At this point we should have already figured out that logic and pretty much anything that happens — or is supposed to happen — in the oncology system don't really have much to do with reality.
Lying on the table at home were 4 passports. Three with visas, and one belonging to our youngest — without a US visa. Eight days to the flight, and out of everything on the to-do list, this was the top priority: making sure we don't arrive at the departure date with a 5-year-old who has to stay behind. A scenario so absurd and surreal it felt made up. Turns out it's very much real.
My health fund, it turns out, has a department that handles procedures unavailable in Israel. In general, the Israeli government funds treatments for anyone who has no domestic option (logical, and also heartwarming — yes, there are things like this in our tiny country. And important to note: as far as Sharon and I know, these are not experimental treatments).
So after a fairly short call and filling out some technical details with the person in charge at my health fund, I explained that we were planning to make lemonade out of lemons and fly the whole family to the US for two and a half months as a summer vacation. To my surprise, she wasn't surprised at all. She was already prepared for it, and even tried to help with the adjacent stuff that wasn't technically her responsibility (our children, bless them).
Travel agents are something we'd long forgotten existed in regular life — but in this world, not only do they exist, they're genuinely necessary and remarkably efficient.
Meanwhile, in the chordoma patients group — which barely has a double-digit headcount — I consulted about the flight, the treatment, where to stay and what to do. Everyone reassured us that there's a caring and active Jewish community there, plus an Israeli community that's also very invested in helping. More on that later.
Back to the US visa situation and the embassy rules nobody told us about. The pressure was on, so we tried everything: friends, family, companies claiming they can get a visa in 72 hours. Everyone gave me the same answer — it's medical, it's an emergency, the embassy must respond within 48 hours, which is exactly why they can't help.
Between what's supposed to happen and what actually happens, there's a small gap. No matter how many emails I sent, how many people tried to reach someone they knew at the embassy — silence. Four days of it. Meanwhile, simple math: four days left. It turned out later they'd had a holiday, and despite their own rule about 48-hour emergency responses, it took them four days just to open the inbox.
In the middle of the day, someone called me — very calmly, in a way that somehow still felt stressful — asked a lot of questions and basically read back all the documents we'd already sent. After a very long call, they scheduled an appointment for the following day. Three days to the flight, the clock is not stopping, and the woman on the phone was not particularly bothered. She too repeated the mantra: everything will be fine, these are just the procedures.
Meanwhile, Sharon is wrapping up her school year, packing up her entire office, making lists of everything we'll need, and — as always — calculating every expense: the apartment, the car, camps, food, and more. She's also reaching out through people to understand how the community there can help — even just with familiar faces.
Mid-packing-up-the-house-and-making-sure-the-plants-get-watered, I drove with the kids to drop the dogs off at the kennel. Not an easy goodbye.
Alongside all the chaos, and over two months late, I received the conclusions from the National Insurance committee — who not only violated their own rules, but also refused to give me documents I still don't understand why they withheld.
In short: many pages explaining just how active, healthy, and frankly ready for the upcoming Olympics I am — but I do have this "little quirky thing called chordoma," and since it's my first year since diagnosis, I'm at 100% disability.
Which also means I'm entitled to a disability parking permit that I very much need in the US. So, magically, yet another bureaucratic item was added to my personal fun list.
Three days to the flight, and I find myself back at the American Embassy — except this time with an appointment. The wonderful security guard who had genuinely tried to help me last time opened the door cheerfully, and I waddled in like a duck as people overtook me, going from door to door until I reached the large hall and a snake-shaped queue straight out of a theme park.
Within less than 30 seconds, a doorman approximately two meters tall walked straight toward me. His eyes locked onto mine and I felt like the Mona Lisa — wherever I moved, he followed. He pointed at me, said "after you," and I, with my cane, hobbled behind him, past quite a few people, until he positioned me first in line. No one dared breathe next to him.
Straight to a pleasant clerk who clearly knew the whole story and just wanted to help. Which meant that within ten minutes I was outside with a visa for the kid. I stood there mildly dazed outside the embassy, a little stunned by the speed and efficiency after the initial chaos. Another thing that needed to happened...
successfully, and grandma and grandpa could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
At work, they somehow managed to contain my nonsense. An interesting conversation with my boss and my boss's boss ended with good luck wishes, hugs, and gifts from both sides (a bigger gift from their side). What mattered to me was emphasizing that I plan to keep working from the US between radiation sessions — and I caught my boss's very diplomatic "sure, sure" look, which clearly meant "give me a break."
Which freed me up to go back to hassling the Ministry of Transport about the parking permit they still hadn't sent, with excuses that were not particularly helpful. After dozens of calls over three consecutive days, two days before the flight, the permit also decided to show up. Another green checkmark off the list.
Everything was packed and ready, including all the flight bureaucracy. The agent got me a seat where I could lie flat — which meant we were separated for a very long flight. Sharon somehow survived it fine.
At the airport, still in Israel, I won't forget the expression on the check-in agent's face after she explained there was overbooking in business class (still not entirely sure how that's possible), and maybe I'd want to move to a different seat in exchange for compensation. Midway through her explanation, she received my oncologist's medical summary. Her eyes went wide. She went pale. She stared at me in shock. Then, without a word, typed furiously, announced on the phone that I need business class, and within a minute we weren't there anymore — we were in duty-free.
Guilt is a very powerful thing, especially when I'm sitting in business class with a reclining seat, excellent service, while Sharon is crammed in economy with the kids. I still landed exhausted, while Sharon and the kids looked very pleased with themselves. The worst part was that I wasn't allowed to complain — and rightfully so. Cruel world.
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