Inside my room in the care center in Amsterdam,
a cool, steady breeze from the fan
moves gently
through the air,
soft and artificial, a quiet hum that never stops.
Beyond my window,
the morning is already awake—
warm, steamy, heavy with heat,
pressing against the glass
like breath on skin.
It is 7:15. Modah Ani L’fanekha.
And something extraordinary has happened.
I slept through the night.
I cannot remember
the last time I did that.
Certainly not since the stroke that
I thought had changed things forever.
Nebach
Usually,
I listen to podcasts
through the darkness—
voices in my ears,
soft light from the screen,
keeping me company
until morning arrives.
But last night, after the bedtime Shema Yisrael,
there was only silence.
No voices.
No glow.
No passing hours marked by sound.
I simply closed my eyes.
With the help of some paracetamol,
I lay quietly
beneath a white sheet
that smelled faintly of detergent and hospital air,
and somehow
the night carried me
without interruption
all the way to morning.
The nurse came in early,
soft footsteps on the floor,
the faint rustle of uniform,
and looked at me closely,
checking if I needed
to be cleaned.
Usually,
I wake at least twice in the night,
press the bell,
and ask for help
with my incontinence diaper.
But not last night.
Last night,
I slept.
And this morning
even the nurse paused,
surprised in a quiet way,
as if the room itself
had changed its rhythm.
Today is different.
Today,
I am going on an adventure.
Shehekheyanu.
At 2:30,
my daughter
is taking me
to the shopping mall nearby.
I have an appointment
to have my nails done.
Such a small thing,perhaps,
to someone else.
But to me,
it is a day that feels large,
bright,
and full of meaning.
Because for the first time,
I will take my electric wheelchair
outside and drive it myself.
No occupational therapist beside me.
No guiding hands.
No voice telling me when to slow down.
Just me,
my wheelchair,
the road,
and the world opening up outside.
I have to plan carefully.
A dry diaper, secure and comfortable.
A good lunch, something warm in my stomach.
Everything I might need.
And most of all,
confidence—
something I can almost feel
forming in my chest.
This will be the third time
I have gone out
in my electric wheelchair
without the help
of my occupational therapist.
But today feels different.
Today,
I am not simply leaving
the care center.
Today,
I will feel the air outside my room
on my skin.
I will hear the change in sound
as the hallway becomes doorway,
and doorway becomes street.
I will feel the small vibrations
of the wheelchair wheels
as they meet uneven ground,
the subtle shift
from smooth indoor floors
to the textured world outside.
Today,
I am going somewhere.
Today,
I am going to have my nails done.
Like a proper Jewish bubby.
I imagine the mall already—
the echo of footsteps,
the distant hum of escalators,
the smell of coffee drifting
from somewhere I cannot yet see.
Today,
I am going with my daughter.
And I can almost hear her voice beside me,
steady and familiar,
anchoring me as I move forward.
Today,
I am going to live. A mekhiah!
