When one gets a call that a loved one is very sick, one normally grabs her shoes and runs to their aid. That’s how I roll anyway. Yet, I have to tell you that on more than one occasion, this has caused me some embarrassment; especially where my mother is concerned.
When she called and told me she was sick enough to go to the doctor, I did not take the time to style my hair. Nor did I apply eyeliner and a fresh coat of lipstick. No sir, my mother needed me ASAP, and I barely took the time to step into my flipflops.
What about our little patient, you might ask? Well, that was a bandage of a whole different color. Her hair was done up, her makeup pristine, and I’ll be switched if she hadn’t taken the time to coordinate her jewelry with her ensemble.
Worse yet, she was offended by my appearance and asked me to walk into the medical facility a step or two behind her so folks wouldn’t judge her on her mothering and surely wonder if she had raised me right.
You would think that one would learn, but I haven’t. Take a recent late-night phone call, for example. Not only was my dear and precious mother ill, but she was sure she needed to go to the emergency room.
I didn’t show up at her house in my pajamas, but I did look as if I had just crawled out of bed because, you see, I had just crawled out of bed.
The poor little dear was sick enough that she did not have her face on, her hair was not beauty shop worthy and, although she is always beautiful, she simply wasn’t looking her best.
As the ambulance pulled into the drive, she stood and looked at me with desperate eyes.
“Lori,” she said between deep breaths. I did my best to choke back a sob as I waited for her next words, fearful that they might be her last will and testament.
“Lori,” she repeated, “after I get to the hospital, I need you and your father to come back here. I’m going to need my eyeliner, my makeup kit and don’t forget my ratting comb.”
People always ask me if I make stuff up, but I’m here to tell you that you just can’t make this stuff up.
Praise the good Lord, Mom’s illness wasn’t serious, but it did require a procedure to get her back on her feet. Much to her chagrin, it was not the sort of procedure one could undergo while in full makeup.
“What do you mean I can’t put on my face?” she asked the nurse with disdain. “What difference does it make if they can’t observe my pallor?” she asked of the technician. When she looked at the doctor and inquired, “What are we, animals?” I did my best to stifle a chuckle and then I tried to smooth the wrinkles out of my blouse and did my best to hide my unpolished toenails.
As I stood by her sickbed in disheveled clothing and a hairstyle that would put a cavewoman to shame, my sick mother worried about her “presentation to the public.”
Meanwhile, she was chatting it up with her male nurse, cracking jokes to the dietician and, like a comedian leaving the stage, telling folks, “Hey, I’ll be here all week!”
She survived her procedure with flying colors, praise the Lord. When it was done, I applied her makeup, styled her hair and handed her a tube of lipstick.
To the tune of “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful,” she was dismissed with a medical entourage following her to the curb as they surely wondered why a woman who was so well put together could have raised a daughter who did not even comb her hair.
I love that little woman and I would not have her any other way. But I tell you this, the next time I get a late-night sick call, I am going to make sure I am presentable before I leave the house.
Lori Clinch is the author of “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].