. Police, called to the scene, may have also added to his injuries when he became combative with them.

He was a thin man who was very drunk and uncooperative. He had clearly been beaten about the face, which was swollen, discolored and scratched. He had bruises and scratches on his shoulders, back, arms and legs. He refused all efforts to calm him down. He was uncooperative as we tried to convince him to let us evaluate him to make sure he had no serious injuries. No matter what was said to him, he would strike out at the questioner and say something like, “F— you!” Almost every sentence or proclamation included the “F” word.

Since he was not competent to refuse care, I could not just let him leave as he asked to do. At this point, I had to make a decision. If there was little likelihood of a life threatening injury, we could restrain and/or sedate him until he sobered up. However, if his injuries might be life threatening, then I would need to do more to diagnose and treat him. Since this patient was so uncooperative, I would have to use more aggressive means to control him so he could be x-rayed and scanned.

I decided to just keep an eye on him. I asked the patient if he had anyone sober who could come and take him home. He said he did. I asked him who. He said, “My fuckin’ parents!”

“Your what?” I asked. He repeated his disrespectful answer. Then, he sat up, looked me in the face and went off on me personally. He started by telling me he could tell I was a “fag.” He pointed out my blue eyes (I actually have green eyes) and my ponytail as evidence that I was “a queer.” He then said, using most offensive words, that he could tell that all I really wanted was to have sex with another man but had never been able to do so. “I can tell just by looking at you!”

I walked away from him so he didn’t have me as a target for his nastiness but it was not helpful. He talked with everyone the same way. He said foul, hurtful and untrue things about Hispanics, blacks, women, everyone. He was taken out of the trauma room, placed in a regular room and was assigned someone to sit and keep an eye on him.

A while later, I started to wonder if I had made the correct decision about just letting him sober up. Rather than relaxing and falling asleep, as most drunks usually do, he just got more obnoxious. He refused to stay in bed and he actually became more violent. While standing in his boxers at the bedside, he screamed that everyone there had touched his private parts and molested him. He said he was leaving. Four security guards and a sheriff deputy stood in the hall outside his door. They asked me what they should do about him.

The patient was still way too drunk and injured to be allowed to leave. Yet, my impression remained unchanged that he could safely be observed until he was sober. I told the officers to put the patient in four point leather restraints and then stay out of his sight so he was not tempted to insult anyone.

A while later, I was informed that his parents had arrived. I went in the room, wondering what I would find. They told me he had no medical problems and confirmed that he was an alcoholic and had been through rehab several times. As we talked, the patient would interrupt, repeating his accusations about having been sexually molested while under our care.

“Oh, shut up!” his father scolded.

I explained that their son was being held, against his will, because he was injured and too drunk to be safely discharged alone. I told the parents they could take him home if they were willing to take responsibility for him. Otherwise, our plan was to keep him until he cooperated with the scanning and x-rays and was sober enough to be sent out alone.

The parents didn’t even need to discuss the situation. They declined to take responsibility for him and went home.

The patient finally fell asleep. He woke up a couple of hours later and was much more pleasant. Now, it was “Yes, sir” and “No, thank you.” He agreed to x-rays, which, fortunately, didn’t show anything broken.

When it was time for him to be discharged, he wanted to know where his wallet and cell phone were. No one had seen either of these items when he came in and we were unable to find them. As I was giving him his final discharge instructions, I was very careful to not say anything judgmental. However, when he accused us of stealing his belongings, I pointed out that, perhaps, he had some responsibility in keeping track of his items.

As he turned and walked out, he said, “You are a douche bag and I hope you die today.”

 

 


Comments

One response to “My Fuckin’ Parents”

  1. I wonder when he will grow up.

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