Everyone knows best.

 Every social gathering - extended family, a few friends, even the neighbors - immediately triggers the question: "How are you?"

In the middle of a non-stop marathon of tests, doctor appointments, medical boards, and endless bureaucracy, I usually just answer: "Still alive" or "Survived another week." Classic dad/uncle jokes that aren't funny to anyone but me—which, in my condition, is the only thing that matters.

Quite often, behind that "How are you?" hides a new article, a drug I haven't heard of, or a new expert for my specific rare niche. I’m flooded with "life-changing" suggestions that I absolutely must look into right now! Or not.

Some suggestions are practical (and easier to digest): hyperbaric chambers, acupuncture, red or green light therapy, mushrooms, and other surprises. Others come from the spiritual realm- -surprising insights about the world, because apparently, what I need most right now is to start thinking like a rabbit: running through fields, eating grass, and convincing myself that I am, like, totally healthy. Everyone knows "imagination creates reality," meaning: "Think healthy, be healthy."

To the dismay of my dear friends who only want to help, my (not-so-polite) response is: "I might not be a math genius, but if imagination creates reality, then mine is completely warped. Maybe I’m the one who imagined and summoned this Chordoma into existence." It’s a temporary solution, but it usually keeps people from offering their unsolicited oncology "expertise" long enough to give me some peace.

Meanwhile, I’m digesting the fact that I’m headed for another surgery, which is supposed to be much smaller and simpler than the last one—just swapping the existing titanium fixation for carbon fiber.

Thanks to the "surprised" look on the face of my neurosurgeon at Sheba, we realized we needed to find surgeons who actually specialize in this specific field. Through a good friend, we reached a different expert who was very professional and decisive. We tried to be organized and arrived with everything: MRI, CT, pre- and post-op reports.

I felt like I was at a mechanic’s shop, where the new guy goes over everything the previous mechanic did, what should have been done, and "how the hell did they miss that this was Chordoma?" He immediately knew the next step, noting that only a few experts in the world perform the complex surgery of removing entire vertebrae. In my case, he said at least two vertebrae and about 40% of my ribs needed to go. This procedure is done by a specialist from Bologna, Italy, who would be happy to fly to Israel just for me (and for the hummus).

I don’t know why, but "open-back surgery" didn't exactly charm me. That expert, who was truly above and beyond, referred us to another specialist—a neurosurgery professor from Ichilov whose line of thinking really clicked with mine and Sharon’s. He argued that since you can't know what’s already spread, it's better to clean out what’s visible to the eye. And, of course, swap the hardware for carbon fiber screws. He wasn't a fan of carbon fiber—unlike me (in my head, it’s like a high-end bicycle! :) )—because it’s slightly less durable than titanium.

My radio-oncologist was also pleased with this plan. He had just moved to Ichilov to oversee the construction of the radiation facility I need (which will take at least five years in a best-case scenario). He wanted to work with that professor and was happy to get rid of all metal before the radiation treatments, which were starting to look like a trip to the U.S.

I returned to work with full force, with my amazing manager and some significant changes there. And just so things wouldn't get boring, while working with an external company in Jaffa, I found myself picking up black suitcases designed for sensitive equipment—like photography gear, or in our case, something that looked like a playground for Smurfs.

If it wasn't clear by now: I am an expert in procrastination and denial! For some reason, this time I broke my bad habit. The moment I put two relatively small suitcases into the even smaller trunk of my cool mini-car, my glasses got dirty. After the third attempt to clean them, I realized my glasses might actually be clean. I called Sharon (yes, a recurring theme) who told me I’m not supposed to be seeing things that aren’t there—in this case, a black dot that moved with me everywhere. I had to see an eye doctor immediately.

I booked the earliest possible appointment at a French-run clinic in Florentin. It felt a bit like being abroad while waiting. The doctor was more indifferent and calm than I was—until he looked into my eye. Then he forgot how to speak Hebrew. Once he regained his natural skin color, he sent me to the ER in the format I’m now used to: "URGENT!"

To make a long story short, and so as not to disappoint anyone, I showed up not with one retinal tear, but two in the same eye (one on top, one on the bottom). Up to this point, it’s not that rare. It’s just that I caught it early enough that it didn't hit the center of the eyeball, meaning my vision wasn't damaged—and that is both rare and an urgent reason for surgery "because I haven't been comfortable for six months and there are still a few months until the next big surgery."

Thanks to my primary illness and my "surgery count," I was moved to the morning (VIP) slot and got the most veteran anesthesiologist. During the pre-op tour, my turn was delayed for three hours while they debated what was allowed or forbidden regarding my condition. After an hour and a half, they realized they had no idea. It took a bit more time to reach the professor who was supposed to perform my upcoming fixation surgery; in two minutes, he cleared everything up and cooked up a solution that worked for everyone.

After the first surgery, I had spent weeks looking mostly downwards. I had learned that lying on my back was the most comfortable—both for breathing (which wasn't easy) and for complex movements like getting up. The problem started after the eye surgery, which was done with gas rather than gel (don't feel bad if you don't know the difference). Eyes treated with gas require you to keep your head down as much as possible, and in bed, that means on your stomach!

I admit that even though this was a "mini-surgery" compared to what I’ve already been through, it really hurt. But even that passed, and I got used to sleeping on my stomach. I even found a way to work on my computer with my head down. I was as ready as I could be for my next surgery.

I promised you it would be interesting. See you in the next post.

Radio… Oncologist

From the moment my "new friend" got a name, I tried to focus on recovering and sticking strictly to the cocktail of medications I received from the pain clinic at Tel Hashomer Hospital. In practice, this meant that every week I would drop about half a pill of each kind—mostly morphine and its lovely cousins. It also meant that the day after each dosage change, all hell broke loose. The pain would flare up in a way that vividly reminded me of the day after surgery, only this time I was more focused. A day after the "cursed day," things would return to normal, which made the withdrawal process from the heavy stuff a bit easier. A month after surgery, I was already down to the lighter stuff.

Despite everything, we couldn’t stop ourselves from reading and asking everyone we knew about this new roommate: Chordoma. We quickly realized there wasn’t much info out there, let alone local experts. In Tel Hashomer, no matter who we consulted, we always ended up with the same name. Outside of Tel Hashomer, there were very few names at all. I learned that an oncologist (a profession I’m familiar with) is important, but what I actually needed was a Radio-Oncologist (a new term I hadn't really met before).

So, we booked an appointment with the "One and Only," which is also the day we discovered the meaning of "Oncological Scheduling." We were invited for 12:00 PM, only to realize that being seen at 2:00 PM isn't considered "late" (which is exactly what happened). From there, it only went downhill. But to the credit of every doctor in the oncology field, the delays stem from a genuine desire to help, to hear every single detail, and to support the patients in the difficult situation they’ve found themselves in.

To this day, there’s one sentence I remember from that long meeting: "There’s no time pressure with you, but you’ll probably be my most complex patient." I didn't fully grasp the implications of that sentence until much later—I'll get to that eventually—but during that first meeting, I still kept my "cool" exterior. For the first time in my life, my cynicism was toned down (it was a heavy meeting, to say the least).

Naturally, we arrived with a mountain of tests: CT, PET-CT, MRI, and more. I discovered different types of scans and even the subtle differences between the machines.

Despite all the hard work and best efforts of the surgeons, they hadn't anticipated an "un-benign" tumor, let alone something this rare. So, they cleaned it out as best as they could, but not in an "oncological way" (where you're supposed to remove everything with a margin and definitely not cut inside the body for fear of spreading cells). The result? Not only were there remnants in the surgical area, but a few new "friends" had joined the party, likely spread during the procedure.

So, despite winning a new doctor—who handled my suppressed cynicism quite well (giving him a passing grade in my book, and spoiler alert: he even survived the later severe deterioration of my cynicism)—he realized we had done our homework and started throwing data at us. Every now and then, one of us had to stop him—either with a question (Sharon’s way) or with a weird smile and a half-cough (my way)—to remind him that just because we know what Chordoma is, it doesn't mean we understand everything else.

Just like I didn't know the difference between a 1.5 Tesla and a 3 Tesla MRI machine until my second time inside one, I had no clue there were different types of radiation. I was perfectly happy in my "happy place," thinking that if you need radiation, you go to the machine, someone hits "Start," and after a few sessions, you're good as new.

Well, it turns out there are plenty of types, and "simple and easy" wasn't on the menu. None of the radiation types available in Israel would even make my tumor flinch.

Chordoma isn't exactly "cancerous," but it’s definitely not benign; it’s a tumor made of embryonic cells. And those cells are incredibly—and I mean incredibly—hard to destroy with almost any standard radiation. If you leave even a micron of the stuff behind, it’s guaranteed to grow back.

Proton Therapy—yet another new term to become a pro in (because I didn't have enough hobbies). By now, every time I show up for tests, the technicians talk to me like I’m one of their own.

If things are going to be crooked, let’s go all the way. Due to bureaucracy and "who has the bigger ego" contests, Israel—over 15 years late—hasn't built the facility for this type of radiation. It’s basically a small atomic reactor that requires a massive building. So, in recent years, they usually fly people to Switzerland or Vienna, since it’s closer and more convenient than the US.

True to my motto of "Why simplify when you can complicate!", we sent all the materials via my radio-oncologist to a world-renowned Austrian expert who had built these institutes in the US.

Besides the "European-Friendly Plus-Plus" attitude and a nice smile, he said I needed radiation and a very massive plan, but only in the US. Because my case is rare and complex, and they have 18 years of experience there, whereas the Austrian center is young and doesn't have the specific knowledge yet (even though they are excellent at things like brain radiation).

A family trip to the US sounded tempting, but Europe appealed to me much more—the proximity to Israel, the convenience, plus friends living in the area. But then he mentioned one more thing: in the first surgery, they had stabilized my vertebrae with a titanium screw.

And we’re back to physics class: metals (turns out titanium is a metal) absorb radiation and significantly reduce the treatment's effectiveness. So, what do we need? Another surgery! Or as my radio-oncologist called it, a "mini-surgery" (I actually believed him back then) to replace the screw with one made of carbon fiber.

Just as I was starting to truly recover from the first surgery, my face was already turned toward a brand new one.

So what did you say?

 Logic is a rare commodity—especially in the state I was in. I was handed a thick booklet of prescriptions, enough to fill a medium-sized supermarket cart.

There is something truly cosmic, unsolved to this day: hospital prescriptions are not compatible with pharmacies! It’s perfectly "logical." Someone fresh out of surgery, looking like the neighborhood zombie, now has to drag himself to his family doctor just to have them converted. Same drugs, just different colored paper and a different stamp.

For me, this meant I could barely sit, stand, or breathe, yet I had to drive twenty minutes each way to visit my GP. He insisted I come in person, even though my father and wife offered to handle it for me. So, I showed up. The doctor took one look at me—I was the same color as his doorframe—and that’s when the penny finally dropped that I wasn’t exactly "fine." I’ve never seen a man issue prescriptions so fast in my life.

At the pharmacy, everyone cleared a path for the zombie. The pharmacist gathered everything in record time, even ducking into the safe for the real narcotics. For once, I cut the line ahead of all the seniors. I walked out with three large "Clalit" bags, and even with the discounts, the total was over 1,000 Shekels.

I don’t know if people were staring in shock at the mountain of meds, or at me for actually being upright, or maybe the combination of both. All the way back to the car, thank god my mom had prepared a fresh "Pesek Zman" chocolate bar—it saved me. Gave me another twenty minutes of breath through every turn and speed bump my dad took. I tried to look calm, mostly so my dad wouldn't panic even more. All the way back to a horizontal position.

Just when I thought the hard part was over because I was finally home, I woke up to a different reality. At home, there’s no medical team doing morning rounds just to talk about you for a few minutes. No nursing staff monitoring and helping with every little thing. Instead, there’s just the immediate family. Mostly, my wife. And two kids who desperately want to jump, hug, and help—they try, but they can't quite do it yet.

The first problem I hit was the simple act of getting in and out of bed. The angle change was the enemy. The transition from horizontal to vertical held within it a whole new world of pain—in various "shades" and "colors." Going back the other way took me forever to recover from.

During that time, I felt very close to an animal I’ve always loved: the chameleon. I never realized how frequently and easily I could change colors. I discovered new shades: from pale to ghostly white, and other "interesting" hues. I never knew it was physically possible.

Even though I had rested and gathered strength in the hospital for ten days, those first days at home I was a total wreck. I tried to sleep more, to acclimate to a new routine, but the exhaustion just wouldn't budge.

At first, my "daily workout" was just getting out of bed and moving into different types of sitting positions. After a few days, I managed to stay in the same position for more than five minutes. I even started trying to draw a little again.

I had a follow-up scheduled with my neurosurgeon for a month after the surgery. But two weeks in, he called. He asked to meet as soon as possible. Naturally, I was still in my "denial zone." I was focused on getting out of the "patient" mindset and back to activity as fast as possible. I didn't attribute any significance to the early check-up.

It landed exactly on the day I had to get my stitches out—what fun. I was busy with my own "logistics": calculating where to park so the walk would be short, deciding whether to see the surgeon first or get the stitches removed. Being a "pro" at hospital queues, I decided to pull a number for the stitches first, then run up to the surgeon, hoping it would be quick so I could make it back for my turn. In my head, he just wanted to say "hi."

I went up to his office with my dad. I always notice the important things. The doctor was paler than the wall behind him. He looked more depressed than a memorial day. He started explaining and apologizing for the "extremely rare and complex situation" I was in, saying maybe they rushed in too fast, and so on. Meanwhile, I was busy cataloging every sculpture, painting, and doll in his office—including the spinal skeletons. Just the neck ones. And why the hell did he have a giant globe and a statue of a horse? Because that's what really matters.

It goes without saying that you should always bring a "responsible adult" to such important meetings. This time, the honor went to my father. While he competed with the doctor for who could look paler, he made sure to ask all the right questions and write down everything important. I, on the other hand, made sure to keep my spirits high—still not fully processing the situation. The only thing I had to say was: "So, what did you say? What’s the name of what I have again?" Great fun, but only for me.

From there, with my dad’s mood in the gutter and me in wonderful denial, we went back down to wait for the stitches. We were sure we’d missed our turn—over an hour and a half had passed. But thanks to my lucky star, the nurse hadn't even arrived yet. Delays are a beautiful thing.

After waiting for four hours, I didn't even need my usual "distraction tricks." I was so exhausted I actually fell asleep while they were pulling the stitches out. And that was the end of our errands for the day. We went home with a new friend: Chordoma. At least now my disease had a name.

Let’s just say that ever since then, only Sharon comes with me to important doctor's appointments.

The Race to Release

Everything in life is relative, but being in a room with one or two other patients feels like pure luxury after the ward’s ICU. In the ICU, three patients are considered an "empty room," yet the level of noise and visitors is insane. Even though I wasn't fully conscious for those three days—navigating the pain, the adjustment, the shift from anesthesia to sedation, the "pain twilight," and the transition from lying down after complex surgery to sitting and then walking (how much I cursed Sharon)—I was still very happy to move to a regular room where I could actually recognize and remember everyone who came to visit.

Sharon’s master management skills were in full effect here. She managed who came, when, and for how long, which took the hassle off me. Honestly, it made the visits look like a well-coordinated schedule. I tried not to listen when she laid out the daily plan, so that way, it was still a surprise. Family, friends, coworkers—sometimes there were interesting and usually successful mashups between my different social circles.

Remember how we always say, "Don’t bring anything"? I really meant it, but it was still cool getting surprises. Over time, I developed superpowers: identifying exactly what each person would bring. Chocolates picked up on the way from work, sweets from the Roladin at the hospital entrance, over-the-top fruit baskets, even stuffed animals because I have a thing for them. For those who really had no idea what to bring, a floating helium balloon with cartoon characters totally did the trick. And "the trick" is simply heart-expanding—just showing up and surprising me (though just showing up works too).

It’s hard for people to grasp that after surgery, you don’t actually have much free time. Between various "colors" and types of physical therapy, blood tests, X-rays, MRI, CT, PET CT—and the fact that none of these tests are in the same building. Depending on the situation, if the patient isn't literally bolted to the bed, they have to move to a wheelchair just to get to the test. Every tiny movement is a major ordeal followed by a long recovery—don’t even get me started on sneezing; it takes 40 minutes for the color to return to your cheeks.

I know visitors are important, but in the right dosage. It's crucial not to be shy when it feels like too much and you need to rest. If you somehow feel awkward in front of someone who traveled from far away, "spontaneous falling asleep" usually works. I say "usually" because, while I never actually had to fake it, I discovered it always does the job. Several times I woke up to find that, by some miracle, my work friend had vanished and my sister was sitting there waiting for me to wake up.

Regarding the staff—in 99% of my many hospitalizations, they were magnificent. Truly. At first, we were surprised by it, but over time, our high appreciation for the healthcare system only grew and became filled with different nuances. I learned not to argue with the ward's support staff and to do (as much as I could) whatever they said. No matter how painful or exhausting it was, there was always positive progress after the difficult recovery.

Even though the staff went above and beyond and were very positive, I still had one small fear. I learned to measure the level of threat by the speed of movement and the size of the smile on my wonderful physical therapist's face. The happier she looked walking into the room, the more I knew I was about to suffer. If she walked in with strange accessories, my fear only grew—no matter how innocent the devices looked. For example, a plastic box with colored balls that looked like it was taken from a baby store is actually a Chinese torture device for someone who had surgery involving the lungs. All you have to do is breathe in or out (depending on the exercise) and hope to make all three balls float.

I have an advantage: despite loving good food, I manage just fine and—quietly, so no one hears—I actually like hospital food. This goes against the popular opinion that hospital food is a horror show and that to get stronger, you must bring food from outside. But that has risks a patient in my condition doesn't always want to face. My trick was to eat outside food only when I could get out of bed; then I was on high alert for a quick move to the ward’s "amazing" bathroom/shower. I learned that after the third hospitalization.

After nearly 10 days and at least a million tests, the "clearance form" finally arrived so I could be discharged. This is exactly when all the necessary professionals disappear, and my patience is tested as I wait for two things: the discharge letter and for someone to unhook me from the machines. The nurse always—but always—arrives with a ear-to-ear smile and within twenty seconds, I'm disconnected. She stands there smiling with all my gear folded, wishing me health and hoping we don't see each other again. I hoped so too, but it doesn't really work out for me.

On the way out of the ward, Sharon places enough chocolate on the desk to feed two departments, and I receive a sheet of questions and explanations that sounded pretty idiotic at the time. "How are you getting back? Is someone picking you up? Is there an elevator in your building?" and so on.

I answered "Yes" and "Of course" to almost everything, not really understanding why these questions were so important. But very quickly on the ride back, every pothole—even a turn Sharon took with the utmost gentleness—I felt right in my tailbone. When we got home, a message arrived that the elevator had just been fixed. Only then did I understand the nurse’s discharge questions, as I counted every single step to my bed at home. It took another hour for the color to return to my cheeks and for me to start breathing again.

So, what are my conclusions?

1. Let someone who cares about you manage the schedule. You won't be able to anyway, and it just creates unnecessary stress of "when to come?" and "what to bring?"

2. Accept the staff in advance. Don't skip asking questions, and make sure someone is with you—at least during doctor rounds and important times of the day.

3. Patience and more patience. We aren't the only ones in the ward.

4. If we can't calm ourselves down—from the physical therapy, the tests, or otherwise—appoint one "merciless" person to help us get through it.

And that’s it. I left and was sure that the Chordoma and I had parted ways. But the journey had only just begun—which is why this blog exists. I’d love to hear what you 

Match expectations

Since my personal superpower is avoidance and repression, I wasn't even willing to entertain the possibility that this might be a malignant tumor. Essentially sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "la-la-la" like a child, I did almost everything to avoid thinking about it.

A few days earlier, a colleague from work arrived devastated after a small growth was discovered. They removed it quickly and sent it for a biopsy. I reassured him, relieved they'd acted fast and hoping for a benign result. With great innocence—and likely a very strong inner will—I explained with total confidence that because of the speed and size of my tumor, mine would definitely be benign. This thought was anchored in the absolute certainty of my doctors, who believed that given the location and size, no other option seemed plausible.

Thanks to Sharon, we managed to find an incredibly early surgery date at Tel HaShomer—just a matter of days. It was clear it wouldn't be simple, but just before I was hospitalized, I got the good news from my friend: his results were clear. I felt relieved for him, and I was certain that soon, this would be my reality too (imagination creates reality, right?).

The pre-op preparations went relatively smoothly. Well, except for the fact that transferring blood test results into the hospital system took hours; a small tip: printing them out saves a lot of time (Sharon only told me about fifty times, yet for some reason, I still didn't listen). Then came the anesthesiologist, the surgeons, and arranging childcare shifts for the kids. As for me—no fear. I was completely unbothered, innocently thinking that after surgery, they'd bring me my laptop and I'd be working from my bed that same day, or the next.

I was hospitalized in Neurosurgery due to a shortage of beds, with plans to move to Thoracic Surgery after the operation. I didn't really sleep that night. My biggest fear? The shower at 5:30 AM. I hate water. I mean, I really hate it.

Over time, I learned an important lesson about the so-called "design genius" of hospitals: a shower that is also a toilet, fully adapted for accessibility, which adds all sorts of strange poles and a wheelchair you can shower on. It's as if there's a lot of wasted space in that tiny square, with a setup for a curtain that never exists—replaced by the ingenious substitute of a squeegee. There is zero room for error and a 100% chance things will get wet.

Experienced patients check for the squeegee before entering because it's essential if you want to leave the room dry. I suspect that to encourage patient interaction, there is always one less squeegee than needed in the ward. Don't even get me started on the number of chairs—a very rare commodity in certain departments.

Before surgery, you have to shower with a special red soap. The color is the least of its problems; it feels remarkably like sand. To top it off, you have to put on that backwards gown by yourself. I always stare at it for a few minutes trying to figure out what goes where and how to tie all the strings so it at least resembles a minimal piece of clothing. Once I succeeded, my only goal was to get back to bed as fast as possible because every passing second was turning my backside into a popsicle (remember my hatred of water? Water and hospital AC is a combination designed for suffering).

This is also the moment when you must absolutely never give up on having two blankets. I clung to them for dear life. This becomes even more critical in the pre-op waiting room, where the temperature is perfectly comfortable—for penguins. The staff members are all in short sleeves, constantly moving just to keep from freezing.

As it turns out, imagination (or the lack thereof) doesn't actually create reality. And these doctors had plenty of time to do their cutting and carving.

It's common knowledge that during surgery, they take a small piece of the tumor, freeze it, and stain it right there on the lab table. The tissue's reaction can indicate the type of tumor—just like a high school science lab with a frog. As had been the case so far, luck wasn't on my side. Life clearly had its own plans; the color that turned up was exactly the one neither the doctors nor I wanted to see.

Except, I wasn't aware of that yet.

Coming out of recovery—which I don't remember—I entered the department's Intensive Care Unit for three days. I didn't even know this existed: an ICU inside the ward. I admit those three days were a blur of fragments; parts I remember followed by black holes.

Because my surgery was on the spinal cord, many pain relief options were off the table, and an epidural was forbidden. I was far from comfortable. To this day, I haven't decided if the excruciating pain was the worst part, or the compression stockings. Apparently, those are a real thing, and they are incredibly itchy. They're designed to keep the blood flowing and avoid complications from lack of movement.

I looked as white as the pillow I was lying on. Still, the management of expectations is an interesting thing. The amazing nurses didn't ignore my condition, but without missing a beat—even though the pillow was looking more colorful than I was—they got me up to start walking very quickly. I was so high and in so much pain that I'm not sure I wasn't actually floating, but at the end of those three days, I was so happy to move to a regular hospital bed with only two other patients and say goodbye to the machines that never stop beeping 24/7.

That was also the moment I realized three days had passed.

Bureaucracy for Beginners Special Puzzle

This was the first time I started to realize that even though I’m an expert in the laws of logic-and there isn't a puzzle I can't solve-this specific puzzle has its own twisted set of rules.

Logically speaking, if a dozen doctors are panicking about the size and location of your tumor and tell you to act fast, everything should move at a lighting speed. Right?
Well... wrong. Instead, you suddenly find yourself suspended in mid-air, hovering over the abyss, because apparently, there's plenty of time to realize that my health insurance doesn't work with this hospital, and that I might get an MRI faster if I'm not hospitalized... unless I'm hospitalized in a different ward. Welcome to Bureaucracy 101.

All of this happened after my family doctor, with relative calm, sent me to the ER on a Friday night because "it’s the fastest way to get an MRI." But since my tumor wasn't in my head, we had to find a thoracic surgeon on call on a Friday night. Let’s just say winning the lottery would’ve been easier.

After several long hours in the (wonderful) Tel HaShomer ER, someone vaguely connected to thoracic surgery appeared. I started explaining the situation, and he just stared at me. Sharon took over and explained it again-shorter, punchier. Within five sentences, he confirmed that yes, this was his department, but since the MRI unit was closed for the night, we should come back Sunday morning. He promised that a world-renowned expert would know how to handle it. Reassuring, right? As it turned out, that expert was his boss (who doesn't believe in the Goddess of Luck/God/the waving lucky cat at this point?).

So, we met the doctor and realized the most important thing was the MRI. Only problem? No available appointments.

Somehow, in the middle of this tornado, it felt easier to deal with bureaucracy and technicalities. Everyone around us started pulling strings—friends, colleagues, random people on the street—trying to figure out who could help.

Suddenly, everyone has a "friend who’s a neurosurgery resident" who can "fix you an appointment for the day after tomorrow" at a hospital near your house (in his dreams). But then, a real appointment was made: a mere one-hour drive away, at 01:00 AM.

To add an apocalyptic vibe to the whole thing, we found ourselves just after midnight on the winding roads up to Jerusalem, heading toward Ein Kerem. While I was mentally preparing to sleep in a machine that sounds like heavy artillery, Sharon was convinced she was in a European Rally, competing for first place.

She took every curve at 100 km/h, flashed her high beams at oncoming cars to make them dim theirs, and found overtaking spots with the calm of a Zen racing pro.

Regardless of my grim situation, I highly recommend touring hospitals at night. The atmosphere is perfect for a horror movie. Unlike the daytime, there’s no one to guide you through the long, dark corridors. Naturally, there's always that one flickering halogen bulb in the middle of the hallway to amplify the doomsday feel. To this day, I have no idea why half a hospital is dark after midnight, but hey—that’s Jerusalem for you.

And don’t worry, the bureaucracy never disappoints. After a few wrong turns, we found ourselves in front of a receptionist at midnight. Contrary to the abandoned hospital, the MRI waiting room was buzzing with life.

We weren't exactly thrilled to discover that the code on my referral didn't match the test code. It’s always fun to have one more "little thing" to fix later, except no one at my insurance company works at 2:00 AM. We signed a guarantee, and I went in for over an hour of staring at a smudge on the machine's inner wall, trying to doze off despite the deafening noise and the freezing cold. That’s my version of meditation.

Two days later, with the results in hand, we stood at a crossroads with the doctors who had wanted to operate on me "yesterday." Now, with the MRI results, they wanted to operate even faster. Meanwhile, the "friend of a friend" who helped get the MRI claimed, after a consultation, that a biopsy was a must.

We had to decide. We didn't exactly flip a coin, but we weren't far from it. Between two veteran, well-known surgeons, I just wanted to move forward. I wanted to end my questionable relationship with this tumor—I’d already started giving it nicknames, which is always a clear sign that the relationship needs to end.

Toward the surgery... why we skipped the biopsy, and what happened next—in the next post.