I remember my Grandpa Ransom coming to see me in my recovery room. He asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I was starving for a donut (Geez!), having watched too many Winchell’s commercials from the silent TV in my hospital room, and I practically begged him to smuggle me in one. Grandpa laughed, waved his hand in the air and said, “Sheesh!” He told me he would bring me in something better, which got me all excited. Later, he brought me in a big basket of fruit, which wasn’t what I expected, but was good none-the-less, and I shared it with everyone. He knew what was good for me and I loved him for it.

Then he granted me one more wish. I told him I wanted my hair washed. So many people were coming to see me in the hospital and my hair hadn’t been washed in 2 weeks! So Grandpa rounded up some nurses to do the job. They came in, broke down the top of my bed, wheeled in a portable sink and washed my hair. It was pure heaven! When the washing was complete, Grandpa popped his head in my room and gave me a wink and a “thumbs-up.” I blew him a kiss as they wrapped the towel around my head to dry. This small gift from my grandfather meant the world to me.

Mama dug through her purse and pulled out a comb and a small hand mirror that she put just out of my reach. Then she left to get some rubber bands from the nurse’s station so she could pull my hair back into a ponytail since I didn’t have my blow dryer or curling iron there.

Mama returned and began gently lifting and brushing my hair with her fingers to help it dry. I have always loved when she stroked my hair or massaged my scalp. My mother has the hands of an angel. Most nurses do. But when your mother is a nurse, and your mom, her touch is golden.

After my hair dried, Mama secured it back into two long braided pigtails and told me I looked lovely. I asked her for the mirror so that I could see for myself. Mama hesitated for a moment and then gently placed the mirror in my hand, stopping me from raising it just yet.

Tenderly, she said, “Honey, before you look in the mirror, let me explain that your body went through a lot of trauma over the last week. I don’t want you to be scared when you see yourself. You actually look a lot better than you did.” Then she let go of my hand as I winced. Nervously, I brought the mirror up to my face and let out a gasp in disbelief.

“Mama!” I stressed. “Look at my eyes!” They were bloody inside, and I looked like I’d been in a car collision. Then I ran my fingers across the thick, dark scabs on my eyelids, which made me look like I was wearing theatrical make-up. Mama reminded me that my body had filled up with 30 extra pounds of fluid, which made the membranes and blood vessels inside my eyes break open, and the thin skin on my eyelids rupture. The long scabs had grown over the cracks. “I look like Cleopatra!” I stammered, and we both let out a little laugh.

“Actually,” my stepfather, Roger, announced as he entered the room, “you look more like a Swiss Miss ready to do a Hot Cocoa commercial.” Roger had come in to my room just then, and kissed me on the forehead. I was glad to see him. Roger’s humor was welcome that day. Mama told me I looked adorable.

“Why is my face is so big?” I pouted. Mama explained it was from the Prednisone and Cortisone medications they were giving me. She reassured me that my face puffiness would reduce once I was off those meds. Mama then took the mirror from my hand and put it away. She asked me if I was ready to greet my visitors. I nodded, ‘yes’, with a heavy sigh.

Posted by LaRonda on Sunday, January 14th, 2007 at 11:38 am.