Bubbe

My grandmother -- my Bubbe -- died last night. She was 90. I got a call at work last Monday from a brisk efficient voice, one undoubtedly accustomed to breaking tragic news to unsuspecting relatives: Did I know a Rachel Messing and did I know who the next-of-kin was because she had been hit by a car and was now at the Bellvue emergency room.

Ten endless agonizing minutes later, I finally arrived at the hospital. I grabbed the EMT and demanded a report. Bubbe had broken a rib and literally fractured her skull, but aside from that, there were no other apparent injuries. Moreover, she was lucid and, in his words, combative. I couldn't help laughing. "Yup," I told the EMT. "That's my grandmother." This was the Bubbe I knew. She was going to be ok.

For most, "combative" is a word with decidedly negative connotations. No so here. Combative is possibly one of the best words to describe my Bubbe. My grandmother was a tough one, a fighter, a champion. At the age of 90, she walked for 3-5 miles everyday. She lived on her own, took care of herself, and was completely and fiercely independent. I asked her a couple of weeks ago whether she was going to Florida for the winter. "Who, me?" she said. "No. Florida is for old people."

Moreover, she was a smart one. Cheat my Bubbe? Impossible. She was on top of her game, sharp as a knife. "I am a businesswoman," she always told me. When I say combative, I mean it in the most loving way possible.

I leave to the airport a couple of hours after her memorial service this morning. I'm pretty sure that's the way she would want it to be. Last time we talked, a couple of days before her accident, she was excited and happy about the whole family being in Israel and about my trip around the world. I invited her to come with us to Israel. She said, "No, that's the one thing I'm too old for."
And I found that funny, because I had never before ever thought of her as old. She was too alive to be old.

Bubbe, I'm going to miss you. May your memory be a blessing.