A long time ago I flew to Guatemala. I was a wild and carefree lad, seeking adventure and, indeed, I found it. Lake Atitlan is strikingly beautiful, with its three massive volcanoes on one shoreline and a cobblestone Mayan village on the other shoreline. The memory is still firmly imbedded in my mind.
Aching for a chance to show Orllyene Lake Atitlan, I compose an article extolling the stunning beauty of the lake and send it to the Director of Tourism in Guatemala. I am hoping a writing job will produce an airline ticket, but I am turned down. There is one consolation: he says my work is “engaging and upbeat.” These words describe in exact detail our home healthcare nurse, Liz Carrusco, RN.
After five months of home healthcare, Liz’s visits are coming to a close. (Medicare feels its pockets have been stretched far enough.) What is truly sad is we will no longer be blessed with the joy Liz exudes when she walks through our front door. We know of her three sons, her cowboy husband, and the arrival of two granddaughters, who are to be born this summer.
Liz’s most recent visit was different from the rest. This time, after checking Orllyene’s “vitals” she is interrupted by a cellphone call. While she usually ignores these calls, instinctively she takes this one. It is her husband and I overhear “you are on your way, a woman in a car hit two of our cows.” She then asks, “What about the woman, is she okay and were there others in the car?” Liz says she will talk with us later and is on her way.
Liz and her husband own a cattle business and keep their herd in various pastures and public grazing lands in this area. These cows were on public grazing land in the Schurz area.
A week goes by before Liz’s next visit. She glows with optimism as she walks in to our home. She tells us the woman went to the hospital, but is uninjured, and the children in the car are okay as well. Only one cow was lost, which is good news.
It seems this group of 14 cows are different from most cows. Most cows are content to mosey off for a spell, then come back to where their feed and water are. But these cows are always on the move. “These cows are like high school girls”, Liz says. “They want to find out about life. We check on them, sometimes twice a day and yesterday we found them walking along the railroad track that runs through Schurz.” (I imagine a group of juvenile delinquents combing the desert for excitement.) “Next thing you know, they’ll be smoking,” I say.
Liz accepts life on its own terms. Her nursing skills are exemplary. She explains, suggests, but never dictates. This makes her your friend, not your warden, doling out health if you promise to do as she says. She bends rules to fit the patient. She presents alternatives and leaves it up to you. The cards she has been dealt are not special, but she’s determined to enjoy the game.
Ron Walker can be reached at walkover@gmx.com
