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.

First week

Armed with an access card bearing my photo, a bag of long-sleeve clothes because it's freezing in there in the middle of summer, and the excitement of a first day at a new job.

Standing in front of the camera, holding my new card at every possible angle at the entrance to the radiation center itself — and the number of negative beeps screaming at me just wouldn't stop.

From the front desk, a polite young man emerged at a pace that can only be described as aggressively slow — very on-brand for Americans — and with ice-cold composure re-entered my details into the computer. At that same speed he took my card, swiped it once, got a positive beep and a green light. He opened the door for me, handed the card back, and returned to his seat.

It took us a few moments to realize we were already inside the patient area. Sharon was beside me, and of course within less than a second a nurse had pounced on me with a stack of papers and launched into the "morning interrogation" — with her favorite questions: age, weight, blood tests, X-ray, this test and that test. Fun stuff for a Monday morning.

After about an hour, the long-awaited moment finally arrived: the changing rooms, the special gown, and — most importantly — the hook on the wall specifically for my walking stick. From there I moved to a small waiting room that usually holds at most two patients waiting for their turn. Sharon waited with the kids in the main waiting room — first time, after all.

The nurse called my name and I shuffled over at a pace befitting a tortoise, stopping at the entrance while three diligent staff members dismantled the entire setup from the previous patient, brought in the cast made specifically for me, connected it, loaded my treatment plan into the system, asked me twice for my full name including ID number, and then of course also scanned the tag.

Not forgetting to hang my walking stick on the hook designated specifically for that purpose.

Even though I'm perfectly capable of climbing onto the table myself, they set up stairs and had someone standing by to support me, making sure I was as comfortable as possible.

I've been through plenty of procedures in my life, surgeries too — and yet, for some reason, staring up at the enormous wheel surrounding me as it calibrated itself several times before it was ready to start, watching the entire staff flee the room when the bell rang, and finding myself alone — gave me a strange feeling. For the first time since the whole process began, I felt a combination of tension and calm at once. A quiet laced with anxiety about what the rest of the treatment would bring.

The whole time on the table went somewhere between five minutes and a quarter of an hour at most, and still felt like half a day. Between beeps: "now take a deep breath, hold, don't move, breathe out" — a range of commands that reminded me of training our dogs. Done. The stairs returned on the way off, along with the person making sure I didn't go flying.

Leaving the room, while they dismantled the table and prepared it for the next patient, they went through the questions again, scanned the card, made sure I wouldn't forget my stick, and told me what time to come tomorrow.

I walked past the waiting room with a slight sense of superiority, on my way back to the changing room — stopped for a moment by a girl who I couldn't help but feel a chill for, knowing she too had to go through the same process.

From there I headed to the outer waiting room — the one with the Coke fridge and the crackers, which I surprisingly needed. Rested a bit, and we went grocery shopping for the first time. My very first time in a Walmart — love at first sight. A supermarket and everything else all in one. I only stood at attention in front of the wall of jerky and cured meats. Alongside sorting out things we were missing, we also tried to figure out something for the kids. It was July-August after all, and we had two and a half months of full treatment ahead — assuming no complications.

Aside from discovering a group of incredible Israelis who just wanted to help, we were pointed toward the Jewish Community Center to ask about a day camp. But like in Israel, only until 4pm. The concept of a sleepaway camp — sending your child away for a month without seeing them — is still beyond me.

Every morning, usually by 10am, I'd show up at the institute, and most days I was done within an hour. Every so often I'd walk out to find Sharon and the kids sprawled on the couches waiting to go carry on with the day, or they'd be returning from a short walk nearby to pick me up.

By the end of the first week, the kids had a camp sorted too, with enormous help from the JCC.

As the days went on, I occasionally managed to walk to the treatment center — while Sharon dropped the kids at summer camp — surrounded by flocks of ducks and not nearly enough sidewalks beside me...  (everyone drives everywhere there). Though let's say those walks accounted for no more than 10% of treatment days, for many reasons, the main one being: the fatigue and weakness that set in about two weeks after radiation began

A coca-cola fridge!

"The Jewish community there is amazing!"

That's a sentence I heard countless times from people who'd gone through treatment there. The thing is, Sharon and I try — as much as possible — not to lean on other people, based on the belief that whoever truly needs help should be the one receiving it.

We started to understand what everyone meant when Sharon asked on Facebook for the best way to get from the airport to our first place. A connection through a friend led to a conversation with a remarkable woman, and the answer came back: "Boris will be waiting outside for you." And he was. Boris waited outside the terminal in New York, loaded everything into the car without many words, and off we went.

We arrived too early to a very strange long-term residence — a cross between a movie hotel and a kibbutz room — and of course there was no one to check us in. Before we could even ask, an Israeli woman who lived there materialized out of nowhere and swept us all straight to her apartment. She came armed with a bag containing everything a new arrival in America needs: odd adapters, games for the kids, and more — all to soften the landing. She stayed with us for an entire day and helped with all the administrative chaos of getting started.

She helped us settle into the interesting room we'd been given, which was right next to a basketball court buzzing with players of all ages.

The next day she drove me to a series of tests, and took Sharon and the kids to rent a car. While I was busy with examinations and questionnaires — where every twenty seconds someone asks me on a scale of 1–10 how much… — and every few minutes another specialist reviews my medical file and gives me the exact same look as the one before: a look of deep empathy and endless astonishment. Then they get to the medications and recoil at the dosage, and at my ability to still walk in a straight line. Relatively speaking.

Eventually Sharon returned, armed with a new car. The kids had been connected to the waiting room Wi-Fi, and Sharon joined me for the meeting with the doctors. Toward the end, the doctor walking us through the process explained all the risks of this type of radiation — and paused at their concern about weight loss. The worry is that too little body fat causes the beam to do more damage (and any change in weight at all can reduce the precision of the treatment).

So: not the time for healthy eating. I was advised to go back to burgers, Coke, ice cream, and so on. We smiled and said that's my usual anyway, so we'll happily oblige.

The kids waited in the institute's enormous and genuinely beautiful lobby, which included a coffee and tea corner, a drawer of cookies and pretzels, a Coke fridge (very important) — basically everything a human needs to survive. And a stunning fireplace that runs even in summer.

I was given tests to do at a different hospital and told to come back in five days for the start of treatment. Light free time ahead.

After a day that was mildly exhausting for me, and apparently quite enjoyable for Sharon and the kids, we returned to our small, strange, but soon-to-be-beloved room at the extended-stay roadside motel.

We'd be moving to a different apartment later — but that comes later.

Out of necessity, as part of acclimatization — and when there's no choice, there's no choice — we spent two days at the largest indoor water park in the area. Water at a reasonable temperature (who said he hates cold water?). We walked around a bit in New Jersey, took the train for a day in New York, and then — off to treatment.

Up to that point, our idea seemed to be working. Looks like we were actually going to make some tasty lemonade, and almost effortlessly. (Reminder: this is the part before the radiation started.)

Day one —

I spent another full day answering questions, watching faces go from blank to stunned, and then came the interesting part: inside a CT machine, lying still while a bag of plaster and clay mixture was molded to create a custom cast of my upper body — so that I'd be positioned on the machine to the exact millimeter in front of the beam. And as a parting souvenir, they marked the spot with three dots using a tattoo needle. The most painful part of the entire process. I finally emerged with my own photo on a name tag, a schedule for the coming week, and a can of Coke.

Wish us luck — and we're off!

 

The race for flight

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.