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.
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