Gifts of Escape

Sometimes, the imperfect gift is perfect. A year and a half ago, it was not the beautiful flower arrangements or the teddy bears or the cards that gave me a sense of joy and peace while recovering from lung surgery. It was a 20-pack set of pink, gaudy, extra-long press-on nails from four of my closest friends.

One day after being released from a two-and-a-half week stay in the hospital, I opened the front door of my childhood home and found a basket brimming with oddities. To call the selection of items simply gifts would be an understatement.

There were, of course, things like women’s magazines and candy and puzzle books. But there was also a pack of purple, fuzzy grip socks to “maintain” my “sense of style” in my favorite color while taking my daily walk around the block with my mother to regain my strength. There was a scented, microwaveable and weighted eye mask to block out the sunlight of the unseasonably bright late-winter days as I continued to rest.

And then there were the press-on nails. Completely impractical. Totally nonsensical. And yet, exactly what I needed.

Joyous absurdity can be a gift, too.

“I can’t type with these things!” I told my mother after receiving them. “Girl, you just went through something big. Why do you want to go back to typing so soon anyway?” my mother replied. And she was right. Maybe that was what my friends sensed from the start. Not that I only needed practical gifts or stereotypical gifts, but how I also needed something just for the fun of it. I needed something luxurious and silly and distracting. I needed something to both settle me into my reality (illness, recovery) and help me escape it entirely. A balance of needs and wants can make the “hard parts” of life bearable. Joyous absurdity can be a gift, too. So I put them on, took a picture on my phone and sent it to the group chat. “Thank you. I love them,” I typed. And it was true.