When I woke up I looked into the eyes of an old woman. She looked like my grandmother. The pearls around her neck, the peach chiffon suit she was wearing and the grey curls framing her face was enough to tell me that she was most likely next to the wrong bed.

“Hi sweetheart,” she said as I tried to sit up right, and immediately she was out from the chair, helping me to get comfy against the pillows.

“My name is Abby,” she said with a smile that could only belong to a grandmother. I pictured her in a kitchen, baking cookies in the shape of dinosaurs, waiting on...