Self Doubt vs 20/20 Hindsight Vision

It is so hard sometimes to know what is the "right" decision.

Should I go to the hospital?

Will I get back home in time?

Should I let my Mother in Law pick up the kids and take them to my Sister in Law's, where they could spend the holiday with their granparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins?

What if she do not get home in time?

What if we do get home in time?

What is best for the kids?

What is best for the family?

What is best for me?

Well, it is after the fact. 

We got home in time, so it was good that we had the kids stay.

I feel a lot better, so it is good that I went to the hospital.

We made it home before sh'kiyah (sunset, after which time we are not permitted to drive), so it was okay that we left the hospital when we did.

But when we made each of these difficult decisions, we did not know what the outcome would be.

Wouldn't it be great to know in advance that everything would work out in the end?



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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Mad

On Friday, almost out of nowhere, I got really angry at my kids and started snapping at them.

Moshe gently questioned me, "Why are you yelling at the kids?"

All I could answer was, "I am mad."

I sat sulking for a few moments. 

Then, I pondered Moshe's query.  "Why am I so mad?"

I could not avoid the obvious explanation that I felt displaced anger.

If I am being completely honest, I have to admit that I am mad at God. 

I am mad that He gave me cancer.  I am mad that He made things worse (even though things will get better again, BE"H). I am mad that He is making me deal with cancer, now, before my daughter's Bat Mitzvah, when I have lots of other things to worry about....  I am mad.

I trust God.  I have not lost faith.  But I am mad at God.

Once I realized where my anger came from, I had to stop snapping at my kids.  Fair is fair; if I am mad at God and I want to yell, I should yell at God.  But I did not want to yell at God.

Instead, very politely, I explained to God just why I was so mad at Him.

I allowed myself to feel angry.

It is OK to get mad at God.  We do not have to like everything God does or agree with everything in His plan. 

I accept that God has His reasons.

I just don't like them, whatever they are.

I do not want to have cancer.

I want God to make the cancer go away!



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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Footprints in the Sand

Footprints in the Sand

by Mary Stevenson*

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.

Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.

In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.

Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,

other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I noticed

that during the low periods of my life,

when I was suffering from

anguish, sorrow or defeat,

I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,

"You promised me Lord,

that if I followed you,

you would walk with me always.

But I have noticed that during

the most trying periods of my life

there have only been one

set of footprints in the sand.

Why, when I needed you most,

you have not been there for me?"

The Lord replied,

"The times when you have

seen only one set of footprints in the sand,

is when I carried you."

The first time I read this poem, I cried.

I was young, and had yet to experience some of life's harder trials.  But, even when we are young, we wonder where God is, especially during times of crisis.

This poem taught me a lot about faith.

When I am overwhelmed, and feeling lost, those are the times when I can, and should, lean on God.  God will carry me. 

Eventually, when I am ready to walk on my own, God will gently place me down.  With both feet solidly on the ground, I will walk tall, because God is everpresent at my side.

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

With love and optimism,

RivkA

*Copyright © 1984 Mary Stevenson, from original 1936 text, All rights reserved

Lost and Found -- with a little help

Wednesday (two weeks ago), I could not find my handicapped parking permit.

Israeli handicapped parking permits are small plastic cards (like credit cards).  Since the card is easy to lose, I always keep it in the same pocket of my purse. 

There have been times, I admit, that I put the card down on our Shabbat Table, "just for a minute."  However, since I am a bit paranoid about losing it (replacing it would be a nightmare), I am pretty diligent about putting it back in my purse.

This time, the card was not in my purse and not on the Shabbat table.

After searching for several minutes, I stopped to think.  When was the last time I saw it?

I knew I had it the night before, in my husband's car.  We used it, when we parked for shiur (our Torah study class).

I had a visual memory of taking the card off the dashboard when we got home, but I had no visual image of putting it in my purse or placing it (temporarily, of course) on the Shabbat Table.

I must have lost the permit, somewhere between the car and my home.  I had a strong sense that I lost the card while getting out of the car.
I called my husband, and asked him to check the car.

He thoroughly checked the car, checking under the passenger seat and in between the seat and the door.  He did not find it.

If the permit was not in the car, it had to be in the house.

The girls and I searched all over the house.  We could not find it anywhere.

I dreaded the thought of applying for a new permit.  (Imagine your DMV bureaucracy, then multiply it tenfold!)

I could not shake the feeling that the card must be in Moshe's car.

Later that night, Moshe and I drove to the fundraiser, where I was scheduled to speak.  When we got in Moshe's car, I reached below the seat, feeling around that area, hoping to find my permit.

Moshe assured me that he had searched with due dilligence.

"I know," I answered, certain that he had, but hopeful that he missed something, since I could not figure out where else it could be.

After a few seconds, I felt something with my right hand. 

With a flourish, I pulled out the parking permit.

"How did you find it?" Moshe asked, clearly astonished.

"Did you look for it?"  I asked him.

"You know I did," he responded, somewhat insulted that I was questioning him.

"Did you ask God for help?" I asked him.

"No," he responded, looking at me curiously.

I smiled at my husband, as I replied, "I did."


(with special thanks to EK, who taught me that it is ok to ask God for everything, even the little things)


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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

My Kids Will Never Know the Me I Was "Before"

My kids were 11, 9, and 7 when I first got breast cancer.

Back then, I thought of breast cancer as an "inconvenience."  It did not scare me.  My grandmother survived breast cancer, and was fine.  My mother survived breast cancer, twice, and was fine.  I was young (39) and strong.  I would be fine.

My greatest concern was for my kids.  I did not want them to miss out on anything, while I was busy dealing with cancer.

Friends informed me that cancer would takes over my life for 6 months to a year.  Then, I presumed, I would be done.  In the end, it took a bit more than a year and a half, but by the spring of 2007, I was ready to move on.  My kids were just at the end of their 12th, 10th, and 8th years. 

I was full of energy, glad to get my life back.

I had plans, so many things to do.

God had other plans.

My kids were 13, 11, and 9 in June/July, 2007, when I was diagnosed with mets to my bones, liver and lungs.

Those few "good months," when I thought I was done, were suddenly overshadowed.

I still felt young and strong; determined to keep doing the things I was doing.

I was not that strong.  I could not keep up the pace.

I realized, this is it.  I am never going to be the person I was before. 

That realization was hard enough.  Then I was struck by the even more aweful realization:  This is how my kids will always know me.  They will not remember the me who I was "before." They were too young, when it all began.

My kids will only remember me with cancer.

They will not remember the mother with boundless energy, the activist who brought her three young kids to all the demonstrations, the leader on long hikes and camping trips, the tour guide, the educator, the..... person I used to be.

They will only know me like I am now.... tired, in bed, apologetic.

I know, it is not so black and white.  I do a lot with my kids.  I am not in bed all the time.  But I am not the me that I was "before."

Yes, I am now over 40.  All my friends are slowing down.  But it is not the same. 

My kids were 15, 13, and 11 when I was diagnosed, in June, 2009, with brain mets.  The new diagnosis hasn't changed much about how we live our lives.

My husband and I work hard to keep our kids informed (on their level), so that they won't live in fear. They know we tell them everything, so they do not need to worry or wonder.  There are no secrets. 

I think we have been quite successful in this area.  Our kids are "bored" with cancer. To them, cancer is an inconvenience.  It is frustrating when your mother is tired and not readily available.  But they are not scared. Why should they be?

My kids will never remember me when I was healthy, not even my oldest. That is very sad for me.  But living with cancer is normal for them.  They do not know any other way.

My biggest desire is to live long enough to see them married and, hopefully, to be around at least for their first births, to help them with nursing and be there for those new beginnings, when support is so important.

Sometimes, I look at them, and think "they are so young....."

I pray, a lot. Not so much formal prayer, but just talking to God and making sure He knows how much I want to live.

I can live with cancer.  I just want to be here for my kids.


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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

The Rebbetzin's Visit

I was honored when the Rebbetzin from our shul (synagogue) called to ask if she could come visit me.

The Rabbi of our shul is a soft spoken, gentle, and religiously conservative man. His wife, the Rebbetzin, is also quiet and reserved. She intimidates me. I am not sure why.

One Rosh HaShanah, I felt her looking at me and my girls. Afterwards, she approached me to tell me how nicely my daughters sang during davening (praying), and what a pleasure it was to daven with them. I had interpreted her glances as disapproval of our singing. I was so wrong.

I do not know either of them well. I know (at least, I think I know, never having had the nerve to talk with either of them about this) that they would both disapprove of my liberal, feminist approach to Torah. I do not even ask the shul to announce our women's megillah reading on Purim, lest the Rabbi speak out against it.

In so many ways, I feel that we are not really from the same world.

Yet, we share something profoundly deep, that brings our worlds so very close together. We all know what it is like to live with cancer.

The Rabbi and Rebbetzin lost a child to cancer.

They know all about what I am going through, without my having to tell them anything.

That said, they might not have realized that I have been dealing with cancer the whole time I am living here. After all, I looked healthy. Only this summer did I lose my hair (including part of my eyebrows), giving me "the look" of someone with cancer.

So, I imagine the awareness that I am still dealing with cancer prompted the Rebbetzin's visit. I appreciated her initiative.

I warned her that my home is a major disaster zone, but she was totally cool about it.

It was a really nice visit. We talked about where I am at with the cancer, about my kids, and my background. The time flew by.

As she moved to get up, I realized that I had done most of the talking. The Rebbetzin had mainly asked questions. She seemed so interested in my stories, I just kept talking.

I would have liked to learn more about her as well.

I only had the pleasure of attending one of her shiurim (classes), before I stopped attending the Shabbat afternoon round-robin shiurim for women on a regular basis. It was an impressive shiur, well structured, and interesting.

I know that I could learn from her. I would love to ask her questions too.

I hope she will take the time to visit again.





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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Choose Life

Our lives are filled with choices.

Almost two years ago, when I learned about my diagnosis, I made a choice, a conscious choice, about how I would live my life.

I stumbled, by accident, on frightening survival statistics of women diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer: only 20% are still alive five years after their diagnosis.

I determined right then and there that I intended to be part of that 20%.

I wish I could remember which angel directed me to the fabulous article by Stephen J. Gould, "The Median is Not the Message". I think it might have been someone from Sharsheret, a wonderful Jewish American organization that provided me with tremendous support in those devastating initial weeks, before I found appropriate support here in Israel.

If you have not read it already, then I recommend doing so now. Go ahead. It will reshape the way you view the world.

I read "The Median is Not the Message" and realized that my determination to "beat the odds" is a rational possibility and not just "wishful thinking."

Meanwhile, Moshe was reading everything he could about my disease. My dear, loving, sensitive husband was devastated by the statistics.

I knew that Moshe, for whom logic and cold science are fundamental to how he views the world, needed to read the article.

That article was the greatest gift I could give him.

But I did not stop there. I had already begun formulating my 20-year-plan.

I figured that if I did end up living for another 20 years or more, it would be an aweful shame to live all that time worrying about dying tomorrow.

Besides, I joked, I "just need to live long enough for them to discover a cure."

There is so much research going on every day, who knows what new medicines and miracle cures might be just a few years down the road?

We do not know what the future will bring. So why live expecting the worst? What a waste of our valuable time and energy.

In the past, I loved the adage "expect the worst, hope for the best, and you will never be disappointed." Suddenly, this approach to life no longer served me well.

I shifted paradigms.

I chose to expect the best.

I chose to believe that I would live, that I would have a future.

In Parshat Nitzavim, which we read on Shabbat, just before Rosh HaShanah, during the time when Jews are focussed on self-evaluation and repentence, Moshe Rabeinu (our teacher; not my husband) addresses Am Yisrael (the Jewish People) and proclaims:

הַעִדֹתִי בָכֶם הַיּוֹם, אֶת-הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֶת-הָאָרֶץ, הַחַיִּים וְהַמָּוֶת נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ, הַבְּרָכָה וְהַקְּלָלָה; וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים, לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה, אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ
(דברים ל:יט)

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I have set before thee life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that thou mayest live, thou and thy seed (Deuteronomy 30:19)

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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

G'mar Hatima Tovah

Wishing everyone a meaningful Yom Kippur and a happy and healthy new year.

Please forgive me for anything I might have said, done, or written, that caused you anguish or harm.

If I did say/do/write something that bothered you, please let me know, so that I can apologize fully. (it's not too late! we have until Hoshanah Rabbah!)

G'mar Hatima Tovah!


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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Shofar

The call of the Shofar opens the gates of heaven.

It is our heartwrenching cry to the Master of the Universe, to hear our prayers, and have mercy on us.

It is a symbol, to remind God, of the ram that Abraham sacrificed in Isaac's stead. We hope that, even if we are not worthy ourselves, God will remember our forefather, who was ready to sacrifice his son.

We stand, humbled, wailing to God.


The first day of Rosh HaShanah, as the first sounds were heard from the Shofar, I felt the gate of heaven open, and knew that God was listening directly to me. Silently, I prayed to God. I want to live. Please, let me be written, for another year, in the book of life.

As I stood there, with my eyes closed, praying to God, tears suddenly burst from my eyes. Embarrassed, I quickly lifted my open machzor (prayer book), and covered my face. The sound of the Shofar continued to carry my desperate plea. With every t'kiyah (call), more tears fell, as, silently, I begged God, please, let me live.

Emersed in my private dialogue with God, I heard a voice calling me back. Standing next to me, my worried little daughter whispered ever so quietly and sweetly, "Ima, why are you crying?"

I put my finger to my lips, indicating that she should be quiet.

I could not answer.

We do not talk during t'kiyat haShofar (blowing the Shofar).

But that is not the only reason I did not answer.

I was overwhelmed by the power of prayer. I could not do anything, but plead with God, while those gates were still open.

There are several sets of t'kiyot during davening. During each set, I focussed on different prayers: I prayed, by name, for shidduchim. I prayed, by name, for good health (mostly for other cancer patients, but also for others). I prayed for our country. I prayed for my family. I prayed for help, in cleaning my home, and being a better parent/wife. I prayed, and prayed, and prayed.

I did not cry every time, though I cried a lot.

But I prayed stronger than I have ever prayed before.

And I cannot stop the tears, even now, as I write these words, and wonder if it is too personal to share...



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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Ups and Downs -- Part II

My dear, wonderful, warm, caring, friends,

I love reading your insightful, and thoughtful comments. It's fun to see who is reading my blog, and who has what to say. Comments make me smile!

(here it comes.....)

BUT, though I recognize that those of you who recommended therapy as a response to my previous post, did so because you love and care about me..... YOU TOTALLY MISSED THE POINT of my post.

The post was about mood swings. About the ups and downs of living with illness (in my case, cancer).

It is totally normal to have ups and downs.

I am not debating the benefits of therapy.

If I want/need therapy, I will get it.

I am surrounded by people (to begin with, my husband, and my oncologist) who will let me know if/when it is time to seek outside help.

I know therapy is available if I want it.

I appreciate all your comments and emails, I really do.

BUT, I really felt bombarded by so many suggestions that I go for therapy.

I am sure that I can benefit from therapy.

I have LOTS of issues. (I had most of them before I got cancer)

BUT, my TIME is LIMITED. I cannot do everything.

Right now, unless I need it, I don't want to spend an hour a week in therapy, plus travel time.

There are other things I would rather do with my time.

If I only wrote about how great I feel, and how great life is (and life is great), then this would not be an accurate portrayal of what it is like to live with cancer. Because, friends, cancer SUCKS. And, no matter how great my attitude is, cancer still sucks.

And no amount of therapy is going to change that.

And no amount of therapy is going to make the cancer go away.

And that's why, even with the best therapy in the whole wide world, I will still have mood swings.

Because, quite honestly, it is not easy living with cancer.
(Even though I'm doing great, thank God, thanks to all of your prayers, and happy, healing thoughts)

I wish the cancer would just go away.

I really do.

But, I live in the real world. And, for now, my cancer is a permanent, chronic, condition.

I can live with that.

For someone living with cancer, I am proud to say that I have a damn good attitude. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I have an exceptional attitude.

So, do me a favor. If you think I need therapy, then, please, give me, or my husband, a call. Tell us that you are worried, and why.

If not, please don't tell me I should go to therapy, just because sometimes I'm sad that I have cancer.

I am not depressed. I am not in denial.

I have cancer.

Sometimes that makes me feel sad.



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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Tisha B'Av -- Part II -- Fasting, or Not

I don't fast well. By mid day, I have a terrible migraine headache, and I am quite miserable by the end of the day. I spend the last few hours in bed, and I do not have patience to help or take care of anyone. Fasting does not help me to be more spiritual.

The only thing worse than fasting, is not fasting when the rest of Am Yisrael is fasting.

During the fast day, and for several days leading up to the fast, people, even strangers, wish you an "easy fast," or an "easy and meaningful fast."

There is a national consciousness surrounding fast days.

It is strange to know, in advance, that you are not going to be fasting when everyone else is fasting. It is strange to eat when everyone around you, including your children, are not eating. It is strange to feel the national loss, so strongly, and yet feel separate, different, from the nation.

And then there is the subtext: why am I not fasting? Healthy people fast. Not fasting is a statement. I am not fasting, because I am not healthy. But I do not want to make that statement. I do not even want to acknowledge that statement.

At night, as I lay in my bed, thirsty from the walk, I had to force myself to drink. I was not even supposed to fast a little bit. But I had to force myself. It felt wrong.

The next day, I ate. Privately, in my own home. I felt a little like a thief. I had to remind myself that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.

I knew from Yom Kippur that, though I am allowed to refrain from eating, I must drink at least 3 liters of water during the 25 hour fast. However, on Tisha B'Av, once I am already drinking, there is no merit to not eating.*

On Thursday night, a few days before Tisha B'Av, I attended our local Women's English Shiur (Torah class), given by one of the local Rabbis. In answer to a question I asked, the Rav gave an interesting perspective on the differences between our feelings on Tisha B'Av and Yom Kippur:
On Yom Kippur -- who needs to eat? (i.e. we are on such a high spiritual level, who needs food?)
On Tisha B'Av -- who wants to eat? (i.e. we are so miserable, who can stomach food?)

Though I don't fast well, even in the best of circumstances, I totally identified with what he said.

On Tisha B'Av, I ate like I was supposed to. But the food tasted like dust.

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

With love and optimism,
RivkA

* According to my Rav, since fasting on Tisha B'Av is not d'orayta (a law ordained in the Torah), the guidelines governing fasting on Tisha B'Av are quite different from those governing Yom Kippur. There is no inyan (concept) of shiurim (amounts) On Yom Kippur, if one eats/drinks less than a specific amount, one is technically still fasting. On Tisha B'Av, once you eat/drink anything, the fast is broken, and there is no merit to refraining from eating/drinking.

Kever Rachel (Rachel's Tomb)

כֹּה אָמַר יְהוָה, קוֹל בְּרָמָה נִשְׁמָע נְהִי בְּכִי תַמְרוּרִים

רָחֵל, מְבַכָּה עַל-בָּנֶיהָ; מֵאֲנָה לְהִנָּחֵם עַל-בָּנֶיהָ, כִּי אֵינֶנּוּ

(ירמיהו ל"א:י"ד)

So God said: A voice is heard in Ramah,

lamentation, and bitter weeping;

Rachel weeping for her children;

she refuses to be comforted for her children,

because they are absent. (Jeremiah 31:14)

For years now, I have wanted to visit Kever Rachel.

A few years ago, "they" built this big new complex.

I was curious how it looks.

I remember Kever Rachel as a small, rather run-down, old building. I was there almost 25 years ago (when I first came to Israel). Back then, visiting Kever Rachel was an educational experience, not a political statement.

I am not big on davening (praying) at k'varot (gravesites). I do not need some dead person to act as my "intermediary", even if he/she was a really important person when he/she was a living person. (Except for my grandmother, who I believe is up in heaven, looking over me and making a lot of noise on my behalf!)

Moreover, I know that historically, it is unlikely that Kever Rachel is really Kever Rachel. (Though the tradition of that location probably dates back to the time of the Crusaders).

Nevertheless, do not try and take it away from me and my people!

As soon as it became difficult to go to Kever Rachel, it became important to davka go to Kever Rachel. But getting there is not so easy anymore. You can no longer just hop in your car and go.

Again, my friend MG, who is visiting from the US, wanted to go. So, I decided to go with her.

I could not take MD with me, 'cause he is a Cohen. But I did take A.

A few minutes after boarding the bus, we passed through a checkpoint and entered a concrete corridor. A minute later, the bus stopped opposite the entrance of a large building with a façade of Jerusalem stone. Across the street, a flowered traffic circle, and an empty parking lot, beckoned for cars that no longer come.

We entered the complex. Our footsteps echoed along the marble hallway.

There inner room was crowded; there was no where to sit. A did not feel like reciting Tehillim (Psalms) or her morning prayers. Instead, she said a short personal prayer. Then we went and sat in the larger, outer room.

"Are you always going to have cancer?" my sweet and innocent 10 year old asked quietly, as soon as we sat down.

We spoke about God and miracles.

We also spoke about living with cancer.

My heart felt like it was breaking.

I could not protect my little girl from the pain and sorrow, even though I was trying so hard.

I felt grateful that she felt comfortable asking the question. She is so acquiescing, so accepting. Yet, clearly, she is also sad and hurting.

Then, just as suddenly, A started talking about something else. I was a little surprised at how quickly she changed topics. But she was done, and moving on. So, I did too (at least on the outside).

A few minutes later, A went to get some water, and I went inside the inner room and recited some Tehillim. She joined me for a few minutes. When MG finished davening, we all left to catch the next bus.

For those who are interested: There is a subsidized bus (Egged #163), that runs along Derech Hevron. The round trip costs only 7.50 NIS, from anywhere along the line.

On the way home, MG explained the significance of Kever Rachel to A.

"Rachel," she explained, "is the spiritual mother of the Jewish people. Rachel suffered her entire life. Rachel grew up among idol worshipers; she delayed marrying her love, so that her elder sister could marry first; she died in childbirth, after her second son was born; she never lived to see her children grow up. Because of her suffering, Rachel's prayers are powerful. We hope that by praying at her tomb, our prayers will join hers. We hope that God will pay special attention to our prayers, because we are praying together with Rachel Imeinu (Rachel, our mother)."

We were on a bus full of religious people, mostly women, many of whom regularly pray at Kever Rachel. No demonstrations. No slogans. Just simple religious people on a spiritual quest. The passengers spoke in hushed tones, as though still within the prayer halls.

We left behind the large, beautiful complex, with marble halls and a façade of Jerusalem stone. The bus lumbered through the silent corridor, lined with towering concrete walls.



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

With love and optimism,
RivkA