I worked 40 hours over three days for years.
It was the only way I could have a four day weekend every week.
Unfortunately the three days went like this....Fri-3-11...Sat and Sun 7a-11p.

I was the unofficial supervisor because my experience made me more of a Paramedic than a Respiratory Therapist alone. But it was cool, no suits were around and I and my partner had the best of both worlds, a different set of nurses every weekend because they all had every other weekend off and maybe more importantly, but not as pretty, almost completes medical autonomy. Most all the "real" Docs knew I didn't make mistakes and oft times they would even ask me for advice in respiratory matters, at least the smart ones did. Sometimes, because I always worked weekends, there were no Docs around at all except for the ER Doc, and if he was up to his ass in alligators, I was it.

The nurses were afraid to make decisions because if they were wrong, they could lose their papers...But I wasn't. They often looked to me for what to do. I was a Med-Evac medic in the Army, so I was used to being on my own. Our boss was a good guy, and told me I could do whatever I needed to do in emergency situations, in the ER or any other floor. I made many life and death decisions that saved lives. I didn't care about protocol if someone's life was at stake. The only things we weren't allowed to do were, write orders for medications, other than standard respiratory drugs....or administer IV drugs, but I did that too when called upon. The hours were long, but rewarding. Sorry folks...got off track thinking about the nurses, and the drama....nothing wrong with my short term memory. Anyhow, one Friday morning, a band of gypsies was traveling on I-75. Their "King", (every band has one) had a heart attack, and died in the CCU that afternoon.

According to Gypsy tradition, the King must be cremated with the bed he died on. Well, there was no way the suits were going to allow a seven-thousand dollar bed to be burned. Mayhem ensued. We had gypsies crying and falling out all over the place inside the hospital and in the parking lot. It was a whole band after all, about fifty people. Every time the folks from the local funeral parlor tried to move the king, his wife and daughters would throw themselves on the bed and wail. The women did finally allow the King, bed and all, to be moved to another room away from the Cutis went on till Saturday morning. Neither the administrator, nor the gypsies, would budge on their stands.

Finally, I said to the administrator, "Maybe we should try to work something out. Why don't you tell them they can have the mattress, but not the bed frame? Surely the hospital can afford another mattress". I could see him adding up the money in his head, but he finally said, "Ok"...because by this time reporters were starting to call and ask what was going on. The women agreed to that but...they wanted to cremate him in the parking lot as close to the death site as possible. Mayhem ensued again. The end of all this came Saturday afternoon, when the king's brother arrived from New York. He was a bit more in tune with reality than his brother's band. He said it was ok to take the king to the crematorium, but they had to take him there on the mattress. So there went an ambulance, king, mattress and all, to the crematorium.

All the staff, visitors, and some ambulatory patients were just having a rip roaring good time over all this. Save for the administrator, who was miffed because he felt he had lost control. I secretly laughed at him, because he was such an ass over money, and as we all know, money is only important if you don't have it. Walt