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.
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