Grandma Jones from the valley had never experienced a sick day in her life, so she didn’t take it kindly when a bad case of the mulligrubs landed her in the hospital for observation. From the moment she was wheeled in, she made it clear she was not impressed. The room was too cold. The lights were too bright. The gown was an insult to modesty. The food looked like it had already been eaten once. And the mattress, according to Grandma, felt like it was stuffed with bricks and regret.
By the time a pair of husky interns finally got her tucked into bed, they were already exhausted. Grandma crossed her arms, stared at the ceiling, and muttered something about “people calling this healthcare.” Then her sharp eyes spotted a small plastic item attached to a cord, resting near her hand. She squinted at it suspiciously, like it was personally responsible for her discomfort.
“What’s that?” Grandma demanded.
“If you need anything in the middle of the night, Grandma,” one of the interns said cheerfully, “just press that button.”
Grandma narrowed her eyes. “What does it do, ring a bell?”
“Well,” the intern smiled, “it alerts the nurses’ station so someone can come help you.”
Grandma nodded slowly, filed that information away, and said nothing more. The interns, relieved, quietly left the room. A few minutes later, the hospital floor erupted in chaos. Alarms started blaring. Lights flashed. Nurses came running from every direction, convinced an emergency was unfolding.
They burst into Grandma’s room to find her sitting upright, arms crossed, pressing the button repeatedly like she was playing a piano.
“What is it, Grandma?” a nurse asked urgently. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” Grandma said calmly. “I just wanted to see how fast you people could move.”
The room went silent.
Grandma looked around at the crowd, nodded approvingly, and added, “Now that I know it works, maybe someone can fix this mattress.”
