One evening I arrived at work, walked onto the ward, and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Sims swinging himself by both arms while hanging from the trapeze bar over his bed. I looked towards the nurse's station and saw that the RN, Mrs. Brown, was on the phone. I hoped she was calling the doctor to help Mr. Sims.
Mr. Sims was a tanned, wiry little man who lived in the Imperial Valley in California, close to the Mexican border. He was a farmer and grew alfalfa, barley and cotton on his acres. He'd been involved in an accident with farm equipment and lost both of his legs just above the knees. He was admitted to our unit to be fitted with artificial legs, rehabilitated, and ultimately sent back home to his farm. Mr. Sims was a humble man, quiet, and very polite. What we didn't know about him was he was also a closet alcoholic. He'd kept that little tidbit of information from us during his admission interview. Him swinging naked from the trapeze was our first clue he might be having DT's.
Mrs. Brown called his family in Brawley and they confirmed that Mr. Sims was indeed a drinker and had been without alcohol since coming to our hospital three days earlier. Perfect timing for withdrawal. Mrs. Brown then called the doctor on call and received orders to give the patient Paraldehyde injections. Now there are much better medications, but in 1968, this was all we had. Paraldehyde was a thick, viscous solution, that smelled to high heaven of a strong chemical with a little vinegar mixed in. The odor is very distinctive and can be smelled on the breath of anyone who takes it. It had to be drawn out of the vial using large bore needles, and then injected slowly into a large muscle. Guess who got that job?
I drew the medication dose up in two syringes, enlisted the help of several nurse aides, and went to Mr. Sims bedside. There was no reasoning with Mr. Sims, so we had to pry his hands free from the trapeze bar and get him back onto the mattress. This was no small feat. Mr. Sims was little, but he was powerful from all his years of farm work. We finally got him down and turned onto his stomach so I could inject each syringe fully into the large muscle on his backside. He screamed like a banshee throughout the whole procedure, but eventually settled down and went to sleep. Within a couple of days he was back to being his normal, polite and kind self. We couldn't resist teasing him a bit about his flying trapeze act, though. He did recover, get two new prosthetics for legs, and went back to Brawley to his farm. I hope he didn't start drinking again, but life experience tells me he most likely did.
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