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.
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