Test bank for pharmacotherapeutics for advanced practice nurse prescribers 5th edition teri moser wo

Test Bank for Pharmacotherapeutics for Advanced Practice Nurse Prescribers, 5th Edition, Teri Moser Woo,

Marylou V. Robinson,

Full download at: https://testbankbell.com/product/test-bank-for-pharmacotherapeutics-foradvanced-practice-nurse-prescribers-5th-edition-teri-moser-woo-marylou-v-robinson/

Chapter 1. The Role of the Nurse Practitioner

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. Nurse practitioner prescriptive authority is regulated by:

1. The National Council of State Boards of Nursing

2. The U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration

3. The State Board of Nursing for each state

4. The State Board of Pharmacy

ANS: 3 PTS: 1

2. The benefits to the patient of having an advanced practice registered nurse (APRN) prescriber include:

1. Nurses know more about pharmacology than other prescribers because they take it both in their basic nursing program and in their APRN program.

2. Nurses care for the patient from a holistic approach and include the patient in decision making regarding their care.

3. APRNs are less likely to prescribe narcotics and other controlled substances.

4. APRNs are able to prescribe independently in all states, whereas a physician’s assistant needs to have a physician supervising their practice.

ANS: 2 PTS: 1

3. Clinical judgment in prescribing includes:

1. Factoring in the cost to the patient of the medication prescribed

2. Always prescribing the newest medication available for the disease process

3. Handing out drug samples to poor patients

4. Prescribing all generic medications to cut costs

ANS: 1 PTS: 1

4. Process for choosing an effective drug for a disorder include:

1. Asking the patient what drug they think would work best for them

2. Consulting nationally recognized guidelines for disease management

3. Prescribing medications that are available as samples before writing a prescription

4. Following U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration guidelines for prescribing

ANS: 2 PTS: 1

5. Nonintentional nonadherence of drug therapy may occur due to:

1. Belief that medication does not work

2. Adverse drug reactions

3. Chronic conditions that require daily therapy

4. Forgetfulness or distraction

ANS: 4 PTS: 1

“I S H M.”

“The trains to Notting Hill run every half-hour.” Information given by Company.

“Do they? Ha! ha!” Remark by one who had tried them. I saw her but a moment, Yet, methinks, I see her still—

’Twas at Victoria Station, And she wanted “Notting Hill.”

Comes a “Notting Hill Gate” quickly— Comes one more, then one more still; But they suit not our poor maiden, For she wants a “Notting Hill.”

That face, so wan and weary, Was sure enough to fill With pity, heart of marble, In this case of Notting Hill.

I saw her but a moment, Yet, perhaps, she’s waiting still— Or, better still, has given up All hopes of “Notting Hill.”

B M.

I saw her but a moment

Beneath the apple tree; There was no one to listen, No eyes were there to see.

I heard her soft voice singing, Her song was one of love; Her bright eyes seemed to borrow Light from the stars above.

I saw her but a moment As ’neath the tree she sat;

I threw at her the poker— (She was—my neighbour’s cat).

OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.

Oh! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard, My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word; From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me they think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see, But were I in a foreign land, they’d find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met, I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget?

For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me, The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea; The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set, Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget.

They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay, They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say; Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret, But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget.

T H B.

A “O! N, W N M H!”

Oh! am I then remembered still, Remembered too by thee! Or am I quite forgot by one, Whom I no more shall see? Yet, say not so, for that would add Fresh anguish to my lot.

I dare not hope to be recall’d, Yet would not be forgot.

Had they who parted us but known How hearts like our’s can feel, They would have spared us both a pang, Beyond their power to heal.

I know not if my heart retains, Its wonted warmth or not; Though I’m forbid to think of thee, Thou’lt never be forgot.

May’st thou enjoy that peace of mind, Which I can never know, If that’s denied my prayer shall be, That I may share thy woe. Where’er thou art my every wish, Will linger o’er that spot, My every thought will be of thee, Though I may be forgot.

If we should meet in after years, Thou’lt find that I am changed; My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale, But not my faith estrang’d: From mem’ry’s page the hand of death, Alone thy name shall blot, Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt, Thou’lt never be forgot.

Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haynes Bayly’s Farce, “Decorum.”

Oh no! we’ll never mention him; We won’t, upon our word!

“Decorum” now forbids to name An unsuccessful bard.

From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to Our office with regret, And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!”

We’ll say that We forget!

We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,” And try his ancient strain; He’d better “be a butterfly”

Than write a farce again.

’Tis true that he can troll a song, Or tender chansonette;

But if you ask us, “What beside”?

Why, really, we forget.

R. H. B, Author of The Ingoldsby Legends.

Written

A S.

by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding over the conduct of the Proctor of 1827.

Oh! no we never mention him, His name is never heard, My lips are now so loth to speak That once familiar word; From street to street he followed me One evening thro’ the west, Then brought me to the Vice, which now He thinks that I forget.

They bade me seek in rustic ease A quiet man to be, But when I come to Trin: again They’ll find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more The alley where we met, I do not see dear Mr. T. But still I shan’t forget.

They tell me he is happy now, But each dog has his day, They tell me he forgets me now But he soon shall dearly pay; For when near me he struggles with A crowd of snobs beset, Then if I hit as I have hit, He never shall forget.

The Gownsman. February 18, 1830, (or 1831?)

M.

S S R P.

Notwithstanding the length of time that has now elapsed since the breaking up of the Tory Administration, there is scarcely a member of it who does not still look back with a feeling of the most melancholy regret to the days when he once fingered the public money within the walls of the Treasury. On Sir Robert Peel the effect that has been produced is as vivid as it seemed the first hour after his resignation, and the unhappy baronet is often heard to give vent to his sensations, after the debate of the night, in the following exquisitely touching stanzas:—

Oh no we never finger it, Its name we never say, My fingers are forbid to grasp The once familiar pay. From Bill to Bill they hurry me, To banish my regret, And when they win a speech from me, They think that I forget.

They bid me seek by change of note The place where rivals be, But were I e’en to turn a Whig, There’d be no place for me. ’Tis true that I no more behold The council where we met, I do not see the Treasury, But how can I forget?

They tell me Lyndhurst’s happy now, The gayest of the gay, They hint that he forgets, but pshaw! I heed not what they say. Perhaps th’ Exchequer brings him in A pretty penny yet, But if he grasp’d as I have grasp’d, He never can forget.

Figaro in London. April 6, 1833.

T N U.

“Oh! no! we never mention H, H name is never heard! And now the deuce to find it out, I know not, on my word. But tho’ I could not tell name, H face I’d often seen, “She stood among the glittering throng,” with Jacky in the green.

A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt box in the other; And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother.

“I met at the Fancy fair,” with fancy lads around her, And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder.

“I saw at the Beulah Spa,” along with Gipsy Joe, A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow vouldn’t go. I saw ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun, For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur’d every one.

“I saw at the Masquerade,” along with Nimming Ned, Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the head. I saw too at All-Max once (not Almack’s in the west,) “’Twas in the crowd,”—her voice was loud: I must’nt tell the rest.

I saw at the “Central Court,” (it gave me quite a shock), Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock. And then I heard a little man, with solemn voice proclaim, (’Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that A was her name.

From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1836.

L N-.

Lord Lyndhurst (Lord Chancellor): Content or Non-content? Lord Brougham (Ex-Lord Chancellor): Oh! Non-content, of course.

Oh! no I say; don’t mention it, ’Tis really too absurd; I don’t admit a single thing: I won’t believe a word.

From all that Noble Lords have said, In toto I dissent; Why, doesn’t everybody know I’m always “Non-Content?”

They tell me I’m an obstinate, Impracticable man; I’m open to conviction—but Convince me if you can.

I blame your views, deny your facts, Dispute your argument; Then why the question put to me? Of course I’m “Non-Content.”

Content indeed! I never was, From childhood’s dawn till now; And I should greatly like to see The statement I’d allow. To differ only I’ll agree; On that I’m firmly bent, I am, I will, I must, I shall, Be always “Non-Content.”

Punch. 1844.

Oh no, I never name my wife But let her lie at rest; Although she used to pull my nose, Now I am truly blest.

Each morn for cash she’d worry me, To purchase heavy-wet; And how she stagger’d home at eve I never shall forget.

I strove to find in change of scene, A tranquil hour or two, But if, alas, she found me out She’d thump me black and blue.

’Tis true, I now appear no more With eyes as black as jet; But how the poker she could wield, I never can forget.

They hint that she is happy now, In sooth, and so am I, And, as she can return no more ’Twere wrong in me to sigh.

When I prepared to bury her And friends and neighbours met, The sort of sorrow I then felt I never can forget.

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.

I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet, Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d never languish for wealth or for power, I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d be a butterfly, &c.

Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy, I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings, Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings; Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings. I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings. I’d be a butterfly, &c.

What though you tell me each gay little rover, Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely ’tis better when summer is over, To die when all fair things are fading away: Some in life’s winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay. I’d be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away, I’d be a butterfly, &c.

T H B.

In 1828 a small volume was printed at Malton, entitled “P; or Songs of Butterflies. By T. H. Bayly, attempted in Latin Rhyme by the

Rev. Francis Wrangham, M.A., F.R.S.

(Archdeacon of the East Riding of York.”) in which occurs the following admirable Latin version of the above song:—

Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent; Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent!

Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo, Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent—

Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Osculans gemmas quae suave olent!

Magicam si possem virgam furari, Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu!

Æstivis actis diebus in aëre, Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu.

Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare; Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu!

Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre, Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu!

Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore Frigora Automni ferire suo;

Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori, Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro.

Bramae qui capiunt captent labore Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto—

Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore, Concidamque omni cadente pulchro.

January, 1828.

A A M. B.

I would not be a butterfly, Nay, Mr. Bayly nay, Although you rhyme to ear and eye In such a dainty way. Those pretty words, that pretty air Admit but this reply, It strikes me I should hardly care To be a butterfly.

A charm there is in being born Within a rosy bower, Where sunshine and a summer morn Should grace my natal hour. But I was born a cockney, sir, A cockney I shall die, Pray why on earth should I prefer To be a butterfly?

The plants that in a garden grow Are fresh and very sweet, But more befitting for a show Than proper things to eat. I love my soup, I love my fish, My joint and apple-pie, My menu never makes me wish To be a butterfly.

’Tis only just a month or so The things can keep alive, One year’s career they never know, And mine are forty-five. I hope to earn a little fame Ere many more go by, It would not be a paying game To be a butterfly.

I tell you frankly Mr. B. I would not if I could, In fact so far as I can see I could not if I would. To many things we all aspire, For many things we sigh, But why should mortal man desire To be a butterfly?

H S. L.

I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny Or some little song with a popular tune, Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.

I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny, (Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)

I’d be a parody made by a ninny, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.

Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza, I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings

Turning his rhymes into extravaganza, Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings! When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!

Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza, Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!

What though you tell me each metrical puppy

May make of such parodies two pair a day; Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy

Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:— Ladder of fame! if man can’t reach thy top, he Is right to sing just as high up as he may;

I’d be a parody made by a puppy, Who makes of such parodies two pair a day. From Sharpe’s Magazine, 1829.

I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Longest and last at the banquet or ball; Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. True to the opera, concert, or play, I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall; I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.

What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun? Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at, For he’ll safely return when the battle is done. Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun, But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet, Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done.

I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman, Flirting in peace-time when battle is done.

From The Bentley Ballads. (London. Richard Bentley.)

S C B.

I make the butter fly all in an hour; I put aside the preserves and cold meats, Telling my master his cream has turned sour, Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets.

I never languish for husband or dower; I never sigh to see gyps at my feet; I make the butter fly, all in an hour, Taking it home for my Saturday treat.

From Horace at Athens, by G. O. T.

I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains, Having a heart drunk with visions of glory, When fifty per cent, on my table remains;

I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me, A fig for the head that such nonsense contains. I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.

Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies To foolishly trifle with time as they do, Give me the music of soul-witching guineas, While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!”

What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies, At sixpence per line in each London review?

I’d be a Rothschild! and laugh at the ninnies, Whose brains such absurd undertakings pursue.

Commerce shall wave her proud flag o’er the ocean, When the wreath and the minstrel have vanished from hence, Rhymes may give to the muse their devotion, But mine is concentred in consols and rents Of Tempe and Castaly I have no notion Oh! they give song the importance of sense;

I’d be a Rothschild! with every emotion

Awake at the tune of pounds, shillings, and pence!

R A.

From The Mirror, 1830.