How to Be a Hospital Belle

Lessons Learned from Mom's Hospital Stay

(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.

(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.

It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.

(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)

The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.

About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.

My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"

Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."

I was brought up right.