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...
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