Grandma is in surgery right now, to repair a hernia we think she probably got during one of the dozens of times she tried to haul my grandfather off the floor when he fell. Over and over and over. He refused almost all help until the end, and even then he was stubborn until he couldn't be any more.
Bad things happen to good people and bad people who don't deserve for good things to happen to them are always getting ahead, aren't they? Grandma's one of the good ones, but, like ... so good. Ridiculously good. Good to a fault.
If we lived in a fair world, Grandma would have been swept off her feet by a king and then she would have been Queen Evelyn, co-ruler of some fabulous nation with great year-round weather, where all the people loved her. How could they not? Everyone loves my grandmother. You would, too.
Grandma is a bit of a phenomenon because of her personality. "Where did it even come from?" I asked my mom on the phone the other day, about the niceness. The sweet, twinkling-eyeness of it all that makes everyone adore her. "I don't know," Mom says. Mom's also one of these people everyone is always saying is such a nice lady, and she is, but as the niceness passes down through the generations it gets diluted. I, for instance, am only marginally nice and am prone to hormonal mood swings.
My grandma would admit life's not fair. "Nope!" I can hear her agreeing, agreeably, probably with a smile. But in the back of her mind she's probably thinking life can't be all that unfair if it contains such things as pralines-and-cream ice cream, Black Friday sales, and video poker.
Grandma has this blunt doctor who tells my mom and aunt not to allow any unnecessary surgery, as it could have nasty results on her health, since she has Parkinson's Disease. It's one of those shitty diseases happening to fabulous people things. Grandma calls the doctor Dr. Santa Claus, or Dr. San Diego, or Dr. Santa Barbara, or Dr. San Juan Batista, because his name sounds like one of those and hell if she or I can remember what his actual name is. So we share the inside joke and she looks up with a twinkle in her green eyes. She is easily amused, easily entertained, easy, easy, easy.
They'd never allow the surgery if it weren't imperative; if some day this couldn't kill her. It could, so they did, so she is in surgery right now and my phone is here, dark and quiet.
She'll be OK. She'll probably make some doctor fall in love with her. She'll probably come off the anesthesia and ask adorably, "When's lunch?" and then they'll bring her the disgusting hospital food and later she'll tell us stories of how delicious it was.
And she'll really think it was.