It was the third day, my husband, Joe, had been in the intensive care unit following his fifth surgery for the removal of most of his remaining small intestine.

The surgery took significantly longer than expected. Joe was older and weaker, and he wasn’t responding.

As I sat beside his bed, two nurses tried repeatedly to get him to cough, open his eyes, move a finger – anything to let them know he could hear them. He didn’t respond. I sat praying to God to please help Joe respond – any sign that he might survive.

Finally, one of the nurses turned to me and suggested that perhaps if she knew something personal about our family, she could try to stimulate his response with that knowledge. She said,

“Maybe you, as his daughter, could help us with such information.”

I smiled and said, “I’ll be happy to give you personal information, and thank you for the compliment, but I’m his wife of forty-three years, not his daughter, and we’re about the same age.”

The nurse looked at me and said,

“The entire staff thought you were his daughter and had even commented how wonderful they thought it was that his daughter was with him all the time.”

As they were expressing how I looked so young, a little cough came from my husband, and we all turned to stare at him. He didn’t open his eyes, but loud and clear he said, 

“She dyes her hair!”