I think she either impressed him or scared the hell out of him, but he'd held his ground, and after the party Dad had given him a double whiskey.
I don't see what's so bad about Grammy, except that she can out-Mom Mom, which, all right, is kind of scary. But I want to be just like her when I get old. I want to stay stylish, I want to drive sharp cars, and I want my children and grandchildren to pay proper attention to me. When I get really old, though, I'm going to trade my sharp car for the largest one I can find, and I'm going to hunch down in the seat until my little blue head is just peeking above the steering wheel, then I'm going to drive really slow and flip the bird at everyone who honks at me. It's plans like this that make me look forward to old age.
If I can live that long, that is. Other people kept coming up with different plans for me. It's annoying.
I waited, but no food magically appeared. Siana and I chatted. After a while another nurse came in and took my vitals. I asked about my food. She checked my chart, said "I'll see what I can do," and left.
Siana and I figured there would be a wait, and we decided to wash my hair. Thank goodness stitches no longer have to be kept dry, because there was no way I could go a week with dried blood and gunk giving me a gruesome Mohawk. The stitches weren't a problem, the concussion was. As long as I moved very slowly, though, the headache didn't spike. But I didn't want just my hair washed, I wanted me washed. Siana snagged a nurse who said, sure, the bandages could come off for a shower, and I carefully, but happily, showered and shampooed. I also let the bandages come off in the shower, instead of pulling them off.
Afterward Siana blow-dried my hair; she didn't bother with any actual styling, but that didn't matter because my hair is straight. Just being clean made me feel better.
Still no food.
I was beginning to think the hospital staff was in on those alternate plans for me and intended to starve me to death, and Siana was about to go down to the cafeteria and get something for me herself, when finally a tray was delivered. The coffee was lukewarm but I seized it gratefully, drinking half of it before I lifted the metal cover off my plate. Fake scrambled eggs, cold toast, and limp bacon stared up at me. Siana and I looked at each other, then I shrugged. "I'm starving. This will do." But I made a mental note to write the hospital administrator about the culinary offerings here. Sick people need food that will at least tempt them to eat.
After I'd eaten about half the food my outraged taste buds overcame the weakening whines from my stomach, and I replaced the cover over the plate so I wouldn't have to look at the eggs. Cold eggs are revolting. My headache had eased some, and I realized part of it had been due to caffeine deprivation.
Because I felt better, I began fretting about the passing time. No doctor had yet been in to see me, and it was almost ten-thirty, according to the clock on the wall.
"Maybe no doctor has been assigned to my case," I mused. "Maybe I'm just here, forgotten."
"Maybe you should get a regular doctor," Siana pointed out.
"Do you have one?"
She looked guilty. "Does a gynecologist count?"
"I don't see why not. I have one of those, too." Hey, you have to get your prescription for birth control pills somewhere. "Maybe I should call her."
A hospital stay is boring. Siana turned on the television and we tried to find something to watch. Neither of us is ever home during the day so we're unfamiliar with daytime fare. It says something when The Price Is Right is the best we could find, but at least it entertained us. Siana and I both did better than all the contestants, but, hey, shopping is a talent.
The noise from the hall was a distraction, because the lady who'd brought in my breakfast tray had left the door half-open, but we'd left it that way because the circulating air kept the room a little less stuffy. The bright blue sky
I don't see what's so bad about Grammy, except that she can out-Mom Mom, which, all right, is kind of scary. But I want to be just like her when I get old. I want to stay stylish, I want to drive sharp cars, and I want my children and grandchildren to pay proper attention to me. When I get really old, though, I'm going to trade my sharp car for the largest one I can find, and I'm going to hunch down in the seat until my little blue head is just peeking above the steering wheel, then I'm going to drive really slow and flip the bird at everyone who honks at me. It's plans like this that make me look forward to old age.
If I can live that long, that is. Other people kept coming up with different plans for me. It's annoying.
I waited, but no food magically appeared. Siana and I chatted. After a while another nurse came in and took my vitals. I asked about my food. She checked my chart, said "I'll see what I can do," and left.
Siana and I figured there would be a wait, and we decided to wash my hair. Thank goodness stitches no longer have to be kept dry, because there was no way I could go a week with dried blood and gunk giving me a gruesome Mohawk. The stitches weren't a problem, the concussion was. As long as I moved very slowly, though, the headache didn't spike. But I didn't want just my hair washed, I wanted me washed. Siana snagged a nurse who said, sure, the bandages could come off for a shower, and I carefully, but happily, showered and shampooed. I also let the bandages come off in the shower, instead of pulling them off.
Afterward Siana blow-dried my hair; she didn't bother with any actual styling, but that didn't matter because my hair is straight. Just being clean made me feel better.
Still no food.
I was beginning to think the hospital staff was in on those alternate plans for me and intended to starve me to death, and Siana was about to go down to the cafeteria and get something for me herself, when finally a tray was delivered. The coffee was lukewarm but I seized it gratefully, drinking half of it before I lifted the metal cover off my plate. Fake scrambled eggs, cold toast, and limp bacon stared up at me. Siana and I looked at each other, then I shrugged. "I'm starving. This will do." But I made a mental note to write the hospital administrator about the culinary offerings here. Sick people need food that will at least tempt them to eat.
After I'd eaten about half the food my outraged taste buds overcame the weakening whines from my stomach, and I replaced the cover over the plate so I wouldn't have to look at the eggs. Cold eggs are revolting. My headache had eased some, and I realized part of it had been due to caffeine deprivation.
Because I felt better, I began fretting about the passing time. No doctor had yet been in to see me, and it was almost ten-thirty, according to the clock on the wall.
"Maybe no doctor has been assigned to my case," I mused. "Maybe I'm just here, forgotten."
"Maybe you should get a regular doctor," Siana pointed out.
"Do you have one?"
She looked guilty. "Does a gynecologist count?"
"I don't see why not. I have one of those, too." Hey, you have to get your prescription for birth control pills somewhere. "Maybe I should call her."
A hospital stay is boring. Siana turned on the television and we tried to find something to watch. Neither of us is ever home during the day so we're unfamiliar with daytime fare. It says something when The Price Is Right is the best we could find, but at least it entertained us. Siana and I both did better than all the contestants, but, hey, shopping is a talent.
The noise from the hall was a distraction, because the lady who'd brought in my breakfast tray had left the door half-open, but we'd left it that way because the circulating air kept the room a little less stuffy. The bright blue sky