Grant Me One Hour

Yesterday was a crappy day. I was overtired. I haven't been sleeping. I was cranky. I felt alone. I felt betrayed. I felt used. I felt hopeless. I felt neglected. I felt withdrawal. I was reminded of where I am and who I am. Of what I have done. I received a large bill. Again. I was told I need another MRI. Need to go to a new neurosurgeon. 30 Page questionnaire. I had blasts of memory. Pangs of emotion.

And yet I felt nothing.

I decided to change my mood and went to the nursing home to visit my Bubby. Without fail, she always manages to lift my spirits. She is truly the happiest person I know. Bli Ayin Hara, at 104 years, she exemplifies how to live. She hasn't just been alive. She has lived. She is my role model. My hero. I wish I could be just like her. (Although I don't want to live that long) She sits at her table with all her friends around her. Each person is a "personality." There's Mrs. S., who speaks 8 languages and lived in Bnei Brak. So we always chat in Hebrew. She never likes the food served and can always be found snacking on crackers, when no one is looking. Yesterday, Mrs. S. was combing through People Magazine. Bubby glances at the magazine and rolls her eyes. There's Gigi, who is the "teenager" of the group. Her thick Russian accent always cracks me up. She always talks about the past and all the different countries she has lived in. She always wheels herself over to see if Bubby has eaten anything. She is currently annoyed that the hairdresser butchered her hair. Then there's the men's table. They keep to themselves mostly. Coming over once in a while to say hello, or just wink from across the room. They all light up when I walk in the room.

Bubby has lived a beautiful and meaningful life. I am petrified for her not to be around anymore. I know that it will happen eventually. But I am not ready to give her up. She is the only person I feel truly happy around. She sees through me. She sees my core. And loves me for who I am. No matter what. Ok, maybe she hates my nail polish. But she thinks I am absolutely beautiful. She loves everything I am. And she makes sure to tell me how wonderful I am. Over and over again. She always plays with my hair. She thinks my hair is stunning. Or as she says "wonderful." In her eyes, I am perfect. I am special. I am beautiful. The truth that I see all fades away. For an hour, I believe her. I feel like that person she sees. For an hour, I am happy. At peace.

But then it's time to leave. And reality hits as the automatic doors open. Back into the freezing cold world. Back to my real life. Back to the person I was an hour before.