My friend, Chanie Oysh

One of the things I love about my support group, is that the women come from all different religious backgrounds. 

We are all religious Jews, but that is where our common denominator ends.

One of the good friends I made in the group, Chanie Oysh, was from Chasidei Belz (I think).

She often called me once or twice a week to talk.  I always enjoyed our conversations and felt enriched by her friendship.

We were both diagnosed with brain mets around the same time.  But her situation was different.  She had beens experiencing symptoms (slurred speech, difficulty moving her arm) for several weeks before her diagnosis.

Knowing what I know, from the questions I asked my oncologist about my own situation, I was scared for her.

Before I left for our trip, I called Chanie.  I had not heard from her for a week or two (I'm not sure how long; I lose track of time), and I wanted to touch base before I left.  Each time I called, her daughter told me she was resting.  I did not manage to talk with Chanie before I left.

When I came back, I wanted to call her.  Something told me I should check how she is doing before calling her home.

So, I called MT, another woman from our group.  (I wanted to ask her for a ride to our meeting that night anyway.)

MT told me that Chanie would not be participating in our support group any more.

I did not understand her meaning.

Then she told me;  Chanie passed away during the week before Chanukah.

At first, I was upset that nobody told me earlier.  Then I realized that we were already out of the country, on vacation.

How could I have been surprised?  I do not know; but I was.

I felt like I entered some surrealistic dream.

The last time I spoke with Chanie, she seemed much better.  How could it be that this strong, powerful woman was gone?

I thought of our original group. Blimi, Esther, Yehudit, Tzippy, Pia, and now Chanie are all gone. Six out of ten.  There are only four of us left: TK, MT, LE, and me.  Can that be? 

No. I almost forgot MC, from Dimona.  She only participated in our first group; the commute (3 hours, by bus) was too difficult for her. We did meet up last year at Beit Natan's winter retreat.

The four of us have been together for over two years. 

I love these women.

I do not want to lose any more of my friends.


(Thanks to Renee, from Circling My Head;  Her post, about her friends from her original support group, and their passing, helped me confront my own feelings.)


Postscript: ....and then there were four....Following this post, a friend from the group called to let me know that Mazal Chaya, from Dimona, also passed away before Chanukah.  There really are only four of us left....





Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

I'm OK

As I sat down to eat dinner with my husband last night, I said good-bye to my friend who had called to see how I was doing. She read my last post, and was worried about me.

"I'm fine," I told her, just before hanging up the phone, "You don't have to worry about me."

"You're fine?" My husband questioned, wondering out loud about what we were talking.

I slipped into the seat across from him.

"...about the women from our group...." I explained.

"You're fine?" He asked again, now seriously perplexed.

"Well, I'm sad," I elaborated, "really sad. But I am OK."

I know he wondered how I could be OK. Part of me wondered the same thing.

It is entirely possible that the magnitude of the situation will hit me harder later on. Or not.

During our conversation, my friend had asked a very pointed question: "Were they worse than you?"

I suspected that they were, but had not thought about it too deeply. In order to reassure my friend, I reviewed the list: 1. one (E) was not very open - I do not even know what cancer she had - but I had the impression from the beginning that her situation was not so good; 2. another (P) had a different cancer, in a very advanced stage, and it was a miracle that she lived as long as she did; 3. the third (B) also gave me the impression that her situation was not very good; 4. the fourth (Tz) had discovered a new tumor, behind her eye, that the doctors had "missed" for several months. I knew that was not good, I just did not realize how devastating it would be. and 5. the fifth (Y), also had some sort of advanced cancer (maybe in her GI tract?), was older, and was clearly struggling with her diseases (though she also continued to work, which was easier for her than continuing to maintain her household). I had not realized that her situation had deteriorated.

"Yes;" I finally answered my friend, "I am not in the same place that they were."

And, with that, I placed them all into a separate category.

I am not like "them."

"My cancer" is under control. I am not in any immediate danger.

It is the truth.

My cancer is responding to treatment. It is stable. And I can live this way for a long time. (that's the plan!)

So, for my own self-preservation, I have to file away these stories and remind myself that I am different.

I am not deluding myself, but I am also not going down that road that leads to nowhere good.

I am sad, and slightly overwhelmed, by the loss. But I am not in that place (in the world of the dying). And I do not want to get stuck there.

Right now, I am firmly in the world of the living. I am busy with of end-of-the-year performances, and summer plans, and dirty dishes, and mundane complaints, and chatting on the phone, and running around, and trying to do everything for which there is never enough time.

So, please, don't stop calling me for advice about your problems. If your problems are not little to you, then they are not little to me. And don't apologize for telling me about your day to day life. I want to know what is going on with you. And don't worry about me.

I am OK.



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism, ,
RivkA

Shloshim -- Pia Regev z"l

It was really important for me to attend the azkara (memorial service) for Pia's shloshim (event marking thirty days since a person died).

I had missed her funeral and the shiv'a (7 day mourning period). (I wrote about it here)

I needed closure.

But I was so very tired. I spent the whole day at home, resting, and I was still tired.

I did not want to drive. I did not want to miss it.

We live in the South East corner of the city. The azkara was in the North West corner of the city. It is about a half hour drive, each way.

At the last minute, I remembered that there is a bus that crosses town. It runs once an hour.

God must have wanted me to go, because when my eldest checked the schedule for me, the bus was about to come in three minutes. I was still in my pajamas.

I threw on clothes, grabbed my bag and ran out the door.

I caught the bus.

Forty five minutes later, I arrived, right on time.

I introduced myself to Pia's daughters and her husband.

I recalled how Pia shared her children's joke about installing an automated phone system ("for information about Pia's health, please press 1")

I also shared with them the positive role model Pia was for me. I met her shortly after I was diagnosed, and I was impressed and encouraged by her positive attitude and her fortitude.

Despite the prognosis that she had only several months left to live, Pia kept working and living her life. She lived for five years, longer than anyone expected (though shorter than I realized).

My initial memories are of her discussing her son's upcoming wedding. In addition to the "normal," mundane things, like what to wear, Pia talked about controlling her treatment -- she was determined to put off several treatments until after the wedding, so that she would have the energy to celebrate the way she wanted. And she did.

Until then, I did not realize that I could have a say about when and how I got my treatments.

Thanks to Pia's example, I figured out how to move around my treatments so that I would not miss smachot (celebrations) and other important events/occasions.

The evening opened with a siyum (ceremony marking the completion of learning of a text) by her son, who finished learning masechet parah (the tractate about the parah adumah (red heifer) needed for ritual purity).

Then Pia's husband talked about the centrality of Jerusalem to Pia's life. Born in Jerusalem, Pia was nine when the city was reunited in 1967. The reunification of the city was a pivotal event in her life, and she often shared stories of that time. I wish I would have known. I would have loved to hear her stories.

Her family felt that her most outstanding attribute was that of hessed (kindness). So they invited the head of Ma'aglei Tzedek ("Circles of Justice"), an organization committed to social justice, to speak. Ma'aglei Tzedek is probably best known for their "tav chevrati," certification that an establishment, such as a restaurant, pays its workers minimum wage and is wheelchair accessible.

I could not help but think of my own limitations. Just an hour earlier, I struggled to get on to the bus. Because of the cancer in my hips, I cannot lift my legs up very far, making it difficult to climb onto the bus. Afterwards, I realized the bus could "kneel," but the driver did not identify me as someone who needed help, and did not lower the bus, even as I struggled to get on. My limitations are "invisible," even more so because I am relatively young.

I was impressed when the speaker shared that when she heard about the tav chevrati, she decided that she would no longer eat in restaurants that are not fully accessible, to everyone. She talked about the ripple effect, about how her friends know that if they want to go out with her, this is one of the factors, if not the main factor, that will determine where they eat.

Every time I go to a restaurant where the bathroom is up or down stairs, it bothers me. (I was surprised to see several restaurants on the Ma'aglei Tzedek website listed as wheelchair accessible, which they are... unless the person in the wheelchair needs to use the restrooms! That is not what I call fully accessible.)

Finally, the speaker spoke of the difference between hessed (kindness) and tzedek (justice). Hessed, she explained, is when you help someone with something they cannot do on their own; tzedek is when you remove the barriers that prevent them from taking care of themselves.

The speaker, a young woman with an Anglo accent, spoke softly. Nevertheless, she was powerfully articulate. As tired as I was, her words drew me in and held my attention.

Afterwards, family and friends were invited to share their thoughts and memories. Some spoke spontaneously, other read from previously composed letters.

By the end of the evening, I felt like I had a deeper sense of who Pia was. I was surprised to learn that she was very assertive about non-smoking, and would complain to the management if someone was smoking in a non-smoking area. I had not realized this was an obsession a cause that we shared. I was not surprised to learn that she was an attentive and caring nurse, who often gave of herself above and beyond the call of duty. I was not surprised to hear her children speak of her guidance and how, even in her last days, she worried about them.

As the evening drew to a close, I worried about catching the last bus home.

God was good to me again. I found someone who could take me to a bus that ran more frequently. I did not have to rush out before the end.

The evening ended with two songs by Nomi Shemer, Shirat Ha'Asabim and Anashim Tovim.


יהי זיכרה ברוך -- may her memory be a blessing





Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Baruch Dayan Emet

We first met in an art class (paper mache) for people who have or had cancer. There were less than 10 women in the class. It took a while to figure out who was finished with their treatment, who was still in treatment, and who, like me, would always be in treatment.

P was striking. Tall, and thin, with short light hair. She was often engrossed in her work. She did not chit-chat like the other women.

I discovered that P, like me, had metastatic cancer. She had a different type of cancer and, truthfully, it was a miracle that she was still alive. Her original prognosis was grim, 6 months. I met her several years later.

A nurse by profession, P did not live in an illusion about her fate. But she continued to live life to the fullest. When I met her, she was planning her daughter's wedding.

When my support group started, almost two years ago, she was surprised to see me. I realized she had not comprehended that I also had mets. She was friendlier after that.

Through our support group, I got to know her better. She was intelligent and perceptive. I especially appreciated her perspective on parenting.

P did not join this year's support group. I called her to find out what was going on. She really appreciated the call. She had a conflict with her chemo schedule and it was too difficult for her to come.

Every few months, I called her to see how she was doing. Each time, she seemed happy to hear from me. We would chat for a while and she would update me about her family and her health. She was doing well.

I learned that one of the nurses in the hospital was a close friend of hers. So, periodically, I would ask the nurse about her as well.

It was a while since I last called. So, today I decided to call.

As soon as I asked to speak with her, I suspected that something was wrong. Her daughter handed the phone to someone, and I thought it was P. It was her sister. She was sorry to tell me that they were sitting Shiv'a.

P passed away on Sunday.

Today and Saturday night are the last days of shiv'a (the 7 day mourning period). I would have liked to go, but I won't be able to. Instead, I feel at a loss. I have to focus on getting ready for Shabbat.

I am so sad. So, so sad. But, if I think about P too much, I won't be able to attend to the immediate needs of my family as we all work to prepare for Shabbat.

I want to talk with someone, but I don't know who. The friend I would have called first is in the US. I tried calling one of the women from our group, but she was not home. I tried calling one of the women from Beit Natan; she was not home either.

So, I went back to work. I still have to finish cooking. There is only an hour left.



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Randy Pausch (October 23, 1960 – July 25, 2008)

I wanted to post about Randy Pausch months ago -- but I could not figure out how to include the UTube video.... so I waited....

Like so many others, I loved his "Last Lecture."

I became a groupie -- I watched every video clip I could find. I watched the Last Lecture several times. I watched his lecture on Time Management (I really need help with that one!). I watched everything. (you can find most of his wisdom here)

And I checked his personal update site every few days.

I followed his battle with pancreatic cancer, and I was inspired.

Just yesterday (Friday), I was talking about him with Moshe. We were encouraged by the fact that he's still alive, and might even see himself when the new Star Trek movie comes out. A few hours later, his name came up again, when Moshe cited his opinion about encyclopedias and Wikipedia.

Randy Pausch passed away on Friday morning.

I can't believe that he's dead.

I am so sad.

Randy is survivd by his wife, Jai, and their three children, Dylan (6), Logan (4), and Chloe (2).

May his memory be a blessing.



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA