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As Long As I Live
WEEK 134 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR HONORARY CITIZEN
“Okay, so what do we do now?” I asked the doctor. As yet, only Dr. Ron, the paper, and I knew the secret. “First we excise the suspicious gland and send it for a biopsy. After we get the results, we’ll have a better idea of how to proceed,” he said. The scenario was chillingly familiar. Until the results of the biopsy, we couldn’t know if it was lymphoma or some other malignancy. The gnawing doubt was familiar, too. Dr. Ron accompanied me to the surgical ward on the fourth floor to get things moving. The elevator and corridors hadn’t changed. Neither had the traffic of people coming and going. Most seemed in a hurry, as if chasing some treasure that they’d lost within this huge facility. What am I doing here, for Heaven’s sake? Dr. Ron found Professor Micha Rabo, the department head, and told him, “I want you to personally operate on Judge Margalit.” (They were still calling me “the judge.”) We scheduled a date, I wrote it in my business appointment diary, and left the hospital, feeling somewhat dazed. The easy part was behind me. Now I had to break the news to my devoted family and my good friends. How could I burden them with my seemingly endless bouts of suffering? Driving home, I put on a CD. From the car’s speakers burst the crystal-clear voice of a wunderkind singing, “Avinu Malkeinu, Avinu Malkeinu, have pity…have pity on us and on our children.” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I joined in his prayer. “My Father in Heaven, I believe with perfect faith that everything is for the good. Just give me the strength to bear it, that’s all I ask. Give me the strength to stand up to the task. Give my wife strength. Give my children strength. Give my friends strength. We’re still reeling from the past trauma. I’m still going to periodic follow-up tests. Now, all of a sudden, I’m forced to deal with another tumor. And we’re still in the year of mourning for our beloved son! At night we weep and mourn his loss. “My beloved Father, don’t cast me away at a time of illness. Dear G-d, strengthen my dear mother, a Holocaust survivor and a bereaved parent, who cares for Abba with such devotion. Have pity, Tatte, Have pity…have pity on us and on our children.” Convinced that the operation wasn’t urgent, the surgeon had set the biopsy date for another three weeks, namely, two weeks before Pesach.
STORY CENTER
reprinted with permission from the author Aharon Margalit
As previously, I asked the department head to have the operation performed under local anesthetic, so that I could make use of this critical time to daven for my recovery, but the surgeon wouldn’t even consider it. “The operation will take place with general anesthetic, and that’s that,” he said unequivocally. I realized right away that there was no point in arguing. The time before, my rare tumor had entitled me to special treatment; this time, I had no such privilege. During the waiting period, I didn’t tell anyone except Rav Firer and, of course, my wife, about the new developments. Although I always maintain that one shouldn’t waste energy on concealing illness from others, still, as long as the diagnosis hadn’t been established beyond all doubt, I saw no reason to worry loved ones unnecessarily. The following story bears this out: Decades earlier, when I was in my thirties, my doctor suddenly suspected that I had a foreign mass in my abdomen, and sent me to Tel HaShomer Hospital for further tests. I scoffed at the doctor’s fears. I’d had no previous experience with cancer and didn’t believe things would take such a sinister turn. I made an appointment, as per the doctor’s orders, but didn’t bother telling anyone about it. After I completed what I felt was a superfluous procedure, the nurse told me to come back the following week for the results. Seized with a desire to leave an impression of mischievous cynicism, I asked the attending physician with a smile, “Tell me, is there a chance of surviving this?” “You’d be surprised, but 80 percent make it,” he said in all earnestness. I was shocked into solemnity, my jocularity shattered. I suddenly grasped that this wasn’t a dentist’s appointment. The doctor’s answer had come too close for comfort. I swallowed hard and said, “Do I understand correctly that there’s cause to suspect a cancerous growth?” I hoped he’d say, “Not at all.” But the nurse answered instead. “Definitely.” “And the 80 percent survival rate. Is that accurate?” “Totally,” the nurse said. I felt deflated. I hadn’t prepared myself for this. “Increase knowledge, increase pain,” I quoted reproachfully to myself. “Why did you have to ask that question?” “What’s the earliest time that I can receive the results?” “Friday morning.” I left the clinic, much more thoughtful than when I’d arrived. That week was a nightmare — but I didn’t share my fears with anyone, not even my wife. The tension was hard to bear, but I was reluctant to worry my loved ones, especially since there was still hope that it was nothing. When Friday finally rolled around, immediately after davening, I raced to the hospital’s outpatient clinic. The nurse handed me an envelope. “Well?” I asked impatiently. “You’ve moved into the category of 100 percent. It’s not cancer,” she said. Apparently, the fear and anxiety I’d undergone had sufficed, giving me a twenty-year reprieve until my real battle with cancer.
