Don’t cut my pants! I hid it up my ass! I’m gonna pull it out later and I will fuck you up. I swear on my dead mother that I’ll do it.”
“Chuck, we need to five and four this guy,” I say, meaning 5 mg of Haldol and 4 mg of Ativan. Two fairly large doses, but I’m guessing that’s what we’ll need to put him down. It takes every staff member we have, all the NYPD cops and all the hospital police in the area to hold the patient down while Chuck injects the medication into his gluteus muscle. He could’ve just injected it into his arm, but I’m thinking,
Maybe he feels like playing hardball?
It’s his birthday, too, so I let it go.
The patient is boiling mad now. “I’m gonna fuck you up with that razor, just like you fucked me up with that needle. I’m gonna cut all o’ you … fuck you up good.”
“Sir, if you keep telling us you have a razor hidden inside you, we’re going to have to search you there as well,” I say, balancing sounding polite with seeming menacing.
“I’m gonna sue the hospital. You can’t Abner Louima me! My family’s gonna sue your asses,” he threatens.
I look to Chuck, who motions with his head toward the guy. “I guess you gotta check him, Doc.”
I’ve done rectal exams aplenty in medical school. If he needs to be checked, I certainly know how to do it. “Okay, you guys, anybody here do yoga? You know the plow position?” The cops look at me quizzically, and I explain what we’re going to do. “Flip his legs up over his head so I can get to his ass.”
The patient becomes silent and passive, for reasons I can’t begin toimagine, as we guide his legs, his pants around his ankles, up over his head. I put on a pair of gloves and opt to do without the Surgilube, which typically would help to lubricate a gloved finger into the rectum on a normal exam. I have no idea if there’s any lube in the CPEP, and I don’t have time to go hunting it down.
But it’s more than that. I’m surrounded by six tough guys, and I’m trying to act like one too, getting caught up in their game. I might as well be grabbing my crotch, swearing, spitting, and talking about sports. The posturing that men do, the armor that they wear … they do it to protect their hearts, and their balls. With their phallic guns, bullets, and missiles, they aim to be the penetrators, not the penetrated. Stupidly, I want to be like them. I slip into my butch mode so I can fit in.
As my finger pushes haltingly inside his warm body, it occurs to me that if he does have a razor up his ass, I could well get my finger sliced.
“No razor,” I tell Chuck, relieved. I turn to the cops and say flippantly, “He’s clean, so to speak.” I strip the glove off, flipping it inside out with a snap, and walk into the nurses’ station.
“He’s got no psych history, he doesn’t appear psychotic, and he’s not disorganized. We’ll put him on Hold and send him back to NYPD when he calms down a little,” I say to my imaginary audience as I grab his chart off the rack.
I am at home the next day when Lucy calls me. “Hey, Jules. You know that prisoner you put on Hold last night? Right after morning rounds, they found a razor on his stretcher by his head. He was sleeping, so they just tossed it, but he really could’ve cut somebody up.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I searched him, Lucy! He was telling everyone how he had a razor hidden up his ass. I personally stuck my finger up that guy’s butt. There was no razor.”
“Are you nuts? What did you do that for? Jesus, Julie, what if he did have a razor up his ass? You could’ve cut your finger to bits!”
I can’t explain it, of course. What came over me? Why stoop to his level? Why be so sadistic? But I expect Lucy, of all people, to understand me. Her immediate reaction lets me know that I’ve stepped over the line. I am shamed, and worst of all, he clearly did have a razor hidden somewhere, and I missed it. Where the hell was it?
“I don’t
“Chuck, we need to five and four this guy,” I say, meaning 5 mg of Haldol and 4 mg of Ativan. Two fairly large doses, but I’m guessing that’s what we’ll need to put him down. It takes every staff member we have, all the NYPD cops and all the hospital police in the area to hold the patient down while Chuck injects the medication into his gluteus muscle. He could’ve just injected it into his arm, but I’m thinking,
Maybe he feels like playing hardball?
It’s his birthday, too, so I let it go.
The patient is boiling mad now. “I’m gonna fuck you up with that razor, just like you fucked me up with that needle. I’m gonna cut all o’ you … fuck you up good.”
“Sir, if you keep telling us you have a razor hidden inside you, we’re going to have to search you there as well,” I say, balancing sounding polite with seeming menacing.
“I’m gonna sue the hospital. You can’t Abner Louima me! My family’s gonna sue your asses,” he threatens.
I look to Chuck, who motions with his head toward the guy. “I guess you gotta check him, Doc.”
I’ve done rectal exams aplenty in medical school. If he needs to be checked, I certainly know how to do it. “Okay, you guys, anybody here do yoga? You know the plow position?” The cops look at me quizzically, and I explain what we’re going to do. “Flip his legs up over his head so I can get to his ass.”
The patient becomes silent and passive, for reasons I can’t begin toimagine, as we guide his legs, his pants around his ankles, up over his head. I put on a pair of gloves and opt to do without the Surgilube, which typically would help to lubricate a gloved finger into the rectum on a normal exam. I have no idea if there’s any lube in the CPEP, and I don’t have time to go hunting it down.
But it’s more than that. I’m surrounded by six tough guys, and I’m trying to act like one too, getting caught up in their game. I might as well be grabbing my crotch, swearing, spitting, and talking about sports. The posturing that men do, the armor that they wear … they do it to protect their hearts, and their balls. With their phallic guns, bullets, and missiles, they aim to be the penetrators, not the penetrated. Stupidly, I want to be like them. I slip into my butch mode so I can fit in.
As my finger pushes haltingly inside his warm body, it occurs to me that if he does have a razor up his ass, I could well get my finger sliced.
“No razor,” I tell Chuck, relieved. I turn to the cops and say flippantly, “He’s clean, so to speak.” I strip the glove off, flipping it inside out with a snap, and walk into the nurses’ station.
“He’s got no psych history, he doesn’t appear psychotic, and he’s not disorganized. We’ll put him on Hold and send him back to NYPD when he calms down a little,” I say to my imaginary audience as I grab his chart off the rack.
I am at home the next day when Lucy calls me. “Hey, Jules. You know that prisoner you put on Hold last night? Right after morning rounds, they found a razor on his stretcher by his head. He was sleeping, so they just tossed it, but he really could’ve cut somebody up.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I searched him, Lucy! He was telling everyone how he had a razor hidden up his ass. I personally stuck my finger up that guy’s butt. There was no razor.”
“Are you nuts? What did you do that for? Jesus, Julie, what if he did have a razor up his ass? You could’ve cut your finger to bits!”
I can’t explain it, of course. What came over me? Why stoop to his level? Why be so sadistic? But I expect Lucy, of all people, to understand me. Her immediate reaction lets me know that I’ve stepped over the line. I am shamed, and worst of all, he clearly did have a razor hidden somewhere, and I missed it. Where the hell was it?
“I don’t
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