Nicole rushed toward her patient’s room, crop dusting her way through the unit. “What’s that rumpus?” demanded the Charge Nurse, looking up from her computer, “it sounds like a vicious fox.”
“Nothing but the normal exuberant expulsion of gas from my intestines,” bragged Nicole. “People on vents tell no tales… that’s my mantra.”
“Dammit, Nicole!” the fastidious Charge declared, “I need your commitment to stop consuming broccoli so voraciously during your breaks! The alternative is for me to write you up for insubordination!”
“Stop being such a babbling dictator.” Nicole said, sounding bored. “My interpretation of hygge includes appreciation of all bodily functions. It makes my spirit soar!”
”Whatever, right now all I can envision is you going into your patient’s room, telling him he has pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, and getting an informed consent. That crap on his lungs looks almost epitaxial.” sighed Charge.
Nicole sauntered to the patient’s room and peeked in. She saw the young, handsome raven haired man lying peacefully in bed and had a moment of indecision while she reimagined the task before her. “This is all B.S.” she said to herself. “Hi,” she squeaked like a timid squirrel. “Hey, you wanna just unplug that pipeline sized oxygen hose and get out of here? We can run off to Vegas, go to clubs, dance a fox trot, and then lay out by the pool.” She cringed at her terrible pick-up line.
“Absolutely! That sounds splendid,” said the grateful patient, and Nicole grinned.
They ran out of the unit shouting, “Revolution!” The two renegades escaped the hospital, hopped on her Harley Davidson, and rode off into the sunset.