Potty meat.

*Names and details changed to protect anonymity . . . . .you know what's up!

Low in salt. Just not sodium.

"What questions do you have for us?" my intern asked his patient diligently one morning on rounds. Mr. Purifoy immediately craned his neck over to his wife who sat next to his bed.

"You gon' ask about what you was sayin' earlier? About my legs?" he asked her.

Mrs. Purifoy did all the talking. No matter how many times we tried to get him to ask his own questions, he preferred to have his wife take care of such formalities.  Which reminds me. Tonight Harry was trying to add a new "app" to his iPod Touch and for whatever reason "needs" me to assist him with all things Apple. Seeing as I love him and don't mind pushing the two to three (super easy) buttons on the device to get him what he needs, I just go ahead and help the brother out. And Harry always turns my car around in the car port and also gets rid of any scary/non-ladybug insects in my sight. Even if I was the one who did the honors of squashing it with my Ugg boot (which yes, I do wear in my house even though it's summertime.) Sigh. . . yes, I digress. But, see,  the point of me telling you this is that I get Mr. Purifoy leaning on his wife for certain things that he technically could do himself.

Antywho.

So Mrs. Purifoy, who had just sat down to the bedside tray table with a full meal/snack that she'd just brought in, looks over in our direction with her mouth a-watering and her eyes half-mast. She then looks back at her husband. "You talkin' 'bout the water pills?" She shifted back to us. "His legs was swelling sometimes. Tha's why we was wondering does he need more Lasix pills in case they swell again."

I looked down and inspected his legs once more. He had very trace amounts of swelling, and he had no signs of volume overload.  Before I could say anything, my intern chimed in. "Your legs look fantastic, Mr. P. We've had you on a low salt diet, and I think that's helped a lot."

"See, I told him don't be eatin' all that salt!" Mrs. Purifoy announced with a curl of her lips. She picked her teeth with her thumb nail and nodded. "Ummm hmmmm. I told him. See me? I don't use no salt.  I mean, I know it can hide up in stuff but I don't eat that stuff."

I looked at the tray table and surveyed her bounty.  The entire meal was from the hospital gift shop--which couldn't possibly be low on salt since everything needed to have a decent shelf life.

Here is an inventory of what she had:

• A jumbo bag of Ruffles potato chips.
• A big, dill pickle.
• Some kind of sandwich wrapped up in foil, from where--I do not know.
• And. Wait for it. . . . wait for it. . . .
• Yes. A can of Vienna Sausages.

Vienna Sausages?Seriously?

0_0 ----> look on my face

My little Harry buzzy-bee/guardian angel (whose sole purpose is to get me to mind my own business) began furiously swirling around my head. "Watch your own lane!" he hissed. "Don't even START with this lady! She is NOT your patient!"

"But how is she just gonna bust on his salt intake when she has VIENNA-freakin'-SAUSAGES at the bedside? That's, like being a TOTAL hypocrite, man!" I subconsciously replied.

"STILL!" the little imaginary drill sergeant hollered. "It AIN'T your lane, nosy girl! Drive in YOUR lane!"

And for two seconds I did drive in my lane. But then she started situating herself to eat what might has well have been a salt lick and I could. not. take. it.

"So. . . .uhhhh. . . .do y'all know how much salt you should stay under for the day?"

I directed this right at Mrs. P since she seemed to be the speaker of the house. And she lit right back at me, calm as could be. "Oh yeaaaaahhh.  I checks all the labels for saturated fat and all that."

"Okay. . .let's just go over it again to make sure it's fresh on your mind, okay?"

She nodded--while still getting her food ready.

"Mind if I use this for example?"

The Harry buzzy-bee was in my ear again.  "You KNOW you are wrong if you pick up those Vienna Sausages. You are TOTALLY being an a-hole if you do because you know how salty they are."

"Go right on ahead," she said. "Bay? Make sure you pay attention 'cause you be the one eatin' all that salt.  See me?  I got sugar diabetes and I don't eat no salt. Tha's him. See bay? No salt."  She bit the pickle.

Lawd, Lawd, Lawd.

Could. Not. Take. It.

"Okay, so here is where the sodium is. You know this already, but  the sodium is the salt. You both want to keep it under 2000 milligrams of sodium. So you have to count it up. . . ."  I looked at the label of the can. "If you eat this can. . .it has 2.5 servings total. . . . . and if you eat the whole can. . .that's like a third of what you can have for the day in terms of salt.  And let's check the chips. . . . okay. . .so 590 milligrams in this bag. . . . and you're already well over half of what you can have for the day.  See? Watching salt is really, really hard to do."

"He eats potty-meat. Tha's waaaay worse than Vi-ennas. Tell him, doctor."

0_o

"Potty-meat?"

"POTTED meat!" a voice of another patient clarified from the neighboring bed.

On second thought, "potty" meat may have been more accurate.

"Aaaaahhhh," I said.  "Is potted meat pretty salty?"

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Purifoy. "Jest HORRIBLE!"

I stood there for a few beats watching Mrs. Purifoy as she popped the airseal on the bag of chips and peeled open her can of Vi-ennas.

"Mrs. Purifoy?  You both really need to watch the salt. If you have diabetes you probably should avoid this stuff, too."

"I told you. I don't be eatin' salt like he do."  Again she bites the pickle.

Killing me.

I glanced up at the clock and then at my interns. They were shifting on their feet and obviously wondering how long I would let this go on.  Much to my disappointment, I knew I would be forced to do the unthinkable--get in my own lane.

"Do you think we can get you both to come see us at the Primary Care center?"

"Oh yeaaaaah. He definitely need to see y'all."

"Okay. But. . .what about you, Mrs. P? Will you see us, too?"

"I could probably see y'all, too."

"And can you do me one more favor, Mrs. Purifoy?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Can you make this your last can of Vienna Sausages after today?"

She looked down at the can and back up at me. "It's that bad?"

I nodded slowly (knowing that if Harry were there he'd be shaking his head and giving me the hairiest eyeball ever.)

"Okay then," she conceded.  "But Dr. Manning?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Make sure you tell HIM about that potty-meat, okay? 'Cause I just know tha's waaay worse than Vi-ennas."



Ummm, yeah.

If this makes you dry heave, that makes two of us.

Confession: I read this post to Harry who had this to say:

Harry: "You never had some potty meat on crackers? Shoooot! You trippin'!"

Me: 0_0

Harry: (laughing hard) "With some crackers, Babe? Some Saltines? Shooooot!"

Me:  x_x   eeeww.

*sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little bit*

Seriously?  Never. Kissing. Him. Again. Ever.

***
Happy Tuesday, y'all.