Journey Summary: From the Bell to the House

 You could already smell the finish line—it felt straight-up like a graduation day. I never imagined I’d get so emotional when my turn finally came to ring the bell after my last treatment. For weeks, I had watched and applauded every single person who finished their treatments, watching them pause at the door one last time to ring it—and yet, when my turn arrived, the surge of emotion totally caught me off guard. Everyone around was clapping for a multi-week journey filled with ups and plenty of downs that had finally come to an end. Right after the bell-ringing, we were invited to the center’s official graduation ceremony, where all alumni families are invited. Just like I always wanted: to be a "US graduate."

Determined not to feel like we’d missed out on anything, we started compiling lists of everything we had planned versus what we still hadn't gotten around to. This led to a three-hour drive that caught us all by surprise: I drove almost non-stop without falling asleep once, all the way to the launching point for a whale-watching tour. Granted, we didn't see any actual whales, but like proper tourists, we were utterly mesmerized by the dolphins escorting us for most of the boat ride. I didn't drive on the way back; Sharon reclaimed her role as our primary driver. The outing was a total success despite our lack of whale luck, and I immediately began scouting for the next must-do before heading home: an amusement park.

Naturally, I was in the minority wanting to hit Six Flags for insane roller coasters, so I managed to find a spot that was a whole lot easier to "sell" to Sharon and the kids: a Nickelodeon park inside a massive mall that packed plenty of other crazy attractions. My inner six- or seven-year-old leaped right out, and I somehow managed to pressure everyone into being ready before 9:00 AM. We arrived so early they were literally just unlocking the rides. Rotem sweetie desperately wanted to get on a ride—a big-kid ride. He was paired up with me while Sharon stayed with Moran. I hadn't moved that fast in ages as Rotem dragged me from one ride to the next (some of which weren't even open yet), until we finally reached the coveted target.

It looked completely innocent and mild, especially after we watched a friendly 14-year-old American girl stay on it for an extra round. We settled comfortably into seats attached to a pole that didn't look particularly tall. The ride started swinging back and forth, which eased my nerves. I thought to myself: Cool, an extreme swing, great way to start. But then the swinging escalated to the point where the mall's high ceiling suddenly kept flashing right before our eyes. All I could manage to tell my dear son—and myself—was: "It’ll be over in a second." And then the ride suddenly decided to complete a full 360-degree loop.

From that moment on, two things happened simultaneously: out loud, hoping to soothe us both, I kept saying, "It's almost over, no way there are many loops left," while in my head, I was counting every single revolution. If memory serves me right, there were at least six full loops. Not exactly the ideal start to a fun day at an amusement park. We only calmed down after stepping off that dreadful "washing machine ride," shooting intense daggers at that same girl who—naturally—stayed on for yet another round. The rest of the day improved from ride to ride, and toward midday, the place swelled with lines that only exist in America. Everyone was happy, and we managed to slip away before the crazy wait times hit.

We all made it to the graduation ceremony, which was beautifully organized. There was a veteran alumnus of the institute who lived in the area, four other patients who finished that same week, and their families. There were speeches by the institute's director, the veteran alumnus, and then each new graduate. My speech was significantly shorter than anticipated, consisting mainly of: "Thank you all so much, and thanks for coming." Luckily, Sharon jumped in to save the day as usual and managed to deliver something far more moving.

Turns out my timing has always been terrible, because the day after we officially said goodbye to the radiation center, my entire body completely collapsed. After a futile attempt to explain to an American doctor over the phone what "Optalgin" is, we decided to just give it a few hours. Sure enough, everything settled down, and I went back to being my usual annoying self.

The sheer number of boxes we shipped home and the packing up of the apartment didn't leave a single dry eye. Even though we shipped a ton by mail, our suitcases were still bursting at the seams. We said our goodbyes to everyone who had been in touch with us and supported us through this tough period, and in a bizarre van driven by a lovely getaway driver, we headed off to the airport early in the morning to bid farewell to a truly wonderful vacation. :)

We are already starting to feel completely at home.

By then, we had started feeling completely at home. We had our favorite diner (and the one you strictly avoid), our designated Target and Walmart—we even knew exactly which departments were in which locations. We learned how to operate everything where we were staying, from the gym to the poolside grill. And yeah, it didn't just sound like Melrose Place (remember that show?); it was an apartment complex for short- and long-term rentals that looked and felt like a high-end kibbutz neighborhood.

And let’s not forget Amazon—the love of my life, and my dear family’s, too. We felt like real Americans! :) I’d hit "Place Order," and the very next day, the package would be waiting there quietly, as the Amazon truck was pulling out of the complex and a FedEx truck was pulling in.

Our morning routine was running like clockwork, too. The kids happily headed off to summer camp, usually right after Sharon dropped me off at the radiation center and went about her day. By then, I’d walk into the center knowing half the people there, totally used to the staff’s bewildered reactions to my weight not budging a single gram, my sky-high medication dosages, and a whole list of other things that made zero medical sense to them. But between us, nothing about my chordoma is "standard"—as standard as you can possibly be with a rare tumor.

After all the usual checks, I walked out to the large main waiting room, except this time, my lead doctor showed up and pulled me into a round room with another doctor and an extra staff member. I felt like I’d just been called to the principal’s office and immediately asked, "What did I do?" The first response was simply: "Trouble."

Turns out that in radiation therapy like mine, they usually pause after three weeks to recalculate, see if they can ease up on the patient, and adjust the plan. In my case, we were already halfway through and they hadn't paused once—which they referred to as a "miracle, probably an Israeli one." I just nodded and said, "Israeli stubbornness, more like."

Every day before treatment, I was asked a series of routine questions. At the end of the checklist, I’d wait a few minutes, and then the nurse would return accompanied by a very pleasant doctor who wanted to make sure I really wanted to continue treatment as usual instead of taking a few days off for them to dial down the plan. Meanwhile, I was busy convincing them that my stubborn stupidity was factory-installed, not a side effect of the radiation. Just keep going so we can get this over with; side effects are happening either way.

One thing I never quite managed to grasp in the US was the water temperature in swimming pools. I couldn't decide what was worse: the fact that dipping just my big toe sent a shockwave of cold through me that could rival any proper ice cube, or that while I was double-checking to make sure my toe-nail hadn't frozen off, not one, not two, but an entire pool full of people were happily swimming around, perfectly fine with penguin-level water temperatures.

Apparently, my body decided to side with my brain—which hates cold water, lukewarm water, and pretty much water in general unless it’s 104°F (40°C) or next to a space heater. The second the water level passed my waist, crazy zaps started shooting through me, mostly in my arms. The first time it happened, for a split second I thought I’d been struck by lightning in the middle of a bright, sunny, blue-sky day. After a few more attempts at different times brought the exact same electric zaps, we rushed to consult the radiation specialist at the center. He tried his best to hide his baffled face and maintain a serious, calm doctor demeanor. His final diagnosis? Simply: "Don't go in the water."

I put on my most disappointed face, while quietly doing cartwheels in my heart.

Toward the end of our stay in the US, Sharon’s brother landed with his awesome daughter, and we knew this would shake up our routine for the better once again. We couldn't wait for them to arrive. Sharon immediately locked in a packed itinerary of trips and activities, stretching from Manhattan to Philadelphia—all packed into a single week.

We managed to hit half of it, and it was wonderful. We went to the maritime museum in Philadelphia, where, in the strangest way possible, it felt completely natural to pet what looked like a mini manta ray.

To wind down a bit, we decided to finally hit the beach (turns out it’s an ocean, or in other words: FREEEEEEZING). But hitting the beach in New Jersey isn't like Tel Aviv, where you’re touching sand within 15 minutes max. After a one-hour drive, the scenery shifted, and so did the people—it felt like we’d been thrown straight back into the 1960s, into a town of older hippies who either walked or rode bicycles everywhere.

It was a gorgeous beach with white sand, millions of shells, and seagulls enjoying every single bite. Every now and then, you’d even spot crabs scuttling across the shore.

There was so much fun and relaxation that we literally didn't know what to do with ourselves—so Sharon "decided" to take a dive and injure herself right in the middle of giving the kids a beach lesson. After all, we hadn't experienced an American ER yet, and if I wasn't going to supply the emergency, Sharon generously volunteered. Expecting lightning-fast service, we were sucked right back into a 5-hour wait, complete with a wonderful staff and great care. Three stitches in her hand and a mountain of antibiotics later, we were good to go. While we waited to settle up, the receptionist mentioned it was one of their busiest days in a long time, pointing to a stack of charts that would be considered a light hour at Ichilov Hospital back home.

Around 10:30 PM, armed with a fresh, delicious pizza from a place we’d never tried before, we drove back to the kids and Sharon’s brother.

All in all, a successful day with an unnecessary trip to the ER—and just like that, three-quarters of the treatment was officially behind us.

Is routine bad????

 By the third week, the routine started feeling a bit like Groundhog Day. There were subtle variations, but the grind was stronger than anything—and we quickly realized we couldn't give in to it. Because if I surrendered to the fatigue, I’d spend my days alternating between radiation and naps; and as much as I love a good nap... well, you know.

So, every free morning hour while the kids were living it up at the JCC’s ridiculously over-the-top summer camp was pure magic—time for just Sharon and me!

We tried to stick to nearby spots (since traveling in a car was getting rough for me) that were still interesting. Sometimes we’d take short walks (picture a gentle hike, but in extreme slow-motion with a cane) and grab a bite at a different restaurant each time. Looking back, that was kind of funny given that my appetite was pretty nonexistent, and in classic fashion, I started struggling with the absolute basics—like swallowing, which became tricky and downright uncomfortable most of the time. But hey, food is fun and interesting.

So, restaurants. Some were genuinely challenging, but every now and then we’d stumble upon a real gem. There were also a few times—fortunately very few—where I wasn't entirely sure if my miserable stomach was due to the radiation or the menu. In hindsight, we probably should have heeded the red flags... like an empty dining room, a location inside a gas station, and so on...

On the flip side, there were great surprises. Take this one Vietnamese joint right next to another gas station, which came highly recommended by our dear friend "Google." From the outside, it looked tiny and beat-up, but the entrance led into something huge and spacious. Suspicion kicked in. Then both of us stood there, jaws dropped, trying to find where the menu actually ended. The place was massive! Luckily, it wasn't peak hours. My rating system for restaurants simplified rapidly: if I actually have an appetite, eat the food, and actively consider ordering dessert at the same place—it gets a star from the resident expert! 😊

Beyond a colorful lineup of diners—some we couldn't wait to run away from, and others we gladly brought the kids back to later—we made sure to pack in plenty of other activities and surprises.

My mom flew in for a short two-week visit, which instantly snapped us out of the routine and did wonders not just for the kids, but for all of us. On one of the days when my radiation was scheduled for the afternoon, as a special welcoming gesture to the brave grandmother who crossed half the globe to be with us, a stunning leaf insect jumped right onto her and Moran. This happened while everyone was waiting for me in the center's courtyard as I wrapped up another full workday of glorious radiation. With a magnificent welcome like that, the visit was guaranteed to be a hit.

My mom got a room at the same extended-stay hotel where we were living, right up until we moved to another complex that had no vacancies. Her initial room happened to be right next to a cluster of rowdy young folks making a wall of noise. After three challenging days, she was moved to a room at the far edge of the property, right beside a massive lawn glowing with fireflies.

Naturally, I kept showing up at the radiation center every morning, usually full of energy and positivity, eagerly awaiting a shift in how the staff reacted to my answers during check-ins. But as stubborn as I am, they were definitely more stubborn. Much more.

Every single day brought the exact same astonished reactions and double-checks—sometimes triple-checks. Take my weight, for instance, which hadn't dropped by a single gram. To the medical staff, this was nothing short of a miracle, considering that swallowing was becoming a struggle due to radiation near my esophagus, and my appetite was mostly shot from being wiped out all day. So, after multiple requests and outright pleading, my doctor at the center asked what my secret was. I finally agreed to reveal my top-secret formula for high spirits and maintaining weight.

Like all good things in my life, it started with my amazing wife, who managed to track down the absolute richest, most decadent drink ever created in the Starbucks universe! I'm pretty sure listing all the ingredients might actually be illegal, but essentially: whole milk, whipped cream, more whipped cream, and a splash of extra whipped cream (and just so the coffee doesn't feel left out, some caramel, sugar, coffee, and more caramel). A light, nutritious health drink! After days of persuading my mom to try it, she finally caved and pretended to take a tiny sip. A second of silence passed, her eyes went wide, and she immediately ordered one for herself! I successfully dragged her down into the sweet, sugary abyss.

Even though things were getting genuinely hard and car rides weren't comfortable—meaning I frequently passed out while Sharon was driving—these trips were absolutely worth it. Every single ride was worth every minute!

Sharon immediately jumped back into trip-planning mode, complete with route calculations and new spots that neither we nor my mom had ever visited. The kids were beyond thrilled, and the fun officially kicked off! Almost every day that I didn't completely collapse from exhaustion, we headed out to a museum, a nature trail, or a cool local attraction.

We even drove through a safari. In my head, I figured: a 30-minute drive through the safari and we're at the zoo, just like back home!

An hour and a half into the drive, after endless choruses of "Wow, look at that!" and "Look over there!" and "Check out that one!", we started to realize this was on a totally different scale and we were nowhere near done. And sure enough: two and a half hours in the car of an incredible experience that started with giraffes blocking the entrance and ended in the adjacent amusement park, filled with screaming from a roller coaster that nobody cared about—except me.

By then, we were approaching the halfway mark of our stay in New Jersey. The place was starting to feel like home, the kids were packed with activities, and we even had our go-to spots for shopping, eating, playgrounds, and endless accessible nature right at our doorstep.

Then my mom headed back home, and it took the kids a couple of days to adjust.

Me too.

Unrivaled professionalism

 Wallet? Check. Water bottle? Check. Sketchbook and a few pens? All there.

Headphones on, long-sleeved shirt—because even if it’s 100°F outside, it’s basically sub-zero penguin territory inside the radiation center—bright orange toe-shoes, and of course, my walking cane.

Yep, I was officially ready for a new week, striding out first thing Monday morning on my way to treatment.

Despite all my meticulous Google Maps recon, the sidewalk ran out impressively fast. I soon found myself walking right through the grass, directly toward a guy on a massive riding lawnmower who was staring at me like I had two heads. The sheer number of times I had to cross the road just to cover 750 meters—with barely half of it on anything remotely resembling a sidewalk—was nothing short of breathtaking.

But hey, the open space, the lush green scenery, a deer darting right across my path, and a flock of ducks escorting me all the way to the building entrance... all of it made the commute way more interesting. Right up until the mama duck let out a terrifying shriek, sending the entire flock into a frantic panic.

Taking the final turn toward my destination, I walked inside, curious to see what kind of wait time was in store for me. To my surprise, within ten minutes I was already done with vitals, questionnaires, weigh-ins—and a few bewildered looks from the staff. Mostly directed at my bright orange shoes paired with socks, but we’ll save that fashion statement for another post.

So there I sat in the waiting room, clad in a hospital gown, cane in hand, zoning out over some mindless phone game to kill time. Even the technicians couldn't ignore the shoes—or my answer that I’d been wearing them long before any diagnosis.

Gradually, I started observing the people around me. The older patients who came with a clear mission looked exhausted. Those traveling from out of state looked even worse—usually flanked by a few family members, all of them thoroughly drained by the journey and the routine. The locals, on the other hand, even if they had driven a fair distance, acted like this was just a quick pit stop on their way to a nice restaurant.

Another session down, and the body aches hadn't really let up—even with enough painkillers in my system to knock out a pair of elephants.

Toward the end of the first two weeks, a wall of pure exhaustion hit me almost out of nowhere. Sometimes I’d crash for a few hours and wake up feeling like I’d just run a marathon. Other times, I’d just lie there staring at the ceiling, completely drained, waiting for the feeling to pass. On better days, I’d manage to catch a nap in the car on the way to a short outing—a absolute win for everyone involved.

Like proper tourists, we pulled over for every single deer, elk, squirrel, or leaf-bug, getting excited as if we’d just discovered a new wonder of the world. In the evening, we realized the lawn next to our lodge was lit up with fireflies—yet another reason to feel like starry-eyed tourists. Then I’d glance over at the locals casually walking right through the cloud of fireflies without a second thought, as if it were the most mundane thing on earth.

And just like that, quietly, another week of radiation and New Jersey adventures came to a close.