Hair Net….

I went to visit my Grandma in the hospital yesterday.

She has pneumonia and congestive heart failure.

She will be 92 in October.

I tried to keep the conversation light which was difficult with all of the yelling given the battery in her hearing aid had just died.

We talked about the weather. I must have mentioned and pointed excitedly every time the sun crept through the clouds as if there were fireworks outside.

We discussed the pressing issues; the ridiculous offer of a roast dinner for lunch vs. a sandwich. “Who in their right mind would choose a sandwich over a roast dinner?”

We talked about the hospital food, the busy nurses and what a good job they do all the while I tried to avert my eyes away from the copious amount of needles that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her tiny arms.

As I sat talking with my Grandma, waiting for the sun to creep back into our conversation, I had to giggle at the universal feelings all women have when it comes to their hair.

The first thing my Grandma did after we arrived and woke her up was to reach for the top of her head, a primal instinct, primping herself for company. A woman tucked into her hospital corner sheets treats the presentation of her hair the same way a girl does on prom night.

She defaulted to her standard offering of food when guests arrive for a visit but had only an individual portion of Cracker Barrel cheese leftover from her breakfast to share.

The thing that blew me away was her feelings of embarrassment when it came to her hair.

She’s 92 years old. In the hospital for congestive heart failure and pneumonia. Her Granddaughter could think of nothing else to speak of other than the unpredictable patterns of the sun that day, but her biggest concern, above all else was where the nearest set of rollers might be hiding and if she could maybe use the shoe-cover-slippers to rig together a hair-net and get setting those perfect rings.

After the sun had set on our visit, we quietly said good bye, told Grandma we loved her and headed for the door but not before a tiny voice called after us, “And I barely have enough hair left to spoil a bowl of soup.”

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