Dog Days

"Dog Days" are the hottest, most sultry days of summer...usually fall[ing] between early July and early September... Dog Days can also define a time period or event that is very hot or stagnant...

[In ancient Rome] Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies" according to Brady’s Clavis Calendarium, 1813. (Wikipedia)

These are days of tragedy and grief. Syria is in chaos, as the government ravages its people. Floods continue to pound Southern Africa, while in the East children are dying of draught. The Greek economic crisis threatens all of Europe, and fills its own citizens with despair. Growing unemployment, inconsistent health care coverage and budgetary wars threaten the health, and the homes, of millions of Americans. Our own nation's ongoing anger at inaccessible housing has erupted into demonstrations and tent cities. And this morning I awoke to learn that Y, the sweet, strong and healthy 25-year-old son of friends from my teen years, collapsed yesterday -- inexplicably -- of a heart attack. In a few hours from now he will be buried in a Southern California cemetery.

It must be human nature, that among the unfathomable grief on faceless human beings around the world, one young man's death has hit me so hard.

I haven't seen Y since he was a child, but throughout my teenage years, his parents taught me a formative lesson in true hospitality. Time and geography have led me to lose immediate touch with the family for the past few years, though I've thought of them often. I remember his deep dark eyes, his energy, and his siblings. S, his older sister, is a talented writer while younger sister E was always a bright and energetic spark. Together, they were three of the most beautiful, talented, well-rounded and mature children I have encountered. Now they are only two. They did not have to say goodbye.

* * * * *

A few days ago, I thought I was having a bad week. Our beautiful and affectionate cat, barely out of kittenhood, was cruelly mauled to death in the street by neighborhood dogs, most likely ones owned by irresponsible neighbors. In the fallout, the neighborly high following our family's celebration from last month collapsed like a blown-out mine of precious metals; sadness and anger took its place. Much thought, and a carefully-worded neighborhood email followed, whereby I took our dog-owning neighbors to task -- not by name -- and was rewarded with both words of support, and the inevitable rejoinders of denial.

For a few days, the stressful burden of ill will and mutual suspicion pretty much outstripped the sorrow of losing our lovely little feline. But, I thought, Ahhh, such are The Nine Days. "כפרה עליך" (kaPAra aLAyich) as they say. An atonement for past errors, and a gentle reminder to treasure the good things. Our fate is not in our hands.

Now I imagine the family, waking to a morning with no Y, and another, and another. I picture them gathered together, enveloped by their community, crying out in despair, with shock and disbelief filling every corner of the house.

* * * * *

A few months back I was in class on a minor fast day -- Asara b'Tevet -- and my teacher, a convert to Judaism, remarked,

You know, this religion is so fixed on depression. Why do we need so many fast days? Why can't we be adding more holidays and celebrations instead? It's not good for us...

I imagine he knows a thing or two about depressed peoplehood, having both African- and Native American roots. When I think of two nations with more than their share of calamity and maltreatment, these two come to mind.

Thing is, I was kind of torn. On the one hand, he's right. Why do we insist on indulging in sorrow, guilt and mourning, year after year, four times a year, commemorating events some of which are so historically obsolete as to be almost ridiculous. Why, in fact, should we keep Asara b'Tevet on the books, when it commemorates [the beginning of] the destruction of a Temple -- the First Temple -- that has since been both rebuilt and re-destroyed?!

It is easy, even natural, to side with the thinking that suggests this type of mourning is no longer in step with our national timeline. Maybe such harping on the negative even weakens our collective conscience, at a time when we need to be investing all our emotional energies into increasing our sense of resilience. Can wallowing in our collective sorrow really help us?

On the other hand, we've harbor a tendency to hang on to our traditions, obsolete as they might seem, and for the most part this does us more good than harm.

* * * * *

Either way, Tisha b'Av stands apart from the four minor fasts. We don't just grab one day, midyear, and assign it historical importance, long since superseded by subsequent national events. We enter a process of reverse-mourning, and we give ourselves nearly a month to do it, scraping away, little by little, at our every-day comforts until we come to feel some sense of loss.

And yet, despite all these collective efforts, I know I am not alone in saying that most years, it's a real challenge to really make the loss feel tangible. No Temple? No big deal. We've gone without that for nearly two millennia. As for the victims -- the previous generations who died at the hands of the Assyrians, the Greeks, the Romans -- they'd all be long gone by now in any event. How can I learn to feel that loss deeply and personally?

We don't fool ourselves either -- as mourning goes, this is not exactly the Real Deal. Unlike individual mourners, physically demarcated and emotionally isolated from their visitors, on Tisha b'Av we all sit together on the floor, reading out Lamentations for all to hear. When Tisha b'Av ends, we don't isolate ourselves, avoiding haircuts and new clothes and parties. We resume our lives, since we have not, in fact, just lost a mother, a child, a brother.

Unless, G-d forbid, we have.

This Tisha b'Av I will continue struggle, as I do every year, to make our ancient national losses feel personal. But this year, I know, this personally-felt loss will echo the national tragedy it truly is.

May the family be comforted among the mourners of Tzion and Jerusalem.

Keep the balance,

ALN

See a previous post on prophets & the Three Weeks.

Nationalism on Their Young Minds

Mommy, I wish I know all the languages. Then I could understand everyone. A brief pause, a puzzled look. And a question: Mommy! am I Israeli or American?

Just when I'm thinking Blondini Boy -- all six years of him -- only has Playmobil and Chaos Faction2 on his mind.

Even now I'm not sure exactly what he was after. Did our recent international influx of family visitors spark geographic, or perhaps linguistic, confusion? Was the very concept of multiple citizenship at odds with his developmental stage and notable tendency toward concrete thinking? Or was I merely underestimating his latent capability for immature existential musings?

I told BBoy he was definitely Israeli, having been born and lived his entire life here in Israel. I emphasized that he was also part American -- and part British, by virtue of his parentage (just to further confuse things), following up with a mandatory footnote, that it is possible to be several things at once, even while you can only live in one place at a time.

He accepted all of that. In other words, I got off easy.

Flash forward, to last Tuesday. J, my work colleague and close friend for over a decade, has rightly insisted that if we don't get ourselves together this week, our breakfast out will have to wait another month until after Ramaddan.

We have a lot to talk about, now that each of us has taken the year off work, to study and recharge....we've missed an awful lot of lunchtime chit-chat. Beyond our common work interests, our kids are of similar ages, and so there are mutual updates and parental wisdom to share, conundrums to analyze and discuss.

I pick up J at her home and forty minutes later we are walking the streets of Jerusalem's historic German Colony heading for my favorite cafe. Once seated, I apologize for having dragged her into such an American venue, but then imagine that for her, being a minority here among the Americans might just be more comfortable.

As always, our conversation tends toward education -- our own studies, the kids' schools -- and our personal and childrearing dilemmas. Her children attend private schools, one secular modeled on the American public school system, the other French Christian with a Muslim majority student body. (Her kids already speak four languages between the two of them).

Together we review pros and cons of separate-sex education, secular education, multi-lingual education, the Education Ministry. Her approach toward nondenominational school prayer comes up, as does my [livid] reaction to my daughter's science teacher's refusal to teach Darwinism because "it conflicts with the Torah" (along with the school principal's support of such behavior on the grounds that "teaching evolution might confuse the girls' spiritual development." (Another time). As always, we found a common interest, and common ground, in every topic.

(For many years J and I worked together in the same department, and from an early stage we began planning our group lesson plans together. I always felt at ease, knowing that her translation of my words would come across exactly as I meant it. If you've ever worked through a translator, you'll understand why this is not something to be taken for granted).

Now here I was, telling J about BBoy's nationality question. Turns out her daughter L, age 8, had recently popped an even bigger one: Mama, do we live in Israel or Palestine?

Hmmm.

J answered in Talmudic style, a question for a question. What do you think? Do we live in Israel or Palestine? L thought about it and answered, Palestine, because everyone here speaks Arabic.

J took a deep breath. Then in a brilliant Uncharted Parenting move, J pulled out a map.

I began to describe, place by place, the areas of Arab settlement, and of Jewish settlement. I explained that there had been one war, and then another, and so things shifted, and that, more recently, the Jewish areas expanded until some of them ran into the Arab ones. I pointed out places that were under Israel's jurisdiction ("Israel"), and places supervised by the PA ("Palestine").

Then she repeated L's own question back at her: Where do you think we live? T concluded that she lives in Israel, but goes to school in Palestine (her school is in East Jerusalem).

Put politics aside, as most eight-year-olds tend to do, and this ends up being a pretty precise answer.

I probably don't need to point out the obvious: J lives in two worlds that don't always fit together. She is proud of her Muslim-Arab heritage, proud her family has lived where it has for over ten generations. Yet she appreciates all the good things her state has to offer -- the opportunities, the education, the freedom. J loves Judaism and completed a bagrut in תנ"ך (Bible) and תושב"ע (the Oral Law) and probably knows more about them than I do. Yet if she's at work during the siren on Yom haZikaron (Memorial Day) she finds a private corner in which to sit, so as not to feel she is betraying one part of herself at the expense of the other.

I don't judge J for all of that. I embrace her for trying to find that ephemeral middle ground between sensitivity and dignity, assimilation and self preservation. (I'm trying to find it too, only this time, for the first time, I'm of the majority). Over the years, our parallel perspectives as minority citizens, searching for the common ground, have blessed our friendship with a mutual understanding neither of us has found too easily elsewhere.

J, have a meaningful Ramaddan.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Next up: Natural resource privatization issues, out of the mouths of babes.

It Takes A Village, a Family, and A Whole Lotta Insanity

(That almost rhymes).

Won't make excuses, except for this: Took a year off.

Literally. Took the year off work, off blogging. Returned to the student life and studied something entirely different. No education, no therapy. No hospital.

Turns out, studying midlife is not studying at 19. No night-after-night-awake-until-2am. No running to the library whenever I darn feel like it. Elder Princeski, Always the Imp and

Blondini Boy (who, incidentally, has grown out of those blond curls) need me to look up from those books once in awhile. They can't be expected to understand what's so exciting about all the fine print piling up on the dining table. Even if colorful maps are sometimes involved.

And then, there was the recent Coming of Age Celebration, aka the Bat Mitzvah. (Because we all know how a twelve-year-old is, um, practically an adult. Never mind).

By now a majority of the neighbors have hosted one or more of these events, and this

is what stands out: The child's parents stand up and -- along with happily fawning over their child, and thanking everybody for coming -- praise the community at great lengths, for making the event a reality. It always sounded kind of exaggerated, and I couldn't understand what the big deal was.

Now I really do get it. Elder P & I had this vision, to celebrate at home with a kind of garden-block-party, and my neighbors did every imaginable task to make this thing a reality. An abridged list:

Helping Elder P plan a special Bat Mitzvah tefilla. Sitting with me to plan out the menu, the shopping list, the time table, the program. Hosting our family for a relaxing Shabbat lunch the week before the event. Lending hotplates and water kettles, projector lights and electricity cables. Lending two hours at night, and again the next day -- in the blazing sun --to help That Guy install those lights and electricity cables.

(Pause for breath). Approaching neighbors and asking them to lend all the above (& more), then delivering it to our doorstep. Permitting us to close off the street for the evening. Making salads and fruit plates. Translating and printing Elder P's talk into English so our family could enjoy it. Going out -- at the last minute -- to pick up the food. Taking down the signs after the event (thank you, whoever you are!). Moral support. I know there's more, but I've already forgotten.

One of my neighbors has actually opened a Gama"ch in memory of her father z"l, lending out serving dishes, tablecloths, candlesticks and more so that her neighbors can hold events at home. She came two hours beforehand and set up all the tables, too. What a huge help.

What goes around also comes around. By purchasing our drinks at the makolet (local grocery store) instead of the [less expensive] chain supermarket, we received an offer to store the drinks in his jumbo-fridge until right before the party.

We hired one neighbor to make high-end

desserts, giving her much-needed publicity (and the desserts were fantastic! If you want her number, drop me a line). Another neighbor, all of fifteen years old, is a professional-grade hair stylist who, as you can see, turned Elder P into a true Princess.

E, the son-in-law of friends and a young father raising two young kids while growing his new photography business, was hired to take pictures. We employed yet a fourth friend to provide the entertainment, including individually tailored instruction for the kids and a funny & original juggling performance for all our guests. (Elder P loves juggling, and this was a special surprise in her honor). Three neighborhood teens were hired as kitchen managers and waitresses, and they worked.

We love having such talented friends, and being able to give them our business at such a happy occasion.

And then, there were my parents. The morning of, I sent them a fourteen-item list, Which of these could you help with?, expecting them to chose two or three. They choose ten, and then ran around schlepping stuff from late afternoon until early evening when the party began.

And yes, it was worth it! Elder P had the time of her life, so did the neighbors, and I'm thankful. בשמחות!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Goodbye, Our Incredible Friend

RivkA.....

We all knew it would happen. Despite your consistently high spirits, your infectious optimism, your belief that giving up was not an option.

This was true long before your diagnosis, and all the more so since.

Who else would manage to turn a course of chemotherapy into a weekly opportunity to meet old friends for a drink? Or continue her job as a swim instructor, while on chemo, because it rejuvenated her? Or take the time each and every week to reach out to her hundreds

(thousands?!) of friends, family, readers and fans.

Like any blogger, I am usually a person of words. Now, it seems, there is nothing to say.... except to ask Why?

The question only echoes back darkly, as I think of your beautiful kids, your supportive husband, continuing on without you. You made it quite clear: Pity is not your way, and faith is always the answer. Oh, to have that kind of clarity!

We were supposed to get together and paint.... just the idea got both of us so excited! It was you, RivkA, who inspired me to write. Now, after nearly a year away from this blog, your death has inspired me to return. You had that kind of strength, encouraging people to do their best, be themselves, reach their goals, believe in God, and tell it like it is.

RivkA, you're gone. We miss you horribly. But know this: Your love and enthusiasm are here to stay.

רבקה בת ישעיה, לכי בשלום.

ALN

Photo credits go to That Guy I Married, who succeeded in capturing RivkA's energy and enthusiasm for the camera, at her daughter A's bat mitzvah last June.

"I'm the Oldest Person I Know."

I'm 95 years old, and you know what? That's old.

I'm the oldest person I know.

That's Grandma. As a kid, I can't say we got along. There were some strong opinions involved, some -- shall we say -- incidents. Like the time she called my mother from 100 miles away insisting that we wear sweaters "because it's cold over here." Or the time she entered my room while I was away and straightened it up "just a bit." I wanted to kill her.

Grandma has always held strong opinions about everything. She was into raw foods and organic produce long before the rest of California discovered them. She firmly believed, and continues to believe, that fluoridated water is evil reincarnate, and that women who do not make efforts to "look smart," (that is, dress well and apply make-up) are doing humanity some sort of general disservice.

Through the years, her letter-writing has had me in stitches. There's the time I wrote her from summer camp to report on my recent swimming lessons, and received a reply that she, too, was learning to swim. At age 70. "But," she confided, "I don't like to put my face in the water." (I could relate to that).

And not one of my fellow campmates received, as I did, letters signed with the valuable but ill-timed advice, "Remember to eat lots of organic lettuce!" I neglected to return her counsel with the sad but true reality that at camp we were lucky to get some limp iceberg with our suspiciously-tinted beef patties and soggy fries.

This year, my grandmother is, as she puts it, "really feeling my age." Everything is a process; getting dressed, preparing meals, even -- I assume -- going to the bathroom, although this has yet to come up in conversation. A couple of months back she fell down in her kitchen and, in typical Grandma style, refused to tell anyone about it for fear she'd be dragged to the hospital for endless tests (eventually that is exactly what happened). She's okay now, having rested at home for a short time, after which she systematically rejected the help of every home care nurse and social worker available.

During her recuperation she refused to go outside, for fear she would be spotted using a walker by one of her fellow retirement community-neighbors in her, and subsequently be labeled an old lady.

* * * * *

The other day I asked Grandma for her insights about aging.

Grandma: I don't like old people. Even myself....I have to listen to myself all the time, and I get tired of it. I'm always trying to change things.

Me: What do you mean by that?

G: I would realized what I'm doing, and change what I'm thinking, and reject it.

Me: Like what?

G: Like walking like a duck. I reject it. Like being critical about people. Things really aren't that important, you know? I'm trying to resist some of the earmarks of old people.

I once read in an old copy of New Scientist, a British popular science weekly, that neurological imaging at different stages of life has shown that older people have a tendency to "mellow out" over time, not getting as worked up neurologically about those little things that get under the skin of most the rest of us. In other words, over time, older people gain perspective, at the most basic neurological level.

Sometimes, after a frustrating conversation with Grandma, my family will say, "Oh, she's acting like an stubborn old person again." But I'm not so convinced. No question, she's still stubborn, way beyond the rest of us, but she's always been like that. If anything, she's calmed down a bit over the years.

She's not acting old -- she's acting Grandma.

If you'd asked me as a child whether my grandmother would ever mellow out, I wouldn't have answered positively. I wouldn't describe her as mellow now. Despite her refusal to receive help, for the most part her obstinate behavior benefits her. She's already lost some of her mobility, much of her eyesight, and most of her friends to old age. But when she tells me she's gained a new perspective on herself and others, I believe her. She just wants her body, and her life, to stay just the way they are. Don't we all?

(Get to know Grandma a bit better in Imagine the Alternatives and At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans).

Keep the balance,

ALN

Meetingplace / Marketplace

The short flight had been uneventful.  As we disembark, Blondie Boy waves a casual Shalom to the two youngish ground crewmen assigned to monitor passenger progression from plane to gate.  I try to focus his awareness to the idea that from now on, for the next few weeks, he must speak English to those around him.  The next day, in the Brent Cross shopping mall, Elder Princeski wonders if we will encounter any Israelis here.   My response -- Just keep your ears open! -- is cut short by a mother speaking Hebrew to her two kids as they cross our path toward the escalator.

Brent Cross is a multicultural hub;  families from everywhere, kids of all skin tones.  Women in robes, dresses, headscarves in a spread of colors both bright and drab.   An endless flow of mother tongues, alongside English delivered in multiple cadences.  And so many Jews, they barely glance at one another in any attempt for recognition.   My own moderate headscarf does not register a perceptible glance from anyone, and I feel a sort of relativity effect, an at-oddness with both the bare-headed, spaghetti strap world on my left, and the thoroughly wrapped opacity on my right.  Neither covering, nor lack of one, exposes the ideas and beliefs within the minds around me.

If I were a white Christian male here, I would feel left out, slightly noteworthy, a minority. Perhaps this rainbow effect now means the white majority no longer feels comfortable coming here.  Perhaps it no longer exists, or never did.

At home I sometimes joke about retail therapy, the occasional -- and temporary -- pick-me-up for an emotional trying day at work.   Abroad, it has already become both a chore, albeit an enjoyable one, and an opportunity.  Elder P taking mental notes on the people around her, asking few questions while, I can assume, sitting tight on others which will surface eventually. She's an observant kid, she knows how to make comparisons, and one day soon knowing the answers will become more urgent.

Meanwhile, my headspace is still lingering back at home, ruminating over its own troubled comparisons.  If, here, those people wearing head coverings are drawing any suspicion, I cannot feel it, although they themselves might.  

The marketplace has always been a meeting place, and no less now than before, among our skylights and window dressings and vast air-conditioned spaces.  Retail as the great commons, or commonality.  I enjoy being here, and even knowing such a place exists, whether I come to purchase, or to find comfort and captivation in the purchasers.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Into Another World

(If you missed it, see Maybe I Should Write About It).

The view from their living room window -- dry hills interspersed with grasses and low-lying bushes -- was oddly familiar, in that I could have mistaken it for the California of my childhood. 

I had parked the car on the street above.  There was plenty of parking;  most residents in this area don't know how to drive a car and cannot afford one.  The early afternoon air was hot and still.  The inside car temperature approached that of an oven from the moment I shut off the engine.  

I crossed the sidewalk, paused, and headed toward the double flight of stairs.  To my left, three middle-aged, dark-skinned men squatted over a flattened carton, dealing cards.  The stairs, framed by simple metal railings, abutted a series of dirt-filled, half-meter brick tiers in an uneven stack like some child's haphazard block construction.  They led me down to one of a series of dreary dun developments, each four stories high and six living units across, fronted by an empty patch of dusty soil.  Most of the buildings carried a rusty sign vainly remarking a municipal-sponsored refurbishment in 1976, and despite this, they all looked as though they had somehow survived five decades or more.

As expected, there were no signs pointing the way toward the house of mourning.  The numbering was haphazard and I could not find the right building.  In response to my query, an older man placed his hands on my shoulders and literally rotated my body to the right and downward.  

His murmuring suggested I had a ways to walk, and the apartment I sought was in fact the last one in the staggered row of developments.   As I followed along the row of buildings, there was a smell, of pungent, unfamiliar spice and slightly fermented grains, which seemed to grow in intensity as I approached the entrance.

The door of one of the ground-floor apartments had been left wide open, and the spotless living room floor reflected an image of a hefty woman lounging on her sofa.  She jumped in with an answer  before I could get the question out.  "Where -- ?"  "Up on the third floor."

The door was closed and had no markings on or around it, save a mezuzah with a cheap plastic cover.  Inside the house, the extended family -- his mother, sister, two brothers, four aunts, three uncles and a cousin -- nearly filled the small living room.  His mother had a black mourning cape draped over one shoulder, and as I entered she glanced up, sighed and shifted the cape to her lap, stood, and clung to me.   She sat down, sighed, and offered me a chair near the middle of the room.   "My heart..."

A foursome of aunts and uncles sat around a coffee table playing cards, throwing each card onto one of four piles with an aggressive THWAP.  Somehow, it felt only slightly out of place.  His sister poured me a cup of cola, which his mother refilled after every sip I took.  She exchanged a few words with her daughter.  I was waiting for a translation, some statement about how it was all over, or referring to his time in the hospital.  But no.

He had some new clothes, the sister related.  They're in G's office.  Do you think you can talk to him about getting them back?

Of course.  His brother would be needing those clothes, so carefully chosen only two months before.  

The mother continued her conversation with an aunt who was sitting across from us, while I talked to the sister and made a few phone calls in an unsuccessful attempt to contact the cable TV representative and ask him to come pick up the cable box which nobody in the household now has a use for.  

Sometime later, we exchanged good-byes and I made my way back down three stories, along six dreary buildings, and up two outside flights to street level.  I got in my car, drove out of the neighborhood and back into to my infinitely more complex, familiar -- and for now, sadder -- world.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA

Since beginning pediatric hospital work over a decade ago, I've shown a tendency to divide circumstances -- that is, reasons for hospitalization -- into two artificially neat categories:  Man-made, and G-d-made.  

Examples of the former include falls from upper-story windows, hot-water burns, and car "accidents."  The latter run a spectrum, from "less serious," (i.e. dangerous but curable) illnesses like RSV, Hanoch-Schlein and cellulitis, to acutely life-threatening maladies like Crohn's, SCID, CF, and acute myeloid leukemia.  

Believe it or not, in many ways I had a much harder time in Pediatric Surgical, working with kids injured as a result of the "man-made" stuff.  Why?  I was constantly troubled by the thought that most of the injuries there were preventable;  Falls resulting from unsupervised climbs along an unfenced roof edge or an unbarred third-story window.  Shabbat kettle burns?  See Prof K's posts, here and here, for more on that.  (Yes, I've referenced these before, and I'll probably keep doing it until the problem is no more).  Car-related injuries?   I won't start ranting here about street safety or seat belt use, but please pretend I did.

As for the G-d-made part -- we can't prevent that stuff.  It's just not our jurisdiction.  We can only try to cure it.  And if we cannot cure a child's illness, we can still try to help that child find comfort and meaning until the end.

But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.

I am, of course, referring to the February 1, 2009 decision of the Palestinian Authority to cease nearly all payments to Israeli hospitals, thereby cutting off hundreds of Palestinian children (and adults) with life-threatening illnesses from the medical care they need. 

  

Let's not turn this situation into another political discussion.  Because for me, and so many others, this is not a theoretical situation involving some unnamed, unknown enemy.  This is a new reality, where over fifty children, all of which I know personally on one level or another -- some for several years now -- have been given a death sentence by way of a governmental policy of collective medical neglect.

When I let myself think about it, or when circumstances force me to think about this new reality, sadness creeps in and hits me, literally, in the face.  Our department is half empty, which for us staff members could be viewed as a glass half-full, since we've been working at a slower pace these past few weeks and can take a few minutes to breathe now and then.

But then someone like A -- a beautiful, bright and sensitive teenage girl whom we have been treating for a leukemia for the past four months -- suddenly shows up in our department with a nearly lethal systemic infection because she no longer had a commitment from the PA to pay for her treatments.

What about all the others?  Some of them are in touch with us by phone, while others have been so difficult to contact, it's as if they have disappeared into thin air.   All are pleading desperately, crying at the desks of the PA bureaucrats who have the power to make a life-changing decision but choose not to.  These officials have claimed they will sponsor parallel treatment in an Egyptian, Jordanian, or even Europe -- anywhere but Israel -- but with very few exceptions, we've yet to encounter evidence that our patients are receiving any treatment whatsoever.   

Every once in awhile a rumor flits through the department -- that so-and-so has died of a deadly infection in some PA hospital somewhere.  So far these rumors have proven false, but it's only a matter of time before they are not.  Chemotherapy protocols are measured in days and hours.  A lost week is an acute risk;  a lost month, or even a fever, is a death sentence.  

If we could treat for free, we would.  But we can't, because the funding would come out of our department budget, such that within a month even one patient's treatment would empty the coffers and shut down the department.  A few of our staff have even dug into their pockets so that certain individual patients could have this one medical test or that course of life-saving antibiotics.  A few miniscule drops into a very deep bucket.

This past Monday we were all relieved to learn that A's family managed to confirm her East Jerusalem resident status, allowing us to continue the treatment that will, most likely, save her life.  This morning, the Palestinian Authority's Committee of Medical Exceptions purportedly met to review the list of children requesting funding in to continue treatment in Israeli hospitals for long-term, life-threatening illnesses.  

I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

While this situation has affected patients in hospitals throughout the country, for whatever reason most of the (limited) PR refers to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.  See the NY Times piece here, and the JTA piece here.

Almond Blossoms -- Goodbye Until Next Year

This Today's Flowers post is dedicated to my Mom.

This past week I found myself wandering around Ein Kerem, at the southern end of Jerusalem, following an off-site planning session that, to my delight, ended an hour ahead of schedule. 

I was so pleasantly surprised by having this extra hour to myself  that it took me nearly 15 minutes just to decide what to do with it.  The sun, hidden behind the clouds, was due to set in about an hour.  Perfect photography light.

It's the end of the almond tree blossoms.  Ein Kerem is filled with almond trees -- שקדיות shkediot in Hebrew.  This tree's claim to fame is that it is the first to bloom, in the dead of winter, and almost out of nowhere.  

Now most almond trees in Israel are divided between bloom and foliage, with the white/pink blossoms contrasting against dark spindley branches and the bright green of newly sprouting leaves.  

Here, the flowers have already dropped off as the tree develops leaves and shifts into fruit-producing mode.

Another Spring, already on its way...

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Roller Coaster

It's been a time of extremes.  Chanukah was fantastic - fabulous wedding, the kids (even Blondini Boy) were lovely bridesmaids / flower-kids.  Lots of celebrating, Sheva Brachot, and all those wonderful wedding things.

Then Chanukah starts winding down, the IDF winds up... and our nation's young adults -- my teenage cousin, his girlfriend, their buddies -- are going up in jet planes,  or planning down on the ground, risking their lives while our nation's kids and adults are hovering under bus stops and in shelters.  

The U.N. can condemn all it wants.  So can France, and whoever else.  Enough is enough.  Once again, Hamas is using their own citizenry as cannon fodder, and their willingness to do so is terrible for them, and ultimately, even more terrible for us.   

Hamas wants us out, wants us dead.   They say as much, all the time. But we're here.  To stay.  

Even those families who have been temporarily forced out of their homes -- in Sderot, in Ashkelon -- will be back soon.  Meanwhile, their kids did not return to school this morning along with their fellow pupils around the country.  Instead they are hovering within their houses or taking physical refuge in the homes of relatives, friends and strangers around the country.  Where does the psyche take refuge?  I do not know.

I look at that ubiquitous map, the one outlining Kassam ranges, and take note that we are within 50 kilometers of Ashkelon, only slightly beyond the farthest estimated capabilities of the longest-range weapon Hamas has amassed -- for the time being.  If you've never been here, you might have a hard time envisioning just how small this country is.  If you already live here, I don't need to explain.

I oppose war, hate violence, condemn mass destruction, and most of all, detest the thought of pain and suffering enacted by one group of humans on another.  But enough is enough.   We've been saying this for too long, while those ominous lines denoting Hamas' weapon range expand outward from the front page into our front gardens, our own front line.  

Enough is enough.

ושבו בנים לגבולם.

(For a recent report / opinion, please read one of my favorite blogs, A Soldier's Mother, here).

Keep the balance,

ALN

Let Them Eat Cake

Just a quick line, before the whirlwind packing process that precedes a family wedding (fancy white flower girl dresses, contingency dresses (note color of previous), little hair doo-dads, extra tights, more extra tights, needle and thread, etc. etc. etc...)

Last week I hosted colleagues from our school's senior staff for a presentation on the implementation of the new Hospital  Obligatory Education Law, which is finally going into effect some time in first few months of 2009. According to our school tradition, the presenter prepares a light meal for all of us to enjoy before the evening's program, and in addition to the soup, bread, and cheeses I had prepared a couple of chocolate cakes.

I went upstairs where That Guy I Married was getting the offspring into pajamas.  They had not failed to catch the freshly-baked cake aroma wafting through the house (and it wasn't even erev Shabbat), and asked whether they would be invited to partake.  When I was little, I told them, my Mommy was very concerned about not having us eat sugar, so she never let us have the cake she made for guests or work meetings.

Without missing a beat, Elder Princeski retorts, 

Mommy you're not going to do that to us, are you?

Followed by the inevitable, Mommy, you should blog this!  Either of those rejoinders would have convinced me, but really, I was planning on giving them some anyway...

(Sorry, Mom - I know your intentions were good).  

Shavua tov, a good week, and, of course, a huge mazal tov to N & M!

Keep the balance,

ALN

The Legacy We Could Have Gained

I have to agree with David Bogner here at Treppenwitz.   We all know there were some - a very few -  that were misguided enough to support the assassination.  But shame on those self-appointed Leftist "leadership" (capital L), whose character assassinations demonstrate that they would rather be staunchly Left, than right.  

Like so many others, I remember being shocked and saddened on that Saturday night in November, and in the days that followed when I stood in line, along with people of all ages, religious and political beliefs, to pay our last respects at the Knesset.   

The mourning of an assassinated prime minister should never have become a political event.  It is a national event, a national loss, a national disgrace.  In the shadow of Rabin's assassination, our country's "leaders" did nothing to encourage a feeling of unity, and by now I fear we have gotten used to this national bifurcation as the status quo, even -- especially? -- on national days of mourning.

Not nearly enough balance here.

ALN

The Role of Hope

Yesterday a patient's father appeared in the hallway outside our department.   Professor O is a large man, tall and sturdily built, with a kind round face and wild, grey-and-black eyebrows over large, sensitive eyes.  He stood there with head hung down and shoulders slumped in a gesture of abject sadness.    

Professor O had walked over to the pediatric building from the oncology department in the main hospital building, to update us on the condition of his son L, and more importantly, to feel the comfort of familiar faces who have known and loved his son through many years of treatment. 

He informed us that L is not doing well, that he is reacting very badly to a recent bone marrow transplant and is extremely weak.  Despite the specialized drugs, L's body is fighting the transplant (a process known as GHVD) and destroying his own organs in the process.

Professor O is a highly educated man, a lecturer at a local university, with a good grasp of English (not his first language) and keen ability to describe complex ideas in apprehensible and interesting terms.  He is rational and emotional in equal measures, punctuating medical and scientific discussions with sensitive observations about his son's and his own emotional experience with illness.  During our many talks over the years, I have always been impressed by the way in which he speaks of his son with  deep love and sensitivity. Toward the hospital staff he consistently conveys a sense of respect, together with his belief that despite our best efforts, these multiple relapses and failures of treatment are the will of G-d.

When he arrived in the hall, Professor O was joined by two of us from the school staff and by L's oncologist.  He described how terrible his son looked and felt, the constant loss of blood, L's refusal to eat or drink.  As he spoke, his shoulders sank further toward the ground as his gaze extended outward toward ours, in search of comfort.

We understood our role:  to listen, to confirm, and most crucially, to help this man hold onto his sense of hope.  He and L had understood the heavy risks of transplantation, yet he seemed to be asking the oncologist for confirmation that proceeding with this transplant had been the right decision.  Yes, she assured him, as tears streamed down his face, this was the only option. The medicine can still help him survive the GVHD.  There is still reason to hope.

Professor O understands, L understands, and L's physician understands.  L's chances for survival are low, and meanwhile he only suffers.  Yet no one has given up hope.  For all we know, it is hope -- his own, his father's -- and not medication, that is keeping L alive.  

This hope is not misplaced optimism or denial.   It is not a substitute for recognizing reality.  Rather, I think, it is that uniquely human feeling that we are part of something greater and better than what we can see and feel at this moment.

I don't know the pain, suffering and fear L feels, nor do I truly understand that other kind of pain and suffering, and guilt, felt by his father.  I want never to know their experience from within.  But I believe that from our external point of view, we can still help L and his family hold onto hope.  From now on, it may be the only way we can really help them.*

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* For more reading on the subject of hope, I really like this website -- available here, in a slightly different form, as a PDF download -- sponsored by the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.  Saint Jude is known to those of Catholic and other faiths as the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, yet somehow this is not at odds with the hospital's mission of encouraging hope in patients and their families.