Things are looking up, strangers at the door, and what not to do in a hospital room

I may not die from this particular illness after all. I am still croaking, but the hot razor blades are gone from my throat. The vaunted Z-Pack has once again saved my life. Never mind that I am using up all my future catastrophic disease immunity by the frivolous overuse of antibiotics. I’ll think about that tomorrow.

I answered the door today and found two cute 20ish gals, one of whom started the conversation by complimenting me on the Amy Butler pillows on the front porch furniture. After thinking, “This chick knows her fabric lines,” I tried to figure out if I knew these girls from somewhere, and what they were doing at my door. Right after the fabric-recognizing girl segued from Amy Butler to Armageddon, I realized they were coming to rescue my mortal soul. I accepted some reading material, and then we abandoned my mortal soul to discuss local quilt shops. It played differently than my usual soul-saving visits, in which I see who’s coming up the drive, quickly identify them as probable soul-savers, and duck into a closet until they are gone. I can’t believe they are now fooling me by sending these young gal soul savers that don’t fit my SS profile.

All these thoughts of near-fatal sore throats and Armageddon reminded me of the time I did a Completely Innocent Inappropriate Thing in a hospital room. I was a teenager, my dad was recovering from serious surgery, and it was nearly Halloween. Even then I was a crafty sort, and I had volunteered to make a costume for my young nephew. He had his heart set on being a pirate (long before the current pirate craze–some things never change) and so I was stitching on his outfit as I sat at Dad’s bedside, chatting.

Dad’s courtly and rather formal surgeon strolled in for his daily visit. As he walked toward the bed to greet Dad, he was distracted by the sight of me, sewing merrily away there in the visitor’s chair. He paused, fixed me with a steely gaze, and asked if I thought it was quite appropriate to be sitting in a sick room, sewing a skull and crossbones onto a voluminous, some might say shroud-like, black cape.

Well. If you put it that way . . .