Barefoot and Happy

This little photo was posted by a high school friend of mine on Facebook and it gave me fodder for a blog topic—I am a little lacking in the inspiration department today! 

I graduated from nursing school (we won’t talk about how long ago) on a Friday night going to work in the operating room on Monday morning.  I loved everything about the OR—nothing bothered me (except eye surgery, yuk!).  About six weeks into my fledgling OR career new assignments came out and I read with extreme dismay!  I was assigned to the heart room—everyone knows they don’t put new employees in the heart room, the surgeon eats seasoned nurses for lunch much less new people.  Well, good ole Ms. Belk said when I went to her almost in tears, “we think you can handle it, Janna.”  And that was the end or rather the beginning of the story and a very long career assisting with coronary artery bypass surgery, aneurysm surgeries, etc.

When I moved to Houston, TX in about 1989 I was employed at Hermann Hospital—a HUGE Level I Trauma Center.  The helicopter pad had a door which led right into the OR—if the patient was too unstable to take to the Emergency Room the emergency crews brought them right into the OR.  If we nurses were not occupied at the time we heard the helicopter landing we usually looked for somewhere to hide, no one wanted the stress those type patients brought us.

OK, this story is getting kind of long—back to the bare feet part of the story—one of the cardiovascular surgeons at Hermann Hospital, Dr. Sweeney,  was more pleasant than most of the cardiovascular surgeons I’ve run across in my career.  I was “scrubbed” for him one day—meaning I was slapping instruments into his hand as he needed them.  He was asking me where I was from, was I married, etc.  There was a pause in the conversation and then he said, “Janna, you lied to me.”  I was stunned, stuttering, stumbling—wondering what in the world he was talking about. I said, “what on earth do you mean??”  He said, “you said you were from Arkansas” to which I replied, “but I am from Arkansas.”  The surgeon then said, “no you are not, people from Arkansas don’t wear shoes and you are wearing shoes.”  Huh!!!!  Some people!!! 

Nat came up to have lunch with us and I grilled a delicious pork tenderloin and paired it with garlic mashed potatoes.  Dessert was one of Michael’s favorites—homemade chocolate ice cream.  I finished a little quilt for my Mom this afternoon and Michael spent the day making brown spots—do I have your attention???

Gypsy—when ranchers run large herds of cows they figure one bull per about twenty five cows.  One “boy” might like to think he could do the job but the rancher will end up with “dry” (not pregnant) cows which costs the rancher money.  And no, that big guy is not a steer, he is most definitely a bull.