Award-winning 'kind' nurse fired over video vowing to let cops and their families DIE in her hospital after DUI arrest

An award-winning nurse has been fired from her hospital job after she vowed she would let police officers and their families 'die' during her drunk driving arrest.

Crystal Tadlock, 35, shockingly declared she would break her oath to do no harm while handcuffed in the backseat of a patrol car early Saturday morning.

She was taken into custody in Magnolia, Texas - about 45 miles outside of Houston - after she was caught speeding and failed a field sobriety test.

The nurse, who has worked in the intensive care unit at Memorial Hermann Greater Heights Hospital for seven years, launched an expletive and racist rant at officers as they hauled her off to the county jail.

'I'm a f****** nurse, and when you come through my hospital, don't worry, I'll let you die,' Tadlock told the officer, as heard in patrol car footage obtained by KTRK.

I was lucky. I only got hangover two or three times in the Navy, and I did a lot of drinking during that time.

My dad never seemed to have a problem with alcohol when he was around and about. And in the morning, he was unfailingly up and ready to go no matter what happened the night before. He probably got up at five each morning, and when he woke us up at six, it was the worst way for me and my five siblings to start the day. Oh, how we hated him in the morning.

He would arrive to wake us, completely Ship-Shape And Bristol Fashion. He was always cleanly shaved and smelled of Old Spice aftershave. He shaved with those Safety Razors, the standard of the day.

He was a Commander in the Navy, and he looked the part. He had a flattop crewcut, high and tight. He had blue eyes (I think-I could never tell if they were blue or green) and his uniform was in perfect order. Brass buckle shined on his webbed belt. The "plumb-line" (invisible line starting at the top button of his uniform blouse and extending to the bottom of the zipper on his trousers) was perfectly straight and in-line. His uniforms were unvaryingly clean, and pressed to appropriately show the sharp creases to advantage.

When he called out to us individually in that odd, completely monotone delivery to wake us, it was the most insanely aggravating delivery you could imaging slumbering children to have. When we heard it, all of us would nearly go ballistic.

And he paused between each of our names ever so slightly. I inherited my dad's voice, so I can do it in a way that could cause my brothers and sisters at some family get together to throw couch pillows at me when I deliver it as a joke. It went like this:

"John. Charles. Robert. Annie. Madeline. Greg. Rise and Shine. Get up out of those racks. It is five below zero."

Straight and deadpan. The only thing that ever varied was the weather report at the end.

Most of us were largely silent until the point he said the hated "Rise and Shine" and after hearing that, multiple simultaneous groans could be heard. And when he finished with "It is five below zero" you could hear pillows being thrown and tormented, high-pitched screams of "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaad!!!" from the younger ones and muffled, stifled curses from us older ones.

I swear. If I didn't know better, I would think it was deliberate torture that he rather enjoyed. But when I ponder it...nope.

That was just my dad. Nearly robotically terminator-like in the morning. It was a routine for him, and it never varied.

I never felt as safe in my life as I did when I was seven years old, all of us sleeping in the flattened out back of our family wagon at 3 AM on some East Coast highway with our pillows and blankets. My mom would be asleep against the passenger side window, but my father.

I could see the back of my father's close cropped head. I could see the filterless Pall Mall dangling from his lip, a wisp of smoke issuing from it. The radio playing very softly, and the car being alternately illuminated or darkened as we passed into and out of roadside lights. The road vibrated and gently hummed below us, and his head never moved.

Being in the back of that station wagon-that was the safest I have ever felt in my life.

My dad has been gone 25 years next month, but in my mind, I will always see him as shown in that picture above.

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