Gut Reaction
It’s hard to believe we’re back again. Back in the hospital, that is, a year after our twelve-year-old daughter Merav was hospitalized for severe stomach cramps, joint pain, jaundice and suspected hepatitis.
Last time, she was admitted for a week, and wound up missing nearly two months of school. The doctors chose to wait it out, to avoid invasive procedures, and mysteriously and miraculously, the pain eventually passed without explanation. The doctors never settled on a diagnosis other than suspecting “an unknown virus.” We went on with our lives hoping this was a difficult but one time fluke.
But now, a year later almost to the day, Merav was once again buckled over in pain, complaining of many of the same symptoms. She had once again missed weeks of school. This time, though, her doctors decided the time had come to get more aggressive in their probes. That’s why we were here at the hospital – thankfully this time only as an outpatient – for a test that would take a half-day at most.
But oh, what a test. Merav was having a colonoscopy.
A colonoscopy is a test that checks the gut – the colon and bowel – for signs of inflammation and irritation. It looks for such things as ulcers and IBD – Inflammatory Bowel Disease. Given the location of Merav’s pain, her doctor felt it was important to see what was going on inside.
A colonoscopy, in truth, is not such a big deal. It’s recommended for just about everyone over the age of 50 as a cancer prevention check. You’re put under general anesthesia so you don’t feel a thing. I ought to know: I’ve already had two of them myself. They were no big deal. Really.
Try telling that to a twelve-year-old.
A colonoscopy is one of those tests that just sounds “yucky.” They’re sticking something inside of me…where? Our assurances to Merav that she would be asleep the entire time did not assuage her anxiety.
“What if I wake up in the middle?” she asked.
“You won’t,” I replied. “No one does. It’s virtually impossible.”
“Maybe one out of a million wakes up?”
“I didn’t check. I suppose one out of a million might.”
“And what if I’m the one out of a million.”
“Look, the worst part of the test is not what they do in the hospital, but the preparations,” I said.
And that was certainly true. The day before a colonoscopy the patient has to drink not just one but two bottles of Sofodex – a powerful liquid that totally clears out your system. It doesn’t do it gently either.
The medicine itself doesn’t have a taste per se; rather it’s a “feeling” that is hard to describe if you’ve never had to take it – a slimy mix recalling petroleum and oysters (not that I would know…about the latter at least). It burns going down and induces instant nausea.
The first time I had to take it, I mixed it into a glass of Sprite. The bubbles seemed to exacerbate the experience. For the next six months, I couldn’t drink a Sprite without viscerally reliving the memory of the Sofodex.
Merav wisely mixed her Sofodex into a glass of strawberry-banana juice.
“Don’t sip it,” I warned Merav. “Just drink it down it in one fast gulp.”
Merav immediately took a sip. Teenagers…they never listen!
She immediately shook with revulsion. “I’m not drinking this,” she said. “Forget it.”
“You don’t have a choice,” I said sternly. “Don’t you want to get to the bottom of this, and find out what’s causing all the pain?”
“I prefer the pain to drinking this,” she said.
Eventually, though, she took it. And despite her initial hesitation, it was actually a very brave thing to do. She could have run away. She could have refused entirely. Taking one’s medicine constitutes both figurative and literal courage.
Still, I suspect it will be a long time before Merav ever drinks another glass of strawberry-banana juice again.
The outpatient clinic at Hadassah Hospital at Mount Scopus is located in the far corner of a basement. To get to it, you have to walk past the kitchen and past the laundry, down a long and agoraphobically wide corridor with no windows and just a few flickering fluorescent bulbs. If anyone from Hadassah is reading this: guys, next time you raise some money, throw a little into sprucing up this entrance passage.
My wife Jody, Merav and I were met at the entrance to the clinic by Edna, a tough but sweet talking nurse. She walked us through the recovery room (where we got to see the other patients lying on beds looking rather out of it after their procedures – not a good introduction for a twelve-year-old already quite nervous as to what was coming next).
A six-month old baby was in line for a colonoscopy before us. “It shouldn’t take long, 20-30 minutes maximum,” Edna assured us, adding almost in a whisper: “you see, he’s very little.”
An hour and a half later, we were finally called in. Why did it take so long, I worried. Did they make a mistake? Is the doctor a quack?
The colonoscopy room is a jungle of wires and dials, TV monitors and long black tubes. The anesthesiologist was there with her vials of chemicals. There were several nurses waiting and a smiling bald doctor in one of those green hospital shirts.
Merav was shaking but solid. Someone drew a curtain and asked Jody and Merav to step behind it where Jody helped Merav change into a special smock. When the curtain opened again, I saw the terror in Merav’s eyes (or was that my own reflected by the bright lights illuminating the equipment?) as she climbed onto the table. The IV went in, Merav’s eyes started to close and we were asked to leave.
45 minutes later, the doctor appeared in the waiting room, smiling.
“The procedure went perfect,” he said, “No complications. She’s clear. There’s nothing wrong inside. No inflammation. Nothing at all.”
A wave of relief swept over me. My daughter is fine. She isn’t sick. The nightmare is over.
Except that, in Merav’s case, the “good news” wasn’t entirely good. All we’d done was rule out one possible cause of Merav’s problems. But the source of her pain was still a mystery and was, unfortunately, not about to end just because she’d gotten to the other side of a most unpleasant procedure. There will be more tests on the road to diagnosis.
In some ways, it would have been better if they had found something in her gut. At least then we’d know what was wrong and we could begin some form of treatment rather than letting her languish in pain while the interminable search continued.
We said thank you to the doctor and walked quickly to Merav’s bed in the recovery room where she was just opening her eyes. “How did I get here?” she asked. “I was just…a minute ago…I was in the other room…”
“You’re going to be fine!” I blurted out to Merav. “The doctor said there’s nothing wrong.”
But she had already closed her eyes. “It will be another two hours before the anesthesia wears off and she can hold a proper conversation,” Edna told us.
There are many types of bravery. There are people who run into burning buildings and there are soldiers who fight against unbeatable odds. But there is also the simple bravery of being able to go on despite the pain and uncertainty, to not give up no matter what needs to be drunk or done in the name of progress.
Merav clearly demonstrated that bravery during the day’s harrowing procedure. As Jody and I continue our search for a diagnosis, maybe we have too.
———————–
This article was cross posted at This Normal Life, which is hosted by Bloggerce, a new publishing service started by the author.
Israeli Bloggers Go to the Polls
A lot of Israeli bloggers wrote about their various experiences voting in Wednesday’s election. For some of them, it was their first voting time at the polls in Israel and had to learn the drill.
Yael Kaynan’s main problem was deciding who to vote for: she was the epitome of the undecided voter, to the great amusement of the officials manning her polling station.
I had an existential crisis at the voting booth. Stood there for literally 10 minutes holding the envelope in one hand and “ken” (for Kadima) in the other. Couldn’t make myself actually get it into the envelope. Finally I picked up “Emet” put it in, started to seal, then pulled it out. Grrrr. Put the two side by side in front of me and did eenie meenie miney mo (no lie). Mo landed on Emet (like ok, I already knew it would having played that selecting game zillions of times as a kid but I also knew I’d feel better about sticking it in there if there was some other something suggesting it should go in) and in it went. I sealed it. I looked up and the polling guy at the end of the table was laughing at this spectacle. I grinned back and fluttered the envelope in his direction and said, what else to do when you are completely undecided? Then into the box it went.
Sarah went to the polls feeling celebratory, although:
If I’d been expecting trumpets to sound and fans to throw confetti at me while I voted for the first time in an Israeli election, I’d have been sorely disappointed. Save for two elderly ladies who held me up a bit while climbing to the second floor of the high school where my voting station was located, I had absolutely no wait. I just went into the classroom, showed my National ID Card to the four good folks sitting at the table, and went into the lone booth with the envelope they’d given me. Actually it wasn’t really a booth, but a table set up with a blue cardboard screen for privacy.
Behind the screen were about 30 sets of little slips of paper, each with the name of a party on it. My job was to pick my party, put its slip of paper into the envelope, and then go back to the table to enter my envelope into the ballot box. It doesn’t get any more lo-tech than that, but at least we don’t have to worry about dimpled chads. Envelopes with more than one slip inside are discounted. I’ve heard there are problems sometimes when people walk away with all the slips for parties they don’t like, but I’m sure the four people at the table had extras of everything just in case.
(I should note that the four people included a charedi man, a woman who did not appear religious at all, and two men of vague demographic standing. I suppose that they have different parties represented at each voting station, so they can watchdog each other. They were joking around between themselves – it seemed like a nice atmosphere. It was odd, because any other day these people would probably be pointedly ignoring each other, but here they were, thrown together by circumstance, and having a nice chat over coffee and a ballot box.)
…As I dropped the envelope into the box, I mentioned that I’m a new immigrant voting for the first time here, and the big charedi man immediately behind the box pretended to be snapping my picture. They all congratulated me, and that was that.
It wasn’t the first time voting for She, who writes at Something Something:, but she found it inspiring nonetheless.
Call me naive and idealistic, but I find that there’s something very empowering about the democratic process. Voting excites me, especially here, where there are so many parties to choose from, and a population small enough to feel that you might be able to make a difference, that you can make your vote count.
We went to our polling station this morning, Husband, the Little One, and I, greeting neighbors who were also doing their part for democracy. Until just a few days ago, I was still undecided as to who would get my vote, but in the end, I went with my conscience, and damn, did it feel good! I hadn’t been sure if I’d vote for them or not, given that I don’t like the party leader, but their platform matches my beliefs perfectly, and once I made my decision, I suddenly felt at peace. Standing behind the partition with my little blue envelope, I didn’t even hesitate. I quickly spotted the paper I needed and slid it into the envelope, knowing that my party was getting my vote.
I suppose it may seem strange to get so worked up over the simple act of putting a small piece of paper in an envelope and dropping it into the election box, but I can’t help it. I am fulfilling my obligation as a citizen, as a citizen concerned about the directions and decisions that my country will take. It is a privilege to take part in the democratic process, and this was brought home to me once again just last night as I watched the chaos currently taking place in Belarus, where people are willing to put their lives at risk in order to ensure that the democracy takes place. I wonder if I’d be strong enough to do the same if I was in their shoes, and am very grateful that I am not. Grateful that I can vote freely and know that my vote will count for something.
I have a hard time understanding those who are indifferent, those who don’t feel the need to vote. Voting is one of the most important obligations a citizen can fulfill, and democracy should never be taken for granted.
Gray power
Who would have thought?
Forget about Kadima, or Lieberman, or Peretz. The real power gained in yesterday’s Knesset elections has a strong grip, for a retiree’s handshake.
The Pensioners Party – in past elections always one of the also-ran fringe parties whose TV ads brought some amateurish levity to the proceedings – has grown up.
Despte being led by Rafi Eitan – known for his dubious role and connections to the Jonathan Pollard debacle – the party has touched a nerve in the country where the elderly are often shunted aside.
Between the Labor Party’s 20 seats and the Pensioners’ 7 or 8 seats, there’s a formidable block of voters who deemed the social problems facing the country to be the priority in this election.
And with both parties likely to end up in the government within the next couple weeks, it’s clear that the poor, elderly, and the average guy trying to provide for his family is going to have alot of MKs fighting for them.
And, at least seven retirees are going to find themselves very busy for the next few years.
DEAD END exhibition
Last Tuesday I ran into my friend Matan, who invited me to go see the DEAD END exhibition at the Museum on the Seam on Friday. I had heard that the exhibition dealt with socio-political issues and its target was to advocate coexistence and a commitment to peace. I have to say that I prepared myself for the worst before checking the place out. From my experience, a peace center or rally always lacks innovation and originality except for the new lice species growing on some hippy dude’s hair as he tries to sell you hemp bracelets. And so walking down Chel Handasa St., I was surprised to see a decrepit building scarred by bullet-holes. Once a battle post, the Seam building stood in front of me as a placard for the price of violence. In the center between Mea Shearim, the Damascus gate area, Old Jerusalem and the new city, the Co-Existence museum stood as a seam connecting all these neighborhoods.
I walked in that Friday with a little more optimism than what my heart had reserved for that morning. My palpitation escalated to the level that generally means “enthusiasm”. I was greeted by a 10 Shekel student charge and a short film by Cristoph and Wolfgang Laushtein about clay humans who begin helping each other but then due to misunderstandings, end up killing each other. A few minutes later, I was facing a painting by Sharon Poliakine of human faces that overlapped with and without each other illustrating humanity’s interdependence (can be seen in the picture to the right). Vivid imagery of violence was displayed in different video footages through the overhead transparency. Scenes of Israeli military arresting Palestinians and opening fire on a riotous juvenile group were shown while scenes of Palestinians involved in violent terror through machine guns were equally captivating. As the exhibition captured the viewer’s attention with eye-catching films, violent brush-strokes and brusque black and white designs, it also offered more visually-agreeable art with messages that aspired for a symbolic resolution. As I made my way up to the top, a quote by Edward Said from Orientalism summarized the roots of our conflicts, “Can one divide human reality as indeed human reality seems to be genuinely divided, into clearly different cultures, histories, traditions, societies, even races and survive the consequences humanly?” I thought to myself at that point that one must constantly be inspired to look at each person as an entity within itself. Whether it’d be that funny mole on their lip or an authentic hair-style, everyone withholds something particular and sole to their character.
Now finally at the top, Matan and I could see almost all of Jerusalem from that centered rooftop. As I spun around with my eyes wide open I saw the Temple Mount first, then the Ethiopian Church, then Har HaTsofim and finally Har HaZeitim. I was overlooking Jerusalem and so I asked Matan, “How about Damascus Gate for some Shisha and Chai?” Within 10 minutes we were blowing smoke and saying shukran.
Even trade?
It’s easy come, easy go here in Israel. Just days after current reigning pop princess Kelly Clarkson cancelled two shows in Tel Aviv, citing a severe throat infection, reports are abounding that the reigning pop queen Madonna is scheduled to perform in Tel Aviv on September 17.
A real Israel-lover, this would be Madonna’s third visit here, following a triumphant late 90s show in Hayarkon Park, and a private visit last year to attend a Kabalah study seminar. And one can assume, if People magazine is correct, that she’ll set aside some time on this trip to look into purchasing a home near the mystical city of Safed (People says it’s Rosh Pina).
As far as Clarkson’s crushed fans, her Israeli guitarist Danny Weissfeld assured them on a chat line that Clarkson would make sure Israel was on the itinerary of her next tour.
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