I have had the scariest days, the angriest days, and the saddest days — all since last June.

But you know what?

I have also had some of the best days of my life too.

And yesterday….

Yesterday was the happiest day of my life.

The first time we got the test back that showed the cancer markers were falling. Even though the diagnosis was still hopeless, well that was a good day.  A Ray of Hope.

Then, when we got the first scan result which showed that –contrary to the expectations — the cancer was receding,  even though we were told the cancer was still not curable, well that was a good one too. Like This.

Then, when the surgery first deemed “impossible” was approved — well that was another great day. God is Listening.

And of course, our last Doctor’s visit, where I left the hospital singing — mmm.  That was a really good one. Gotta Song in My Head.

BUT……

But the happiest day so far was last night at my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah.

To dance, to see my kids with big, happy smiles, to see Stella dancing with her friends….

I simply do not have to right words to describe how that felt. I don’t think they exist.

After all the nightmare scenarios that we dreaded, all the nights laying awake wondering what might be…..

All the pleas I made to G-d to make that day a celebration….

All the tears that so many people shed so many times.

After all that, to laugh, to dance, to sing, and yes, to cry — but cries of happiness and gratitude — that made for a simply unforgettable and unimaginable evening.

Read what Romi said:

I’m still dancing from last night.
And anyone who knows me well knows that I’m really not a dancer. I’m one of those people who hide towards the back of the room at a simcha, hoping that no one pulls me into the circle.

But last night at Rivka’s bat mitzvah, well, that was a different story.
I find it almost incomprehensible that we were able to arrive at this point, and to celebrate with such glee. In the days leading up to the bat mitzvah, I had one image that stuck in my mind.

Two days after Stella’s diagnosis last June, Josh and I went to a beautiful bat mitzvah. We were shell shocked, and unable to concentrate on virtually anything beyond the Frankls’ news. So, too, were all of our friends. It was the first time that we were seeing most of our friends since her diagnosis, and we all felt a terrible pull that night.

We wanted to enjoy the simcha that we were attending; we wanted to be there for our friends and their lovely daughter. But we couldn’t stay away from the elephant in the room. And as the person with the most information, I was bombarded with questions and surrounded by those who wanted to know more.

Finally, after the cocktails, everyone settled down at their tables and we enjoyed ourselves.

Until the dancing began.

And as I watched mother and daughter dancing together in joy and celebration, I broke down. I cried burning, angry tears for Rivka, for Stella, for Yarden, for the other children and for myself.

I cried tears for the unknown, for the injustice of it all, and for the year ahead.

Would Rivka get to dance with her own mother at her bat mitzvah in a year?

I was mortified to be making a scene, and to be sending a clear message to those at the bat mitzvah about Stella’s status, but I was unable to stop the flow of tears and the outpouring of grief.

And that image has stuck in my mind as we’ve gotten closer and closer to Rivka’s celebration and to the incredible knowledge that Rivka would most certainly have her mother at her side for her simcha.

Last night, while listening to Yarden’s speech and then while dancing with Stella and Rivka, I was overcome again. But this time, I was overcome with gratitude, with an unbelievable and humbling sense of bewilderment that we had arrived at this point. Whatever is ahead will be ahead. But for last night, Stella danced at her daugther’s bat mitzvah in health and strength.
While Yarden spoke and I sat at our table with Josh, the Shermans and other friends, I was transported back to a montage of the painful year behind us.

In particular, I saw Yarden, Josh, Ruth and I sitting in a booth at Café Hillel next to Sharei Tzedek Hospital on January 1. Stella was in surgery, and there were many hurdles to surpass along the way. At each stage of the surgery, they had to check on various things, and the surgery could only proceed if those items were clean and acceptable. Should, at any point, things not have passed the test, they would have had to close Stella back up. And then, well, we didn’t want to be there. As we sat in the restaurant, and then a few other times during the day, Yarden’s phone rang. It was the operating nurse calling. As Stella reached each stage, they called Yarden to tell him whether or not it was a go.

I don’t believe I’ve ever prayed harder than I prayed in those minutes, as time stopped and we stared up at Yarden and tried to read his expression. Would the surgery continue? Or would we arrive at the unthinkable. Ruth and I would grasp hands and pray until Yarden got off the phone each time with the news that it was a go.

And here we were, five and a half short months later, sitting in another venue, watching Yarden.

But this time, it was a venue of celebration, of hope, of absolute elation.

Thank you Hashem for allowing us to reach this point. For giving Rivka a bat mitzvah filled with love, with joy and with her mother.

As the night ended, Stella and I embraced. And I whispered in her ear, “Let’s do this again at Yedidya’s…….wedding.”

Romi Sussman, Sussmans b’Aretz

————————————-

Now back to me.

I was quite nervous that I would not be able to have the composure that Stella had and get through the few words I had to say. But I did, and — to the best of my recollection — this is what I said.

Rivka,

Last year, we discussed what you would learn for your Bat Mitzvah. You said you wanted to learn something with me. And while I thought it was a good idea, we ended up having you learn with Rachel. And you did a fine job with your D’var Torah.

But Rivka, you know we did learn together this year.

And I’m sorry that the lessons had to be so difficult. I know, they were far harder than anything you could have imagined.

But I think what you learned will be lessons you will carry with you for your whole life. And I’d like to mention just one thing we learned.

And that has to do with the nature of strength, and where strength comes from.

And I’m not talking about the strength to run marathons and little things like that.

I’m talking about the strength to keep going when things get hard.

You can gain strength from friends.

Friends are great to dance with and wear silly costumes.

But the true value of friends is that they are there to help you when you need it. And this past year, your friends were great. And you saw that my friends and Mommy’s friends were always there to help us and provide strength to us. And I know that any time in your life, if one of your friends needs a shoulder to lean on, you will be there for them as your friends have been there for you.

And sometimes, your friends are not available. And then, you can find that the strength you need comes from deep within yourself. We all have these reserves of strength, that are only there when we really need them. But when we do, we find that we are capable of so much more that we ever imagined.

I am so sorry that I needed you to help me so often.  There were times that I came home from the hospital and was too exhausted to think.

And even though you did not feel much better than I did, you made me French Toast and did the family’s laundry, and did everything else that I was too tired to do. And together with your brothers and sister, you made sure that everything got done while I was taking care of Mommy. That was true strength and you should be very proud.

But, there are times. I know. There are times when you can find no more strength from your friends or from yourself. There are times when you are overwhelmed and can barely keep your head up. There are times when, as King David said, you soak your bed with your tears.

I know. We’ve both been there.

And at those times, there is no other source. You lift your eyes up and talk to G-d. You can plead, cry, and argue with the Creator of the Universe.

And if there is only one simple thing that you will remember from your Bat Mitzvah, it is this:

You can talk to G-d at any time of the day or night. And while he may not always grant your every request, he will listen.

And that is where you will find strength. In speaking with G-d, you will find the strength to pick yourself back up and continue, even when the world seems so dark and scary.

And now we have come to the most important part.

You are about to get a Bat Mitzvah gift that is the best Bat Mitzvah gift that any Bat Mitzvah girl in the history of Bat Mitzvahs has ever received. I am going to ask your mother to come up and Bench Gomel (make a blessing for one who has recovered from a serious illness.)

———

And then Stella said those special words.

And we danced, we danced, we danced.

And I think we are still dancing.

How ’bout you?

Yarden Frankl, Neve Daniel

(Note: Technically, the bracha was made for the successful surgery. Although Stella has no detectable cancer, for the time being we ask that everyone continue to keep her in their prayers. Just in case.)

Want to get in my head?

Usually not advisable, but today, at least for a little while, come on in.

(Na na na na na)

I know there’s a song playing in there now. So let me turn it down for a sec just to fill you in on what’s going on.

According to the Doctor, the only thing not normal today about Stella is her husband (yours truly The data suggests that the cancer is either completely destroyed or is present in such small amounts as to not give us trouble for a very long time. While me must remain vigilant and follow up with scans and other stuff, she is in a completely different situation than a year ago when tests showed a “belly full of disease.”

Of course, in answer to the unanswerable question, long term survival will be proven not by statistical predictions, but by…. well, by long term survival. We are “outside the box” as far as stomach cancer is concerned. And that’s where we hope to stay.

We have no further chemo scheduled.

We do have our previous lives scheduled.

Now the truth of the matter is that cancer is not like a football game. The Giants won the Super Bowl. Time ran out and they had more points. ‘Game Over” is what we like to say. I would love to say that to the last remaining cancer cell as we boot him off the field.

But cancer is never really over. You must live with uncertainty. But it’s the word “live” that we will focus on rather than the word “uncertainty.”

I really don’t have more to say right now because I am getting choked up just writing this.

I think of how bad it got. I think of the real and psychological terror we have lived through.

I remember so many terrible moments so clearly.

Whenever you think you have it bad, just imagine gently trying to shave your wife’s head because the chemo is making her lose her hair all over the house and it’s freeking the kids out.

And that’s just one of the horrible memories I will never forget.

BUT,

BUT, now more than ever, I understand some other things.

Every day the sun rises is as important as all of human history. We can all — every one of us — worry about the future. And we can tie ourselves all up in knots just thinking about it. And it wouldn’t do us any good at all.

Or we can LIVE.

We can find beauty in a sunrise, or the smile of a child, or the wag of a dog’s tail.

We can go for a hard run in the cold air and feel our bodies come alive as our hearts pound and the kilometers seem to fall away.

Instead of complaining about whatever the “Matsav” is, we could truly try and understand what a miracle our lives are, every single day.

And we can truly value friendships.

We all can — and do — take friendships for granted. It’s hard to really understand the importance of friendships.

But if you think about it, friendships are worth more than the biggest lottery every won. When the world turns dark, they are our lights. When we are blinded by pain, they are our guides.

So to all our friends (including some we may have never met) — thank you for standing by us.

And one last thing. I think I could justifiably not believe in G-D after this ordeal. Or I could be bitter and hate G-d.

But I don’t. I may not come anywhere near understanding G-d, but I at least know that he does listen.

And that miracles still happen.

(Dum de dum de dum)

And now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to turn the music in my head back to full volume.

NOTE: I wrote this a week ago and did not send because it did not seem right with Israeli Memorial Day/Independence Day. Stella is actually feeling MUCH better now. If you don’t believe me, look at the pic. And BTW — This made sense in my head, but it may not to you. I am in no way saying that running is like chemo.

Now then……

——

I always try and wake up an hour before I have to leave for a race. Sometimes that means waking by 4:00 AM, but I need to do so because I am always nauseous the morning of an event in which I know I will be suffering. It’s weird. It’s like my body is trying to convince my mind that it’s not worth it, to go back to sleep. And it doesn’t matter how many races I’ve done. Always the same. Wake up, feel sick.

Friday was the Uriyah Duathalon, an event combining ten kilometers of trail running with thirty of mountain bike riding. It’s a new event that was launched to coincide with the moshav’s 100th anniversary. We got there early since if at all possible, I try to get to events with plenty of time to spare. Even if that means standing around for a while. It gives you time to see others and have some friendly conversations while waiting to put your body through the wringer.

Stella feels sick the morning of chemo, long before she actually gets the drugs. It is the psychological dimension of what her body is going to go through that makes it rebel. Usually she can fight through it and we try to get to the hospital as early as possible. A number of people do so and despite what all the patients are in store for, people seem quite friendly and relaxed as they sit around waiting for the real day to begin.

A woman rolls through with a cart of goodies. Of course, most are too anxious to eat anything but the volunteer’s  smile is more comforting than the food anyway. We pick out our chairs (recliner for Stella and standard metal chair for me.) We plug in the laptops and wait for them to bring the chemo and start the treatment.

The race started with a hilly ten kilometer loop. Running a 10K is very different that running a marathon. You run at a much higher speed and it’s not always easy to pace yourself. You shouldn’t go too fast for the first few kilometers or you will burn out. On the other hand, you can’t take it too easy since you don’t have much room to make up time. I probably went a little too fast for the first five kilometers. But just when I felt I would start to slow down, my coach Chaim waited for me and then paced me through the second half of the race. At that point, it is more psychological than physical. Your body CAN run fast for 5K, IF your mind can deal with the suffering. Having Chaim beside me giving me constant encouragement helped me push through the mental blocks and keep running strong.

Stella has two chemotherapy drugs that she gets on treatment day. A third drug is taken orally every day. The first is called Oxyplatnum. Like all chemo drugs, it’s job is to travel through the body and find cells that act like cancer cells and kill them. Cancer cells are normally distinguished from other healthy cells because they divide at a very rapid rate. So it does a good job at killing them.

Unfortunately, there are other cells in the body that by nature divide quickly. Cells of the digestive system, hair follicles, various other places in the body. The chemo cannot distinguish between the healthy fast dividers and the cancerous ones. So it takes a shotgun approach and kills all of them. This is why there are so many unpleasant side-effects associated with chemotherapy. It’s why at times the cure can feel worse than the disease.

Usually, about halfway through the treatment, Stella will start to feel sick. I try and give her encouragement and ease the psychological suffering that accompanies the physical discomfort. Sometimes I read e-mails and facebook posts from friends. Sometimes I just hold her hand. I can tell when it is really starting to get bad because she gets her “game” face on. She closes her eyes and just fights through it.

The truth is that there are many cancer patients who quit chemo. They give up, and I can’t say I blame them. They simply cannot get through the suffering of chemo and prefer to take their chances with other forms of treatment. But in our case, it is clear that the chemo treatments offer the best possible hope. So Stella fights through.

After the 10K run, there was no time to relax. I ran to my bike (Boomer,) changed shoes, strapped on my helmet and gloves, and took off. The bike portion was composed of two 15k loops. Each loop had a long, gradual climb, followed by a steep descent and then a twisty single track.

I took off on the bike, but within a kilometer a wild dog came out of nowhere and started to chase me. In my effort to evade him, I missed a trail marker and went off course for about a minute. When I realized my mistake, I had no option but to turn around and hope I could make up the lost time. Thanks to Chaim’s pacing, I had finished the run ahead of most everyone else. Now I had to move up again because of a dumb mistake. But sometimes things are just beyond your control and you have to do the best you can.

In the sun,  trying to ride fast up a long hill,  it really started to hurt. With the finish line at least an hour and a half away, there was really nothing to do but hammer away on the pedals and remember that everyone else was hurting. I was able to pass a bunch of the guys who had passed me when I went off course. Seeing everyone else out there suffering made me feel much better.

After the Oxyplatnum, Stella gets a bright orange drug called Epirubicin. Her three drug cocktail is a fairly recent development and while there is no single agreed upon standard for fighting gastric cancer, this combination has had the most promising results. If Oxyplatnum is the artillery, Epirubicin is the commando unit. Once again, in their zealousness to kill cancer cells, they cause a lot of “collateral” damage.

Stella digs deep when it gets to this point. She tells me that it helps her to get through it by imagining that for some people, it feels much worse. When she sees elderly patients (and most people with cancer are older) dealing with it, she calls herself a “wimp” and tells herself just to deal with it. She is by no means a “wimp.” Not at all. But I understand the technique. The difference is that in a race, I am glad that others are suffering more. For Stella, she feels nothing but compassion, even guilt that she is getting off so “easy.”

The last few kilometers were actually fun. There was a steep and rocky descent and then a twisty, narrow path with a few obstacles that had to be navigated. The pain was replaced by adrenaline, and I found I could actually ride a lot faster as the finish line beckoned. When I finally got myself across the line, a flood of good feelings made all suffering worth it.

For Stella, the end of a treatment is not so easy. She can’t wait to be unhooked and go home because for her, this is still just the start of her race. It usually takes about ten days for the effects of the chemo to fade. For ten days, she tries to smile as her body reels from the toxins circulating in her veins. She is mostly in bed and just focuses on getting better. I try and help as much as I can, to “pace” her, but I know I can never really understand what she is going though.

The kids come home from school and she tries to pretend that everything is normal. She does not dwell on the fact that she is in bed for a week and no matter how sick she is feeling, when one of the kids come up to her room she hides it away. She e-mails friends and tries to put the best “face” on her words.

In fact, she deals with chemo week better than the rest of us. On Shabbat, we sit around the table and try to enjoy the food (my cooking is getting much better,) but her absence is felt. No matter how many times we have been through this cycle, I always end up panicking and threatening to call the Doctor. I see her at the worst times and I feel powerless and terrified.

But she always tells me to be patient. That as soon as ten days go by, she will be fine. (And she is always right.)

There is a point to suffering. I don’t know why the world is set up that way, but that’s the way it is. The medicine will make Stella suffer, so that she can be cured. I use running and biking as an escape. I suffer because it releases me, at least for a short while, from having to worry about anything else. For an hour or two, I am not dealing with Stella’s cancer. I am Lance Armstrong riding in the Tour de France. I am an Olympic Athlete, winning the gold medal. I am running past hundreds of thousands of spectators at the Boston Marathon as I set a new world record.

Or maybe I’m just riding around Moshav Uriya, competing against other middle aged guys who have to go to work on Sunday. Doesn’t matter.

The suffering somehow builds us up, makes us stronger. No matter how bad I feel when running or riding, all I have to do is think of Stella battling through a treatment, and I know I have nothing to complain about.

Would it be better if chemo drugs could kill the cancer without the terrible side-effects? Of course.

But they don’t (at least right now.)

So like a wild dog chasing you off course in a bike race, sometimes you just have to accept how things are and deal with it.

——————

We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.

Winston Churchill

(I think he said that after running a particularly brutal 10k)

I planned the trip months ago with the full knowledge that our chances of actually getting away for a family vacation were like…. were like the chances of a football team that barely made the playoffs winning the Super Bowl.

But I also knew that the opportunity to get away with the family was just as important as the nasty chemotherapy, and a lot more fun.  So we planned….. and hoped.

And it happened.

We spent the week at Metulla, a small town that is on the border with Lebanon. (Yeah — to my non-Israeli friends: This is what we call getting away to a nice quite spot.) Now some people enjoy vacations where all they do is sit around reading a book and scheduling a massage. But that would not be the Frankls.

So we went for walks…..hikes……..ice skating!……cycling!!….. and… kayaking!!!!!!  Not only was this very important medicine for Stella, but it was also a joy for the rest of us to be able to do things with her. For all the hours Stella has had to lay in bed, we made up for them with a vacation that could tire a marathon runner out.

We saw raging waterfalls and mountains capped with snow. Every day, we woke and looked out on a beautiful view of the Golan Heights. But the best views of all to me were the views of my kids smiling and having fun. When I saw the picture to the right, I realized that it was the first time I saw my eldest smile that I could remember. (He had just set a record on the Canada Center basketball game.)

The past nine months (I know) there has not always been stuff to smile about. Even when things seem to be heading in the right direction, the fear that things could change is always out there, lurking in the corners and hiding in the dark. It’s hard to go about your day to day business, whether it’s work, school, or just simple errands with this terrifying thought keeping just out of sight. It’s hard on Stella, it’s hard on the kids, it’s hard on our friends. Hell, it’s just plain hard.

But I think when we packed up our suitcases, we brought the swim suits and sun block and left the cancer behind. That uninvited guest did not accompany us on our walks, our meals, and not surprisingly, the coward stayed far away from the rapids. Instead of navigating hospital corridors, we were navigating national parks. Instead of watching a slow IV drip, we saw rushing water cascading down from the mountains.

We divided into two groups of three for the kayaks. Two people would paddle while the third just hung on. At first I was nervous about Stella just going along, but when I saw that she was actually wielding a paddle, it changed my usual worried frown into a smile. (Note: Next time bring a water-proof camera.)

One morning I woke up very early and went out for a run along the border with Lebanon (that just sounds cool.) I was astonished by how beautiful the area is. There is an actual national park hike there and since they frown upon arrest anyone who would be foolish enough to climb over the gate and run along the path before it opens in the morning, I went back and got everyone and returned at a normal hour.

We were greeted by four amazing waterfalls that were so fantastic they chased all other thoughts away. (This is called Nachal Ayyun. The river starts behind Metula and finishes on the road between Metula and Kiryat Shemona. It’s a one-way hike so unless you actually enjoy running to get a car, bring two cars and leave one at the end.)

So we all got a break in every sense of the word.

So what now?

I really wish I knew. I am writing this again from the chemo room where Stella is fighting her way through yet another treatment. We probably won’t know for a little while what we need to do next. But it is a real possibility that this will be the last chemo, at least for a very long time.

So we will not focus on a return to chemotherapy. We will instead dream of the future. Complete with hiking, riding, and a little more kayaking in the Golan Heights.

Make every day count.

You’re not supposed to run two marathons so close together. You’re supposed to let your body rest for a few weeks.

And in normal times, that would be sound advice.

But we’re not in normal times now. So as long as Stella is feeling all right, I’m going to keep on running. We both want to focus on what is possible, even when it is difficult.

The Race

Between losing an hour with setting the clocks back and having to get to Tel Aviv by 5:30, there wasn’t much sleep to be had the night before. But at this point, I know very well that one can get by without much sleep when emotions keep you alert.

Unlike the Jerusalem Marathon, I really had no specific plan for running. I didn’t want to go crazy, but I also had no one to pace me at a slower pace. So I decided to just run and let my body set its own pace.

Now I had imagined that Tel Aviv would be nice and warm and completely flat, especially when compared to running through the Monsoon of the Jerusalem Marathon. But what I found is that it was neither warm nor flat. And the wind off the sea could be quite a challenge at times.

The route twisted and turned and hit all the scenic points of the city. Running in Tel Aviv, you get a real understanding of the difference between the city and Jerusalem. In Jerusalem, everyone is motivated by a cause. They are  motivated by religion, politics, ideology, you name it.  Runners and spectators alike all seemed to want to be part of something meaningful.

In Tel Aviv, people are motivated to party. The motto of the race was “Non Stop Party.”  With bands and DJs along the route and raucous volunteers eager to douse runners with all manner of beverages, it indeed was a bit of a party.

As we hit the halfway point, I was following a consistent pace and felt good. Although I did carry a worry that I was going too fast and would hit the wall and end up in a world of hurt by the last ten kilometers.

It’s been awhile, but anyone who has ever imploded at the end of a marathon will never forget the feeling. It comes from either running too fast or drinking too little or a combination of the two. And it’s not just beginners who make the mistake. Lance Armstrong was recently leading a major triathlon when he was forced to slow to a walk in the last few K.

But, after doing a little mental body check, I decided to take the risk and continue the pace. I told myself to worry about the last few kilometers when I got there.

And to be honest, it felt good. By kilometer 39 I was still running strong and ready to hit the finish line.

The sun came out for the last bit and it felt nice to be finally running outside in sunshine.

I surprised myself with my second fastest marathon time (3:27) and felt great surrounded by friends at the finish.

But I didn’t really write this piece to talk about the Tel Aviv Marathon.

Stella always tells me that I don’t have to connect every post with her condition, but the fact of the matter is…I do.

Finishers Medallion

Because she is my motivation for everything I do. And about the same time that the sun came out and warmed me up out on the streets of Tel Aviv, she turned a corner and looked and felt like her old self. And I believe her smile is just as bright as the sun. Don’t you?

Sure she has lost a lot of weight, but she is feeling good and, IMHO, looking great.

We know that after Passover we need to have another chemo treatment, but that will be just one day closer to the day that we will hear the Doctor say that the cancer is completely gone.

And while we could worry about that treatment and anything that will happen in a few weeks, I think the wiser course of action is to “worry about the last few kilometers when we get there.”

For now, we are going to enjoy the sun and the nice warm weather.

We suggest you do the same.

It was the coldest.

It was the wettest.

None of the others had gale force winds and, yes, several hail showers.

Yet despite the extreme weather, I can honestly say that I had a blast.

We left Neve Daniel at 5:00 AM in complete darkness. I ran about 30 meters from my house to my friend’s car and got soaked. Our driving pace was extremely slow since the fog prevented us from seeing more than a few meters in front of the car. Not really the kind of weather that makes you excited about running for almost four hours.

When we got to Jerusalem, I met up with my running family from Bet Shemesh. After about four years of running with the club, I can honestly say that one of the reasons I run — an admittedly solitary pursuit — is for the camaraderie. There is a bond between those who run together. It’s hard to explain, but basically it is like people who enjoy a strange, off beat movie that most people dismiss. If you are one of the small but ardent fans of  ”The Great Lebowski” you might understand what I am saying.

Whatever “it” is, fellow runners get “it.”

A minyan formed between the Bet Shemesh group and friends from Neve Daniel who were running the half. I hope that the Neve Daniel guys will get a sip of the Kool-Aid and go for the full marathon next year. It was  very special to pray surrounded by two of my worlds.

At this time of year, the standard Jewish prayer asks that there be rain in the Holy Land. Ironic to be praying for rain and dreading that the prayer would be answered at the same time.

We walked over to the starting line and two great things happened, although at the time I thought they were bad things:

It started raining; and

my pacing watch stopped working.

In my marathons, I have been guided by my watch and calculated to the second how fast I should be running. Beforehand I had strategies worked out and had to make sure that every step was not too slow or too fast.

This one I would have to wing. In the pouring rain.

Wet? Cold? Friend Mordechai Holtz setting a PR

We started running and I have to admit: it was cold. Really cold.

When rain wasn’t coming down from the sky, it was coming up from huge cold puddles in the road. Even if you tried to avoid them, someone next to you would go through and you could feel the icy water climb your legs.

At kilometer seventeen, we started up the brutal Mount Scopus hill. That’s when the hail began.

But for some weird reason, I started laughing.

And that’s when I finally got “it.” I finally understood what a marathon is all about.

It’s not really about how much time it takes you to finish. After a marathon, runners tend to ask each other their finishing times. As a group, we can have whole conversations based on how many hours and minutes it took each one of us to run.

It reminds me of women, who after giving birth compare the weights of the babies. Saying you ran a 3:40 or a 3:50 is about as meaningful to someone else has saying your baby weighed 7 pounds or 8. It’s really nonsense.

What is a better question in both situations is: How does it feel?

Last year, when I finished the Jerusalem Marathon, I felt horrible. I was in pain and feeling sick to my stomach. I was in a bad place.

I mean literally, a really, really bad place. I had to use a nasty, stinky, disgusting  porta-john (A porta-john after a marathon may be the most horrible place in the world. Dante never dreamt of a place so nasty. But when you gotta go…)

My legs hurt so much that I got stuck and had a great amount of trouble leaving that little piece of hell on Earth. I had trouble walking for a few days.

This year, I felt on top of the world.

I held my pace back for a bit and let myself enjoy every kilometer. Even kilometer 38 – the infamous kilometer 38 — came and went, and I was smiling and high-fiveing spectators. While many of my friends looked like me last year, I couldn’t wait to go home and celebrate. Two days later I ran another twelve kilometers at home.

I think perhaps running a marathon is an apt metaphor for life. You can rush through it and feel horrible at the end. Or you can play it smart and try to enjoy every day, every kilometer. You can focus on your GPS watch and calculate to the second how fast you should be running, or you can look around when you run and chat with special people that you run with.

I am writing this post from the chemo room at Shaare Zedek hospital. Despite the fact that the marathon route passed very close to here, it seems like a world away.  But hopefully I will remember how wonderful that run felt as Stella and I continue our own long run.

And if it’s at all possible, we will continue trying to appreciate every kilometer.

Yarden Frankl, Jerusalem

It just is.

But since Stella will not be dealing with the side effects tomorrow morning, I have decided to run the full 42.2 kilometer Jerusalem Marathon.

Yeah. I know.

It’s freezing, raining, and the wind is just howling outside my window.

But you know something?

Who the hell cares that the weather is a bit unpleasant.

Stella and millions of other cancer patients world-wide deal with much worse on a daily basis. No matter how hard a run is, it is nothing. Those of us who run have decided on our own to accept this extremely short-term suffer-fest. Even if you got up in the morning and ran a marathon in the rain every day, you would still feel better than someone with cancer.

Finishing a marathon is incredibly sweet. This will be #6 for me. You cross the finish line and no matter how much your legs and lungs burn, you feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment, of relief, and of gratitude to the Almighty for enabling you to complete the run. You turn in your chip and get a finisher’s medallion draped around your neck.

It feels good. Really good.

But I know it won’t feel like even one percent of the ecstasy we will feel when we make it to that day — whenever it may come — when we hear the words “You are Cured.”

If it takes a month, a year, or maybe many years — we will never give up hope of crossing that finish line for good.

So yeah, a few thousand of us will have to run through some fairly nasty conditions tomorrow.

You know what?

Bring it on.

Yarden Frankl, Neve Daniel

I have not written in a couple of weeks.

Actually, that’s not true. I have written a number of posts since Stella got home from the hospital last month.

It’s just that right before I am about to hit the “send” button, I re-read the posts and decided not to send them. They were not the right “message” that I wanted to share.

It’s not a big deal. I don’t think that any of you would find what I wrote surprising.

For example, I wrote (and then deleted) a post called “Unexpected Pain.”

Essentially it was about how we had gone to bed one night and the next morning found ourselves on the way to the Emergency Room (and a week-long hospital stay) because Stella had very serious pain that seemed to come out of nowhere and surprised us both.

But the post was also about how I had gone to the wedding of a close friend’s daughter. Stella was not feeling well enough to attend so I went solo. Everything was fine until one moment, while watching the ceremony when I felt a sudden emotional pain well up out of nowhere. I guess being in an emotional environment like that without my wife just triggered something. I had to excuse myself  run away and sit outside for awhile trying to get a grip. Which, of course, I did and then could go hang out again with my friends.

See, no big deal, but not really worthy of a whole depressing blog post.

Then I wrote a piece, and I don’t really remember what I called it. It was about how when Stella was feeling miserable, I stopped running and riding and just sat around eating all the cakes and cookies that people dropped off. Then one night the scale told me that I was well on the way to adding all the weight that Stella has been losing. I guess I realized that the psychological link that makes me feel low when Stella is feeling low was not doing either one of us any favors.

So late at night, I got on my bike and hit the pedals real hard, doing a time trial for an hour around the empty streets of the Yishuv. While it was tough at first, after a bit I could literally feel the stress leaving my body as I hammered up and down Neve Daniel’s roads, sometimes singing out loud or just yelling like a madman.

And I decided that I would resume training, with complete focus and commitment.

Training for what?

For whatever comes along.

Again, maybe interesting. But not anything I want to say more about.

Then one day I decided to write about time management. How every minute I wonder if I should be spending it with Stella, the kids, my work, or myself. And whatever I decide, always feeling like I made the wrong choice. If Stella is upstairs feeling lousy, does she need me? Or do the kids need a distraction? Or should I really be spending that time exercising? No real right answers, so again, not worthy of a blog post.

Of course everyone wants an update on Stella’s condition. But I have found that cancer is not like a football game where the score changes every few minutes. You can’t go on this blog and check Stella’s status like she is the Kinneret after a rain storm. Stella has chemo every three weeks. The chemo makes her feel lousy. She has also lost lots of weight, which concerns me.

But on the other hand, she has told me that she is fine and that the weight loss is due to an inability to eat much during the ten days after chemo. The weather has been awful for the week, so that does not help.

But right now the sun is shining and she is feeling much better. The last few days she appears to have stopped losing weight. She is eating much more and up and about out of bed.

So that is the important update you all have been waiting for.

Now I can get to the real reason I am writing this post.

Why I smell like a pomegranate.

By now, everyone is aware that as much as I appreciate the sentiment of people cooking food for us, I much prefer working with my kids to plan out menus and cook for ourselves. It brings a sense of “normalcy” to an admittedly abnormal situation that we would not have with lots of different people dropping off lots of different types of food.

Yet everyone loves Stella and wants to do something for her. So people have been dropping off presents.

Very nice.

She has tons of movies and books and doesn’t really need all that much.

So she has started getting what I call potions.

We have foofy soaps and shampoos, hand creams, foot creams, body creams.

We have bottles of lotions made from olives, and lavender, and lemons, and yes, pomegranates.

I think I have more fruit in my bathroom then in my kitchen.

And as nice has all these special gifts are, there is no way that Stella can use them all.

So I have been experimenting — not that I am really into lotions and potions.

But after a good sweaty run, who wouldn’t want to pour a bottle of pomegranate body wash on his head?

So to all the gift givers — thank you very much.

But I think both of us are all set for the time being.

Have a great day!

Downhill technical riding is something else. This is when you ride down steep paths that were never really designed for bike riding. When I start down a tech section, I am usually freeking out and just hope I can get to the bottom in one piece. Every now and then you have a drop. A drop is a ledge that you ride off of and then both you and your bike fall to the ground. If you are lucky, you fall together and land together and continue riding as if that was all part of the plan.

The worst thing you can do with a steep drop, is stop riding and look at it. If your brain has any power over the rest of your body, it will insist that you get off and put the bike on your shoulder and climb down to the bottom.

So I knew that this particular path in the desert ended with a big, rocky, steep, terrifying drop. So I came up with a plan. I rode right behind the lead rider and told myself that when I saw him go over the ridge, I would speed up and turn off my brain. I simply would not allow myself to think about all the potential outcomes of riding down that cliff.

Sure enough we came to the part and I saw the lead rider disappear. One moment he was right in front of me, the next he was gone. I pedaled hard for a few seconds and then rode over the ridge and let gravity do the rest of the work. Somehow, I got to the bottom in one piece and was very relieved at the outcome.

—-

At around four in the morning on Friday, I woke up to see Stella in a great deal of pain. If you have never met Stella, you have to know this. Stella doesn’t “do” pain. She is somehow able to shrug off stuff that would have the rest of us screaming our heads off. But it was bad, that was clear. Within a few hours it got worse and she finally agreed that going to the hospital made a lot of sense. (O.K., it took about 4 of us to convince her, but the bottom line is we went.)

As we drove, I thought about all the terrible, horrible, possibilities that this could be. I finally decided that since I have no medical background, I had no way of guessing anything. My job was simply to drive and get her to the people who could find what was wrong and fix it. Like going over a drop, I shut my mind off and got her to the emergency room.

Late Friday night the doctors decided that she had a small hole leftover from the surgery and it had led to an infection. They got her started on antibiotics and fairly soon the grimace had been replaced by her usual charming smile.  They admitted her and moved us back to our old haunts on the 8th floor. She got a bed and went right to sleep.

There was no place for me in her room so I tried sleeping on various benches out in the hall. When that didn’t work, I explored the hospital. It was surreal to see this place that I have gotten so used to, quiet and deserted. But you know, fun as late night hospital exploration is, it gets old real fast.

Of course if I had predicted we would be there, I could have set up lots of alternatives. But one of the drawbacks of shutting off your mind is…well… that your mind is shut off.

I finally found an abandoned hospital bed sitting at the end of a corridor. It was in a weird position and not remotely comfortable. But it did beat lying on a row of metal chairs. I climbed into it got a few hours “rest.”

By the morning Stella was feeling fine. It’s amazing what antibiotics and pain killers can do.

I, on the other hand, was a wreck. I had  a sore throat, stuffed up nose, and splitting headache. Plus, I was exhausted.

So we did what made sense. She got in the chair and I crawled into her bed for some needed sleep. I was even there when the Docs were doing their rounds. I explained how I felt and told them that I would like some medicine. Hey, they are doctors, and I am a sick guy. What did I get wrong about that?

They ignored me and did NOT give me meds.

You know, I think both of us are getting a bit of a rep on the 8th floor.

Anyway, Stella should be home in a few days and so our appointment with the yucky chemo will have to wait. Shucks.

As I have learned, there is no way to really think through when these things happen. Sometimes you just close your eyes, shut off your brain, and push yourself over the edge and just hope that everything will be ok in the end.

As always, thank you for your prayers.

Or I might turn my back on you and scurry away.

Either way, you will have my answer.

So now I probably confused everyone.

Didn’t Stella have the miracle operation? What happened to “She will be cured, she will be cured……(breathe)?”

Yes, that IS still the hope. But it’s a bit more complicated than that. Let me explain.

As you remember, in June Stella was diagnosed with stage four gastric cancer. The cancer had spread outside her stomach so the standard response — removal of the stomach — was not under consideration. Instead, we embarked on an aggressive schedule of chemotherapy. The hope was that the chemo would slow the spread of the disease.

But it did more. In November a scan showed that there was no more active cancer outside the stomach. Stella’s situation was re-assessed and it was determined that she would be able to have the operation after all. If all the cancer had been killed by the chemo, then there was a chance that the operation would result in a cure.

On January 1, Stella had the operation. When the surgeon saw the extent that the cancer had spread, he elected to perform the “most radical” surgical operation. Stella’s stomach, spleen, gall bladder, and over forty lymph nodes were removed. The tissue that was removed was then sent to the lab to see if any active cancer cells had been “hiding” from the scan.

The report from the lab showed that active cancer cells were indeed hiding from the scan in the tissue outside her stomach. This means one of three things.

Either the cancer is still present in her body and just as cells that were removed in the operation had not been revealed on the scan, she still has more cancer still inside that didn’t show up. This possibility gets the unhappy face.  :(

A second possibility is that there are again more active cancer cells inside her body, but they represent the last remnants of the cancer. Since chemo successfully killed all the rest of the cancer, it makes sense that continued chemo will kill any remainder that is still there. This option gets a neutral face :I

A third possibility is that the cells discovered are the last vestiges of the cancer and since they were removed in the operation, she no longer has any cancer inside. This option, of course, gets the happy face

The problem is that there is absolutely no way to determine which of the three possibilities is the true one. As our Doctor said, Stella’s case is really “outside the box” as far as stomach cancer in concerned. She managed to have an operation for which there had initially been a zero percent chance. So now, the statistics can be thrown away, and we can rewrite the medical journal articles.

Where that leaves us is with a return to chemotherapy. The chemo is either going to kill active cancer cells that are still in her body, or it is simply a precautionary step to make sure that all the cancer is dead. Regardless of which option it is, we will resume the battle where we left off. Although this time our odds are better. Hey, the Giants are only three-point underdogs to win the Superbowl. That’s a hell of a lot better than they were a month ago, right? (If you don’t understand, ask a football fan.)

And so the battle continues. Right now, Stella gains strength every day, but it is not without occasional set-backs. She is trying to eat and drink, but it is difficult. She still has pain from the operation and some days she is not up to “visiting hours.” (So always e-mail before coming over.)

As for me, when she is not doing well, I am not doing well. When she is feeling better, I am feeling better. Catch me on a good day, and I will talk football or biking with you. Catch me on a bad day and I might spit on you. (No, I wouldn’t do that. But I might  just turn my back on you without answering the customary “HowzStella?” greeting.)

Chemo will not be fun. We know that. Just when Stella’s hair has grown back and some of the other side-effects from chemo have disappeared, we have to renew our membership in the club. Once again, we will be spending days at Shaare Zedek and will have a number of “rough patches” coming up.

But we do have a possibility of a cure and THAT is what we must focus on. The big party will have to wait, and we will once again call on Stella’s Army to don your battle gear and jump into the fight.

So Long Cancer Cells

In the TV show “24,” just when it seemed like all the bad guys were dead, the plot would turn and more bad guys would show up. But eventually it was just Jack Bauer and the last remaining bad guy. And we could all get stoked as he showed no mercy and sent the final villain on his way.

I have this dream where Stella finally confronts the very last cancer cell with her chemo gun loaded.

And she kicks its ass.

(If you didn’t get the Giants reference, you probably didn’t get this one, it’s a (mostly) guy thing.)

So we have no choice but to accept the situation and tell those cancer cells that their days are  numbered. (Yeah, I’m in a bit of a rah-rah mood today.)

Yarden Frankl, Neve Daniel

Not Asgad, but you get the idea

A few years ago, someone told me about a mountain bike trail that was supposed to be extremely challenging. The Asgad Ascent is off in the middle of the Judean Desert. I had seen the meandering path listed on my maps, and one day I decided to tackle it. I had been riding that morning with friends by the Dead Sea, and I figured I still had about six hours of daylight left, so why not?

My friends gave me skeptical looks when I announced that I would not be returning to Neve Daniel with them but would instead ride another 80 kilometers in the desert. But I am rather stubborn, so I took as much water as would fit in my backpack and set off alone with the map as my guide.

After a couple hours, I reached the ascent. It looked extremely difficult and the rapidly rising temperature was not going to make it easier. But, I have little common sense in these situations and (after checking in with friends on the cell) up I went.

The trail lived up to its billing. Soon I was marking the journey meter by meter. With so much sand and loose stone, I often slipped backwards and had to “give back” distance. But the whole time I could see the top of the mountain ahead of me. And as the time went by, it no longer looked so far away.

Finally I came up to the summit. I was exhausted but feeling a rush of adrenaline at the thought of conquoring this trail. I put down a foot and spent a few minutes admiring the incredible view, seeing just how far I had been able to ride.

Then I noticed that the trail curved off to my right, out of sight. I prepared myself for a thrilling downhill ride and went around the corner.

Which is when I saw that rather than a descent, the climb simply continued around the corner. I was only halfway up the famed “Asgad Ascent.” I had been fooled by a “false peak.”

I was tired, demoralized, and worried about if I could make it home.

But I had no choice. I called on my cell to check in with friends and started riding up again. I was no longer excited by the challenge. All I wanted was to get back to my car and get home. I spent the next few hours tired, sore, thirsty, and anxious.

Eventually I made it back to the car and returned to Neve Daniel a few minutes before Shabbat.

Stella was cross for me for taking such a foolish risk, and I admitted that she was right. (Although I am still proud in a crazy way at the accomplishment.)

—-

On the treadmill

Stella is recovering from a very serious operation. She is doing great and determined to get her strength back.

The whole ordeal was tough for all of us. Yet in my glorious naivety, I believed that as soon as she recovered from the operation, we could get our lives back. I was so focused on reaching the summit of the surgery, that I convinced myself that it would be a downhill coast from there.

But now I see that we are not done climbing. Getting to and through the op was indeed a huge accomplishment. Yet we are not at the real “peak” yet.  Pathology reports indicate that we will have to continue with some chemo treatments. Although we have indeed climbed very far, we are not quite ready to declare victory and move on.

And so again, I find myself tired, demoralized, and worried.

But we have no choice but to keep going. We have no choice but to keep climbing until we reach the real top and can shout out loud that we did it.

The way ahead will not be easy. We may have to wait a lot longer for the party.

But unlike that day in the desert, I know that we are not alone.

Not by a long shot.

So we will continue the prayers, the chemo, the scans, and anything else we must do. Because no matter how steep the hill, eventually you get to the top.

And I can only imagine how good that will feel.

Yarden Frankl, Neve Daniel

Dear Stella’s Army:

On our flight and since getting home, I keep thinking about what you are doing for my family. To me, you are the meaning of true religion. Your support, kindness, and help to Stella and Yarden, my wonderful grandchildren and to Jerry and myself is beyond what ever the ancient sages could have imagined.

You are truly the interpretation of the Talmud as it should be. I have sat through many a college and graduate course in religion and philosophy and have never really understood what religion is all about until I saw you and your deeds.

The Rabbi who came to talk with Stella right before she left for her most challenging experience (if you don’t count being married to Yarden [HA! -Ed.]), the Rabbi who called from Maryland right after the operation, the unbelievable people who are staying with Stella so she should never be alone in the hospital, the people who kept bringing food so I shouldn’t have to cook, the super people who took me to get the things the children needed, and the ones who kept my husband company while I was gone, the children’s friends who came to keep my grandchildren company so they could get their minds away from what their mother was enduring, the countless other people who kept volunteering anything they could to make the time more palatable – you are truly the reason we have been put on this earth.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I understand your support of Stella – she is one of the most amazingly good people I know.

But your support of Yarden is above and beyond – we all know he is slightly mezhuganah (don’t forget I have known him from birth), so as his mother, I truly thank you.

With much love and gratitude for your unending kindness,

Anthea Frankl

One nurse even gave her the nickname “Stellush Chamuda.” Loosely translated, it means “Dear Stelly.”

Shabbat was an experience, although I much prefer to be home in Neve Daniel. BUT…. if you must spend Shabbat in a hospital….then Shaari Zedek isn’t bad. I don’t think they allow patients to light candles in hospitals in America. Or let the patients’ husbands sleep on the floor. Or enjoy home cooked meals while sitting on the patients’ bed.

By the way, thank you for the food. Although Shaari Zedek provides shabbat food in the dining room, that was not good enough for one of the readers of this blog who lives near the hospital. Right before Shabbat, she sent over so much food that not only was I well fed for both Shabbat meals, but I had enough to share with the two Rachels.

Two Rachels? Yes, these two girls who share a room and first name at a seminary hung out with us. One was a patient and the other kept her company. They were actually on their way to spend Shabbat at Neve Daniel when they had to detour to the emergency room. Since they were missing visiting our wonderful Yishuv, we tried to bring a bit of the Neve Daniel warmth to them. Yes, even in a hospital bed my wife seems to attract guests to our Shabbat “table.”

Stella, unfortunately, did not have the best Shabbat. She is so determined to get better, but recovery from such extreme surgery is not easy. As the surgeon told us originally, recovery is not a simple progression. It is always a few steps forward and a few back. But at this point, she can read and may even be ready to go on her laptop and respond to the e-mails herself.

My parents had come to help out with the kids and my Dad lamented that he wasn’t in good enough shape to really help Stella. But I pointed out, even I cannot really help her. I can sit by her side, but the strength to get better is something only she can summon.

With a small number of friends, we have made sure she is never alone in the hospital. She does not like the fact that she is inconveniencing people by pulling them away from their work and their families. But what my dear, sweet wife will never get is that we are doing this not just for her, but for ourselves. I can think of no better way that I could spend an evening than on the floor by her bed, able to run and get the nurse so that she doesn’t have to wait if she needs something. The few people who have stayed with her through the night will never forget the experience, long after specific memories of grand hotel vacations have faded.

One friend — who has six kids at home — remarked that it was actually the best sleep she has had in years. When asked to do a shift, another friend said “anytime of the day or night for as long as you need.” We actually have no problem finding volunteers, there is a waiting list to stay with her that is longer than one to get reservations at a fancy restaurant.

The surgeon is pleased with the way her recovery is going, and now we must wait for more tests to determine the next step. Please don’t ask, I will let you know when I have information I wish to share.

A final word to all my running family who are preparing to run the Tiveria Marathon this week.

Enjoy every second, every step. It may seem hard to enjoy what becomes a painful ordeal at one point, but think how great it really is to have a body that can travel so far, so fast.

Stella and I did about 200 meters at a 15 minutes/kilometer pace yesterday. And that was as rewarding as any long runs I have done.

A few people have weighed in this season on why they run. Let me add one more.

Run to be strong. Run to build yourself up physically and mentally.

I believe that being a runner has helped me greatly as I try and navigate this very difficult time in my life.

I hope that the hardest thing you ever have to do is run a marathon. But if life throws you a somewhat harder challenge, you can use the same skills you develop in running to get to the finish line. If you can mentally get yourself through a 42 kilometer race, you can get yourself through almost anything.

Good luck. Stella and I will be thinking of you.

Another beautiful portrait

I may have made a mistake.

In my euphoria over the news that Stella could have the operation, I made the assumption that the hard part was over, that cancer had been defeated and now we could just celebrate the victory.

But real miracles take a bit longer than a Hollywood version. The Doctor assured me that reaching this stage was indeed amazing, but it was not by any means a guarantee. So perhaps I put on my party hat a little early.

On the other hand, the weeks before the operation were incredibly special as we celebrated every day with family, friends, and great food. O.K., the battle will go on.

Just after I sent yesterday’s post about how amazing Stella was doing, we had a setback. I won’t go into details but it was a very difficult afternoon. Then, a few hours later things got better.

I am sure that it was the extra tefillah that people said after my Facebook Post.

The big bucket of morphine didn’t hurt either.

Now let’s have some fun.

We need the smiles as much as the medicine.

——-

The night before the operation, I suggested we watch a television show on the laptop that someone had lent us. Stella agreed, and we settled down to watch and try and keep our minds off the surgery.

It was night and we were in the hospital room with two other patients and their families. There is not much privacy in Israeli hospitals, but we thought the volume was low enough that we wouldn’t disturb anyone.

Suddenly, the main character in the TV show gets bitten by a dog in a very sensitive place. He screams “The dog just bit my f—ing p—s!” Stella was mortified, and we both tried to shut it off as quickly as possible. But it was dark and we couldn’t quickly find the right button.  We realized that everyone else in the room had stopped talking. We started pushing every button on the laptop like crazy to stop everyone from hearing more about the dog and the man’s body part.

——

The day after surgery, Stella was all juiced up on very heavy pain killers. I pulled a chair next to her bed and leaned in and told her how much I loved her. I explained how we would get through this together and that I would be right beside her. I told her how many people were davening for her and how wonderful it will be when she can come home. She turned to me, opened her mouth, and finally spoke. She said:

“Your breath really stinks.”

Then she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

——

Once another patient scolded me for using the “patients” bathroom and suggested that I use the public facilities. Since Sha’ri Zedek deals with lots of people speaking lots of languages, easily understood symbols are frequently used. I found both the mens room and the womens room. But I have no idea what goes on in the room behind the door on the right.

Anyone care to guess?

—–

Yesterday, the pain was really bad at one point, and I ran to get the nurse. My Hebrew is not great to begin with, and sleep deprivation and worry did not help. I made the simple mistake of confusing the word for pain “Ko-Ev” with anger “Ko-Es.” Here is the translated conversation I had with the nurse.

Me: Excuse me, my wife has lots of anger

Nurse: Why?

Me: Because. Please give her something for the anger

Nurse: I can’t give her anything. Why should she be angry?

Me (voice rising): She HAS LOTS OF ANGER. GIVE HER SOMETHING RIGHT NOW.

Nurse (voice rising to match mine): TELL HER NOT TO BE ANGRY. WE ARE DOING EVERYTHING…..” (then a bunch of stuff that I couldn’t understand.)

ME: THE DOCTOR TOLD US THAT SHE NEEDS SOMETHING FOR THE ANGER EVERY FEW HOURS. SHE NEEDS IT NOW!!!

Nurse: (Turning away) I cannot help you.

Suddenly I realized I may have made a mistake.

Me (lowering my voice): Wait a sec, do you speak English?

Nurse: A little

Me: Does “Ko-Es” mean pain?

Nurse: No.

Me: Oops. Sorry.

Me (very low voice): Can you please give her something for the pain?

Nurse: Of course!

——

Hopefully I made you smile at something above.

As long as we can find the humor in life, we are o.k.

Yarden Frankl, Sha’ari Zedek Hospital, Jerusalem

I felt completely helpless and so I tried a few times to find some optimistic things to tell you, her Army, and I just couldn’t. I fell asleep with my laptop open on my pillow filled with sad words.

BUT — around 4:00 AM I woke up and checked my e-mail and saw a message from a friend who had spent the night with Stella at the hospital. And that message instantly lifted my mood. I want to share a portion with you:

My hours with Stella today were better than I expected.  She seemed to improve over the course or the evening, sat in the chair twice for about 20 minutes each time, used her spirometer fairly regularly and was happy to receive frequent leg and foot massages. We had numerous short, verbal exchanges and she smiled quite a number of times.

She was in and out of the bed for prolonged periods of time and with little help, shifting positions, and trying to sleep- all with no extra pain coverage. She told me a few times that she’s not in that much discomfort, and while yes, she is still getting a baseline drip and has the epidural, I firmly believe she is being STOIC STELLA. Just the NG tube alone is pretty horrible and did not hear her utter one word of complaint the entire time I was there. Hmph.

As expected, Stella is very determined to get through this and is taking like a warrior. I think Stella will be feeling much better once the tubes start coming out and her body starts to recover from the shock of surgery.

I am back with her this morning and the change since yesterday is dramatic. She has her “game face” on and fully accepts that she has to do some things that are not so comfortable to get better. We just took a walk in the hallway together, with the nurses all giving us big smiles as we walked by. If we could bottle her determination, we could all be Olympic Champions.

Her foot is smiling

She is not yet up to e-mailing, but after this post I am going to read her some of the e-mails and Facebook Posts, so don’t hesitate to write. She is also not up to visitors. Sorry but she would rather see you all when she can have normal conversations and not have tubes sticking out of her. She did not want me to take a regular picture so you will have to make do with the stunning portrait on the right until she feels more herself.

Chesed Meals

Now, I want to explain something that is very important to me.

As many of you are aware, I have decided not to request Chesed meals from the Yishuv at this time. This is not, G-d forbid, that I don’t appreciate everyone’s strong desire to help us. Knowing that so many people care and want to help has played a major role in getting us this far. So don’t think that we take for granted all the offers.

BUT — I do not want my children to think of themselves as helpless victims. I want them all to know that they have the ability to step up and help the family. My kids can make a pot of pasta as well as anyone. But doing so is very empowering. I would rather eat something that one of my kids made for me that may be a tad overcooked or bland than the best gourmet meals on the planet. Sure, we do have days when we can’t manage it. But isn’t that what pizza and burgers are for?

I do not want to dismiss all of your offers out of hand because there IS something you can do to help (and it may even include chesed meals.)

I need to embarrass our closest friends to tell you this, but I see no other way to go about it.  So here goes.

Stella and I have known Josh and Romi Sussman for years. We lived across the street from each other in Potomac, have had similar spiritual journeys, raised kids together, and talked about, planned, and eventualy made Aliya to the same place. We have spent countless Shabbat meals together, just joking around.

But while friendships during good times are fun, it’s during not so good times when you really need them.

From the day that Stella first went to the emergency room, they have been supporting our every need. They have sat with us in the Doctor’s office when we were told that Stella had almost no chance, and they were there when we were told that she did indeed have a chance. I encourage you to read Romi’s account of those days.

Why am I telling you this? Because unlike us, the Sussmans do have little kids at home, lots of them (dozens I think.)  They work, take care of their kids, and have somehow found a way to be here for us physically, emotionally and any other sort of way you can think of.

So if I do have a request for you it is this. If they need it, help the Sussmans out. They may need someone to pick a kid up or watch kids at night. They may come back from shlepping me around exhausted and emotionally drained and don’t want to cook. Instead of filling our freezer with meals that we may never get around to eating, call them and ask if you can make them a meal.

I know it may feel better to cook a meal for a family going  through a crisis, but we need the Sussmans to be taken care of so that they can take care of us. (Just make sure to e-mail them so that their actual needs can be met.) Stella and I would feel especially grateful if you did so.

As always, thank you for your time, your prayers, and your love.

Since everyone is asking, let me just conclude by telling you that the surgery was the most “radical” option. They removed Stella’s stomach, spleen, gall bladder, and a bunch of other stuff. They also took out a few pints of melted Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

Yarden Frankl, Sha’ari Zedek, Jerusalem