Posted on | February 3, 2013 | 5 Comments
Had to leave a family member in the hospital overnight for observation. Everything should be OK but the doctors wanted to be sure. As we headed upstairs from the emergency room, I scrutinized the floor we were assigned. No nurses were running around frantic and overwhelmed, no patients were stumbling around the halls desperately searching for a glass of water or a blanket.
When we got our room, I watched the nurse carefully. She seemed friendly and competent. She listened politely while we explained we had missed dinner while in the ER and asked if a tray could be sent up, even though it was 10pm. She nodded and then went through her paperwork. I waited and listened to her gathering history as I pretended to read my book. I was surprised when she asked about unusual bruises or scratches.
I looked up and commented, “We have a farm. Sometime we have bruises and scratches we don’t even notice for days and can’t remember where we got them. Why?”
She replied that the hospital takes note of large bruises, scratches, or other injuries that a patient arrives with so that a patient can’t claim later that it happened while in the hospital. I was digesting this information, wondering when we became such a ridiculously litigious society, when she spoke again.
“Did you say you farmed? Do you need any roosters? A bunch of our chicks turned out to be roosters and I’ve got to give those guys away or butcher them. They’re fighting terribly.”
I laughed out loud, thinking of our roosters that were safely crated already and waiting to be butchered after church.
“Nope. We’re full up on roosters.” I said.
Then the meal tray arrived. And I picked up my book, gave a kiss tonight, and headed home to get to some sleep before coming back to talk to the doctor in the morning. I knew we were in good hands.
Because my people are everywhere.
Everywhere, I tell ya.