Beauty and the heart

This is a true story. I swear on my favorite pair of Manolos (the hot pink stilettos) that it is.

Mama, despite a somewhat vigorous existence, had been feeling puny for a few months and, to be brutally honest, wasn’t looking her best. It’s probably a certainty that the suffering of her beauty, not the suffering of her body, was what got her, at long last, to go to Dr. Jeff Marshall, her beloved heart doctor.

Stories concerning my mother as well as those told by her are never short. This is not an exception. However, I will skip many details and tell you that Mama, downright contrary for months about having a heart catheterization, finally succumbed to it.

Later, she was probably sorry because it led to a triple bypass surgery. Don’t, though, mention anything to her about those years of staunch devotion to Crisco frying catching up with her. She doesn’t take it kindly.

True to form, she continued to be more concerned with beauty than with anything more serious.

Before she went for the test, she was absolutely convinced that she would end up having some procedure done so she began preparing. For days, she sorted, washed and mended, if necessary, her prettiest gowns. Mama has always had a strong affinity for beautiful gowns so she has many.

“Look at this one,” she said one day, holding up a pretty pink one with spaghetti straps. “I think I’ll sew a wide piece of lace over the straps. It’s just too naked. Don’t you think?”

She packed her bag and my sister Louise – her co-conspirator in all things pertaining to beauty – arrived to survey the bounty. Dutifully, the Queen Mother had packed her cosmetics, gowns and curling iron.

“You forgot your hairspray,” Louise pointed out.

“No, I didn’t.” I knew that before she said it. Mama would never forget her hairspray. “I didn’t pack it because I lost the cap to it and it’s so expensive that I don’t want to chance losing a drop of it.”

“I don’t care,” Louise replied. “Pack it any way.”

Before she left her house for the heart catheterization, she prettied herself up appropriately. While she waited to be taken down for the procedure, she laid in bed while friends and family filed in to pay their respect and to comment on her loveliness.

“Why you look so pretty, it’s hard to believe that you’re not the picture of perfect health.”

Mama smiled beatifically.

Then the nurse arrived to announce that they would be taking her down shortly. As soon as the nurse disappeared, Mama commanded, “Get my lipstick and let me put it on before I go.”

Isn’t it nice when a woman who has already spent eight decades on this earth still cares so much?

Mother’s penchant for beauty, though, actually helped her. When the test revealed that she had three significant blockages, the surgeon, prior to seeing her, was hesitant because of her age. Then he saw the powdered-to-perfect maven and made his decision.

“Anyone who looks this young and vivacious needs to feel that way, too,” he announced.

Mama smiled grandly. A little bragging goes a long way with her.

We continue to be grateful that our prayers were answered and Mama came through the surgery good while maintaining her perfect diva mentality.

The day after surgery, I visited her in ICU to tell her that others were waiting to see her.

“Do you feel like it?”

She nodded, eyes closed. “Okay.”

I turned to leave when I heard her say softly, “Ronda?”

“Yes.”

Eyes still closed, spirit sick and weak, she whispered, “How does my hair look?”

It’s hard to keep a good diva down.