From Snail’s Pace to Absolute Panic.

I’m already moving at a snail's pace as it is. So, when things start moving in parallel and at high speed, I find it impossible to stay focused or even keep up.

Every professional around me agreed that I need radiation. But, just to keep things complicated, it had to be the kind you can't get in Israel. Nuclear radiation. And much to my disappointment, it has absolutely nothing to do with Spider-Man or any other superhero origin story.

My radio-oncologist and a certain Austrian doctor—a world-renowned radiation expert based in the US—built a plan for me. And no, this isn't the start of a joke.

Being the organized physician that he is, the Austrian doctor CC’ed me on every single email. Polite? Very. Efficient? Not so much—especially since I found myself needing a medical dictionary for every second word.

On a different front, we found ourselves racing from meeting to meeting with a neurosurgeon who was new to us but very seasoned. He was there for a "light" surgery (his words, not mine) to replace my titanium fixation with carbon.

Since I have a bit of a background in materials, I was actually quite hyped about this new direction. I figured it’s my first step toward becoming a high-end bicycle—slowly but surely. The doctors were less amused by the joke.

Throughout the preparations, they kept emphasizing that this surgery was relatively minor and nowhere near the scale of the major one I’d already been through. In my head, that translated to "recovery will be a piece of cake." Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Every hospital has its own protocols, philosophies, and work practices. The moment I got used to one, everything flipped at the next place.

For example, at Sheba, all pre-op preparations happen within the department itself, pretty much in one spot. At Ichilov, however, things are a bit different. I suddenly discovered the place is much larger than I thought—apparently, you can easily walk for over ten minutes in one direction and still be on the same floor.

I reached areas that felt way beyond the hospital's borders—it felt like a parallel universe. Shacks that remind old-timers like me of a military induction center, packed with a disproportionate number of people and yet another diverse "queue management system" whose logic I stopped trying to decipher a long time ago.

Just entering one of these shacks requires a bachelor’s degree just to figure out which option to pick on the sophisticated LED screens. Every click feels like the end of the world—like maybe the surgery won’t happen—if I press the wrong button.

Even during the examination, which was nothing more than a formality, the doctors looked a bit confused. They checked everything multiple times to make sure they hadn't missed a thing, because every mistake would require quite a few physical steps on my part to fix.

After half a day and a significant amount of waiting, I got the official stamp of approval confirming I was ready for surgery. I was able to return home before the procedure with a "good heart" and a backpack full of anxiety.

While the pre-op waiting room at Ichilov is much larger and noisier than at Sheba, there was still something very pleasant about it. It was likely the fact that Sharon stayed with me until I was literally taken down that final hallway that made the difference.

The operating room, however, was still frozen way beyond the comfort zone of a penguin colony!

Luckily, there was an unlimited supply of heated blankets right there on the operating table. They gave me something warm to hold onto at the last second and sharpened my cosmic ability to focus on completely unimportant details.

So much for the perks. When I woke up, I finally understood the difference in philosophy between hospitals—or surgeons. The surgery was a success, but the recovery was a totally different beast. It hurt. A lot.

On one hand, I felt like they only "opened" my back, so my mobility was much better. On the other hand, the amount and types of painkillers were different and much lower. I discovered new, creative types of pain, and nothing really helped.

I was only hospitalized for three days in the ward with quite a few visitors, but my "attentiveness" toward them was, to put it mildly, lacking. I was in so much pain that I frequently fell asleep in the middle of a visit—and no, it wasn't a tactic to avoid the guest.

Those were 10 complex days, no less intense than the three months it took me to recover from the first surgery. Even here, I tried to get back to work as quickly as possible.

Driving after back surgery isn't easy, but being a passenger in a taxi isn't much better. I watched taxi drivers change their entire driving style just by witnessing my breathing—or lack thereof—and my "stunning" facial expressions.

While I was busy with my nonsense of trying to become functional again, the "Three Wise Men" (the oncologist, the radio-oncologist, and the Austrian doctor) continued making plans and closing deals.

For instance, we were positive we were flying to Austria. We already imagined moving into a friend's house. It would be a short 4-hour flight for family to hop over and help. Besides, Austria is supposed to be beautiful for trips.

Then came an email—and a surprise!!! The Austrian doctor informed us that while the facility in Austria is new, they don't have enough experience with "trouble" like mine. As far as he was concerned, only the center in New Jersey is seasoned enough to handle a complex case like mine. And surprise number two!!! My radio-oncologist agreed with him.

For the first time ever, I wasn't happy about being "special."

This is where my wife and I began hatching a diabolical and genius plan: turning lemons into lemonade. We sold the kids on a "trip to the USA," except we didn't actually know the dates yet.

We assumed it would be around August, give or take a month. Since we were less than two weeks away from the start of July, there was no way it would happen before then.

Or so we thought!!!

With peak American calmness and nonchalance, we received a letter from the US facility: "Your plan has been approved. You are invited to start in 12 days."

It definitely wasn't going to be a month. It wasn't even ten days. This was real-deal panic time.

Just the technical stuff: health insurance bureaucracy, finding a place to live there, checking everyone's visas (and getting one for one of the kids), booking flights, and updating my workplace. Oh, and I’m sure there's something small I’m forgetting... like packing the entire apartment and finding a dogsitter.

Logically? It would take at least 10 days.

Or as I said to Sharon: "It’s a small thing."

More on that "small thing" later...

Even in illnesses, luck is needed.

 It’s not a competition, and nobody really gets to choose their hand. But even I know when I’ve been dealt a truly, truly garbage hand—not a single card connects to anything.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, my specialty is getting into situations or doing the exact opposite of what’s expected or desired—in almost every scenario. For instance, since we’re already talking about cancer (not that I had a choice), it’s better to have a "user-friendly" one. The kind that thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of patients have had, and maybe even recovered from. And if you ask me—the kind where the radio-oncologist is a supporting doctor, not the lead guitarist.

All these complaints are because after almost a year in this mess, there was a brief moment of silence where we realized we actually knew nothing about my rights. It’s not just that there’s a lack of concrete information on Chordoma; everything with me is upside down—it’s "unmanaged bureaucracy."

We also realized that my family doctor was a pro as usual. From the moment they discovered what I had, he did two things.

The first and most important (which, turns out, isn't automatic)—he entered me into the oncological patient database. It’s a pretty large club, and definitely not one you want to be a member of. But that simple action made dealing with my health fund and National Insurance (Bituach Leumi) a bit easier. Don’t worry—the Tax Authority remains its usual self.

The second thing—from that moment on, for anything that didn't involve an Acamol or a band-aid, he sent me straight to the oncologist...

But wait, I don't have an oncologist!

I had quite a bit of bureaucracy to handle. The kind that takes at least two hours just to fill out the forms on the National Insurance website. Because I couldn't find an option for "Chordoma," I kept ending up back on the same page, greeted by that warning in bold red letters stating I hadn't filled everything out. After more than ten attempts and zero help from Google or tech support, I gave up. I decided to click on the cancer closest to my disease—"Sarcoma"—and hoped for the best (Quick spoiler: at the board meeting, the doctor laughed and said I should have just ignored it).

I don’t really know where I, and of course my amazing wife, found the strength to start digging through the National Insurance website and Google to discover some real bureaucratic gems. For example: anyone diagnosed with cancer is automatically recognized with 100% disability for the first year. In my head, at least, that meant no board meeting was necessary since all the documents were there—it should be a rubber stamp from here on out.

Or so I thought. Don’t worry—two days after submitting the form, a clerk from National Insurance called me (the fastest efficiency I’ve ever encountered in my life) to summon me to a board meeting. During the call, I’m naively trying to understand why. They have all the forms; everything is clear in advance. There’s no reason to bother me, a consulting doctor, and a clerk for a redundant meeting with a predetermined outcome.

After 10 minutes of "So you refuse to come?" from her and "No, I just don't understand why" from me, she stuck to her script: "So you refuse to come." I decided to end both our miseries, agreed to show up, and finally hung up.

At 3:00 PM, while still recovering from my second surgery, I found myself hobbling to the nearest National Insurance branch. At the security check, they were more interested in knowing if I had a lawyer with me than what was in my bag or why I could barely breathe.

Since it was late, the branch was deserted, looking like a desert from a Hollywood Western. The only thing breaking the silence was the grating loudspeaker reading out numbers in no clear order to rooms hidden from view. There's always that dilemma—to go to the bathroom and risk them calling your number. Pro tip: always go!

Here, I’d like to point out that not only is there no reason to get stressed about these boards (and later I’d discover some positive changes), but you also don't have to surrender to all their whims, like I did in the room.

There wasn't an extra chair for me. Both of them sat comfortably, while I (it was my first time) was stressed and stood there with my walker like a good soldier. I answered all their questions. Halfway through, my strength failed me, and I asked about a chair. The answer still amazes me: "You can go look for one, but it’ll be on your meeting's time."

I’ll cut it short and surprise you: in the end, there was indeed no need for the board at all. When I dared to ask why they brought me there when I could barely stand, they didn't even answer. They just smiled and waited for me to leave the room for the next patient. The doctor even felt a bit peckish and pulled out a sandwich so he wouldn't starve to death.

So, as I said, that was the stage where we realized we needed to start getting organized. we went to the "market" to find an oncologist.

We needed an oncologist who wouldn’t just agree to take me, but who knew what I had, understood the disease deeply, and maybe even had experience with at least one other patient.

"Don't swap a winning horse"—Tel Hashomer came to my rescue again. We found an oncologist who, in hindsight, turned out to be a good friend of my radio-oncologist from Ichilov. He also managed to handle my incredible sense of humor and my cynicism, which never stopped reaching new heights.

The oncologist also had a punchline (just like the radio-oncologist): that he would do everything to help, to navigate the complexities of the disease, and sometimes act as a rubber stamp for bureaucracy—but having him was good, if not critical.

What many don’t know is that with great power comes great responsibility... wait, wrong story. With an oncologist comes an oncology nurse, a social worker, and quite a few other professional services—exactly, or almost exactly, for the problem I have.

The volunteers who were really trying to help me with National Insurance quickly summoned the social worker. She couldn’t help me with that, but suddenly, other services were resolved the moment I registered for the department. The question of "Are you oncological or not?" finally ended. I didn't get a badge, but every form was officially signed off that I belonged. It’s strange, but even a disease needs a home, and so do people.