From “Decades with the Squad,” by my father, William Palmer Jervey, Jr.

She was a typical youngish grandmother, loved her grandchildren, was adept at grandmotherly things like baking cookies and making doll clothes.

When the illness struck, she took it bravely. Fought the good fight. She endured the surgery, the treatments, the medicine. More surgery, more treatments, more medicines. She fought stubbornly, valiantly every inch of the way as the illness slowly sapped her beauty, her strength, and eventually her life.

We were called to take her to the hospital when she was so weak that she could not speak above a whisper. The treatments had caused all her hair to fall out. As I sat beside her in the ambulance before we moved out, she plucked feebly at my sleeve and indicated that she wanted to tell me something. I put my ear to her lips, and she said,

“Get my wig.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will surely get your wig,” I said.

I ran into the house, got the wig, and placed it on her little bald head with a show of admiration. She gave me a weak little smile and rode on the hospital reasonably content.

Sweet little lady. She died that night. I will always be glad I went back and got the wig.