A Last Combing

She slowly opened her swollen eyes and tried to move her head, which was as drugged as the rest of her body. Oh why is it so suddenly hard to move?


What a relief! She was no longer in that mysterious cocoon in the hospital, where tubes and strange machines were part and parcel of life. She still had some of those tubes in her though, and yes, that all-important oxygen tank!

But where was everybody? She very slowly, very painfully tried to look around the small private room. All she saw was her granddaughter, and her two cousins asleep sitting on the few chairs. The oxygen tank was next to her, the source of the only air she could breathe.

I've tired down everyone. They went home to rest, I guess. But where was N__? and K__? Her favorite daughter and granddaughter. Why weren't they here?

Two tears on her cheeks.I'm tired. I want to go home. Why am I still here?

God, is this it?

She shook the granddaughter awake. She tried to speak but her mouth could no longer move. It pained her to move her lips even a little. She gestured that she wanted, of all things, a comb.

The young woman rummaged through her belongings for a while. There it was, a small violet plastic comb. Old. Worn. Bought so many years ago somewhere and she never thought of buying a new one. She loved the way it went through her hair.

Her hair. She used to be so proud of it, because it was still long, and black even after she had lost her teeth. Now because of her long stays in hospitals, her children had her hair cut, shoulder length. She didn't have the strength to comb a meter long length of hair now anyway.

She gestured that she wanted her hair combed. She knew it was the only way for her, to find out. She wanted to know, right away. Suddenly she felt so strong. She actually sat up, without help, for the first time in so many weeks. It frightened her granddaughter, who let out a gasp.

The young woman began to slide the comb down the thinned-down hair. It was still black, but streaks of white had begun to appear. No tangles.

But something was wrong.

I can't hear the comb going through my head! I can't feel it either! Is this it? Really it?


God, here I am alone and, look, this young woman's taking care of me. I wish I could've been kinder to her. Her sisters too. If only...


The granddaughter finally finished. She took the old woman's pillow and plopped it down again on the bed to make the old woman comfortable.

Oh, that was good. Very. But oh! I can't see a thing! I can't breathe! What's happening?

She was becoming limp as she laid her head on the pillow. She was gasping. Everyone in the room scrambled out to fetch the nurse.

It's my time. Really my time. God help me, You're taking me away and I will never have the chance now to apologize to everyone.

She didn't see a thing nor heard anything, but she felt herself slump on the pillow. It was the last thing she physically felt.

When they came back to the room her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful, except for her tearstained cheeks. A small drop was still there, on her chin.

The doctor took note of the time. 5:30 AM.


(Note: In our local culture, not hearing or feeling the comb while combing one's hair is a popular sign of impending death. Exactly a few days ago (March 29),my grandmother passed away last year. This story was pieced out from the accounts told to me by my younger sister (the granddaughter) who spent a night almost alone by her bedside and had to be among the very few who saw her die.)