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.
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