So, a one of the cooler people at the new job was taking care of a level one trololololol the other day, and homeboy was getting shut the eff down. Hi, if you want to keep getting a bunch of narcs and benzos prescribed, by all means, keep returning to your source, but keep in mind that if you keep returning to the same bird feeder, one day you're going to find it empty. Or something.
Delivering the news that you'll have to find a primary doctor (or you know, another ER) to prescribe loads of controlled substances is a pretty hard sell for a patient like this, so I played mean nurse to her nice nurse as we tried to get this dude out sans his usual parting gift.
He went through the exhaustive list of excuses about why he was already out of pills, went through the stages of grief, started making threats and heading into agitated crazyville when I was like, "Okay, no. Here's how this is going to work. No one here with prescribing rights is going to give you what you want, regardless of what you say to either of us. So you're going to leave now, and you're going to leave without a substance for controlled substances. That's how it's happening today. Here's your discharge papers." Through the entire saga of why I need another prescription for oxys and Xanax, homeboy had been struggling with shaking hand to write his name on the discharge papers. As soon as he heard the definitive, hell no, GTFO, he finished signing, wrote the date, and in all caps, wrote UNDER DURESS below his signature. LULZ. Yeah, I guess not giving you narcs falls somewhere between the iron maiden and water boarding on the continuum of torture. The ER is a cruel, cruel place.