Dear Poison Control,
I love you guys, I really do. You provide an invaluable resource. Many are the times I have called you to identify unknown pills, find out toxicity levels, expected side effects, suggested therapies and the like. You’ve never let me down, and you have always been unfailingly polite and courteous.
You even have a sense of humor, like the time I called to find out the effects of swallowing a quart of Downy fabric softener, and your guy said, “Nothing much, but her poop should be April fresh for a few days.”
I don’t care who ya are, that’s funny right there.
But even though I love you, Poison Control, this damned activated charcoal fetish of yours has got to stop. Seriously.
I realize you must have posters taped to the wall that say, “Charcoal: It’s what’s for dinner!”, but honestly, sometimes your recommendations make absolutely no fucking sense.
Never mind the fact that you routinely recommend charcoal lavage even for borderline toxicity, well over an hour after the ingestion, when charcoal does abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
Never mind that there is no statistical difference in mortality between overdose patients who did get charcoal and those who didn’t.
Never mind that I can manage that benzo overdose with some fluids, supplemental oxygen and an occasional sternal rub to remind them to breathe, far easier than I can insert a nasogastric tube, operate the damned lavage syringes, and dodge the puke that I just know is forthcoming.
This ain’t my first rodeo, Poison Control. I’ve been around. You and I both know that 95% of the shit we do to overdose patients in the ER is punitive, not therapeutic.
So when I call you about my 14-month-old poisoning patient, don’t you sit there at your sterile little keyboard and tell me that the only expected side effects are nausea and vomiting…
…and then suggest that I give him activated charcoal, which will invariably cause just that.
Assclown.
To make matters worse, my doctor is a sheep, Poison Control. He’s going to do whatever you suggest, no matter that he has extensive medical training and years of clinical experience under his belt, and the closest you’ve come to seeing a real live patient is watching reruns of Trauma: Life in the ER.
He’s going to do whatever you say, because he’s Mister Defensive Medicine, and he doesn’t want to buck Poison Control, no matter how ludicrous the suggestion.
And when you tell me that a 14-month-old baby is going to willingly drink activated charcoal just because it’s mixed in chocolate milk, I really wish you’d start by saying, “A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar…”
You know, just so I’ll know that you realize what a fucking joke that suggestion is, too.
In closing, just know that I still love and care for you, and I treasure our relationship. But if I have one more day like today, I’m coming up there.
I’m going to drag you away from your computer screen, hold you down, and ram chocolate-dipped charcoal briquets up your ass until they pop out of your mouth, all while maniacally screaming, “Do they taste yummy now, beeyotch?”
Love and Kisses,
Ambulance Driver
