The Pink Hat
Waiting is a big part of what you do in a hospital.
Mom's surgery is probably going to be Tuesday, if the cardiologist has time today to analyze her case and make the decision. If not, it will be Wednesday. (The doctors point out that she's getting Heparin to stabilize the blood clot, so waiting is not a total waste of time.)
Meanwhile, Mom sits in her hospital bed, bored, feeling fine, chatting with Jona or me. She can't figure out why she is in the hospital. All she did was faint for a moment or two.
"Let's go to your house for dinner," she says. "And we'll go to church tomorrow."
"No," I say. "You can't just bust out of here. You're in the hospital. Church was yesterday, but we didn't go because you're here. Tomorrow you're going to have surgery--they're going to put in a pacemaker."
"Oh," she says with disappointment. We talk. She's telling me about the Bingo game and going to the ER.
"John came to visit me," she says, beaming. "He brought me a pink hat."
Which is partly true--he did visit her, a rare event. Usually she sees him at home when I bring her to spend Sunday afternoon, but this time it was in the ER.
It's also true that last summer he pointed out a bright pink sunhat in a hardware store, when we were on vacation and needed to bring back a gift. I gave it to her in July "from John."
"Where is that hat?" she asks. "John picked it out for me."
"It's back at Ocean View," I answer, but soon just for fun, I go to get it and put it on her.
She sits in splendor in the hospital bed, in the dazzling pink hat, surprising the various aides and medical people who pop into her room.