|Pretty blossoms in the hospital courtyard|
Having a good hair day in a hospital seems like a waste. Yesterday I was out in public and would have appreciated a bit of flounce. Today I sit in Room 115, a small, antiseptic space squished in a chair. My hair and I listen to the sounds of my mother wracked with pain and wheezing. My hair displays the life my mother needs more. Stupid tv options, frequent interruptions, feelings of hopelessness, confusion and frustration fill the skull but my pink-streaked hair has vitality. Ironic. Hard to concentrate, don’t have medical degree, unclear on every level. Ate homemade soup, heard from friends far and wide. Many praying, offers of support and love cover nearly every state and portions of Central America. Aunt spent the night at the hospital and heard the screams of pain. Oh Jesus.
Likewise the Spirit helps us
in our weakness. For we do not know
what to pray for as we ought,
but the Spirit himself intercedes for us
with groanings too deep for words.
When I arrived at the hospital this morning, my aunt’s hair was disheveled and if it had a voice, her hair would have stories I just can’t hear right now. My mom’s hair is sweaty and matted. It needs its owner to get up and wash it and style it. I would even be ok if she used the curling iron and that’s saying something.
Having a good hair day in a hospital seems like a waste, at least it does for me.