Uh...about the Haldol

First, a story, which sets the stage for the second paragraph. Earlier today I was walking down 16^th street mall towards Walgreens to pick up some pills for C. As I crossed an intersection, I noticed a young boy walking by himself and seemingly unaware of the bus coming towards him. Oblivious to it all was his father, who was walking five feet ahead. Quietly, I walked over and placed my hand on his shoulder to guide him back towards the sidewalk. Within seconds, his father looked back, walked over to the kid, grabbed him by the arm so hard so as to knock the kid's cup from his hand, and proceeded to whack the little guy (in front of a cop, no less), all the while screaming at him for not paying attention. Speaking of attention, how about holding the kids hand next time, smart guy? He is, after all, four. Emily and I had a chat about the merits of spanking, and how one differentiates spanking from hitting. How does a cop differentiate the two, for that matter? And how did we as a society get to a place where we could reasonably justify hitting a child, as if the location of the blow really makes a difference? Fear is fear, and to resort to hitting is more a reflection of a parent’s own anger, loss of control, and inability to set boundaries and establish consequences than an effective method of learning. Just ask Super Nanny. Fast forward to this evening.

It’s Friday, and that means another Chartwell delivery. Ever the diligent helpers, Emily and I proceeded to unpack the two large boxes of meds/TPN and transfer the contents to the fridge. Noticing that some of C’s leftover meds had expired, I suggested to Emily that we discharge the contents into the sink. So discharge we did, and at record speed. At one point, I grabbed two syringes for a tag-team squirt. Then I saw the “mixed at” date. Rut-ro. Some were legitimately expired, so good riddance, but others were, uh, mixed today, and therefore, good to go. In the course of five minutes, we managed to discharge all of Craig’s Haldol, minus two syringes. Thankfully, we have enough Zofran to last us until March, but the Haldol, not so much. I called Chartwell’s after-hours pharmacist and explained the situation that we were a tad overzealous with our squirting and managed to flush C’s new batch of drugs. They know me by now (for other reasons), and bought the story without issue; they’ll send a new batch tomorrow. Whoopsy. I told Emily that at least we don’t have to worry about someone grabbing our arms and whacking our backsides. Then again, adults like to resort to dramatic sighs and huffy accusations of inadequacy, which can be just as traumatizing. We felt bad enough without the eyes and sighs of blame. As for blame, what does a girl have to do to get some clear language on the packaging, for Pete's sake? Sheesh. I can see Erin all puffed up and proud, saying something about this being yet another human factors error. I'd say. -- J