כי איתי אל Ki Iti El

אל תירא מפחד פתאם, ומשאת רשאים כי תבא. עצו עצה ותפר, דברו דבר ולא יקום, כי עמנו אל. ועד זקנה אני הוא, ועד שיבה אני אסבל, אני עשיתי ואני אשא, ואני אסבל ואמלט.

Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the wicked when it comes. Plan a conspiracy and it will be annulled; speak your piece and it shall not stand, for G-d is with us. Even till your seniority, I remain unchanged; and even till your ripe old age, I shall endure. I created you and I shall bear you; I shall endure and rescue.

This is my favorite prayer. It is in the prayerbook, though we never say it in synagogue. When we get to it, I read it to myself. Even when I am not in synagogue, the prayer stays with me. Its words have implanted themselves in my brain and accompany me wherever I go. Ki imanu El, for G-d is with us. Ki iti El: for G-d is with me.

The bombing has given this prayer special meaning. The fact that I am not dead, of course, is cause for gratitude. And still I find that this enormous gift of my life pales in the face of the countless small gifts I have received since. These small gifts are what make our lives worth having and living.

Ki iti El. About three weeks after I was released from the hospital, I had a meltdown. The stress of the last five weeks hit me like a ton of bricks. I could not call anyone because it was Shavuot and most of my friends were observant and would not answer the phone even if I called. I sat holed up in my room with the door closed and trying to cry quietly as any loud outbursts would freak out my roommate. Suddenly, my friend Yael showed up at my front door. She came to my room and sat with me. With her there, I became a sodden, hysterical, irrational mess. She did not tell me that it would all be all right, even though it would be. She did not tell me that this too was for the best, even though it might be. She did not tell me that I really was very lucky, even though I was. She told me that it was about time that I lost it and that it was normal and that no, none of this is fair. Sometimes you do not need someone to make you feel better, you need a friend to let you be sad. And sometimes, when you are all alone, you need a friend to miraculously appear on your doorstep.

Ki iti El. My cousin Talia happened to call that very same Shavuot afternoon. Talia is not just my favorite cousin in Israel; she is my favorite cousin anywhere. She lives in Tel Aviv and virtually never comes to Jerusalem, so her support up to this point had been primarily via the phone. But that day, out of all the days, she called to let me know that it turned out that a friend was coming to Jerusalem and could give her a lift. Could she come visit? By the time she arrived, I had recovered from my hysteria, but was still so panicked and overwhelmed over various issues that had accumulated and had to be dealt with. Talia not only knows how things are done in Israel, but she knows what you should be thinking when you do them: yihiyeh beseder, it will be okay. She listened to my litany of woes, chided me gently for panicking, and then proceeded to dispense instructions. Try this. Speak to this person. Request this. Do not hesitate to ask for what you need. It is all going to be okay. By the time her friend came to collect her, I was calm and had plan.

Ki iti El. It is the friends who filled my prescriptions and the strangers who filled my refrigerator. Ki iti El. It is the man who heard about me from my bosses. He called me when I was still in the hospital to tell me that he only had one eye, and that he had a perfectly normal life. His call came less than an hour after my father broke the news to me that I might not regain sight in my right eye, and while I was lying in my bed, wondering what my life would be like, and if I would still be able to paint. Ki iti El. It is the family in Atlanta, Georgia who heard about me and arranged to have a beautiful cake delivered to my house, along with a card telling me to be strong. The cake arrived as I sat in my front hall, waiting for my friend Edith to come and take me to an emergency eye appointment. I had started seeing spots in my vision and we suspected my retina had detached. I was terrified, but the note gave me courage. Ki iti El. It was the check for $100 from my Aunt Pearl, accompanied by a note warning me in the strictest terms that the money was to be used for something fun. Both the note and the check were waiting for me at home after I got back from an appointment with a specialist who told me that I really had to do something to reduce my stress levels which were so elevated that my short-term memory was being affected. I used the money to join a gym. (And not to take on a lover, or five, as he suggested).

Ki iti El. I moved out of my parent’s house when I was 18, and spent four years working 60 to 80 hours a week to make ends meet. Then I worked my way through college—another five and a half years of lean times. Since the day when I moved out of my parents' house, I cannot remember a time when I was not haunted by the specter of financial disaster. Quitting my job and moving to Israel only intensified my fear. Within twenty-four hours of landing in Israel I was calling accounting firms, and within two weeks I had two part-time jobs. In such a manner I managed to get by, but when I was injured, I was sure that the game was up and financial catastrophe was on its way. I lay in my hospital bed and did mental calculations of how long my savings would last me, and how I could manage to establish myself in the country if I had to use them all up to get myself through until I could go back to work. But in fact, my savings stayed intact. So long as I needed, both the State of Israel and the Jewish community in Israel and abroad made sure that I had I needed, plus extra so I would not need to worry. I cannot say how many times since those days in the hospital I have bought some piddling little item—a notebook for $5—and have found myself whispering a prayer of thanks. How fortunate I am not only to have the money, but also to be in a position where I do not have to think twice about making the purchase.

Ki iti El. For the first time ever, I feel secure. I am not alone. I do not know what will happen to me in the future, but have faith that, whatever it is, I will receive what I need. I may not get everything I want, but if ever need something desperately, it will be provided.

Ki iti El. For G-d is with me. G-d created me and He bore me; He endured and rescued me.

Collect the Whole Set

Here is a question for the masses: what do people do with all the photos?

One of the odder elements of life as a poor, sad, heroic victim of terror was that of being turned into a tourist destination of sorts. People just loved taking photos with me. I was not alone. One of my physicians told me of another physician, a volunteer from the US, who insisted on being photographed with every last poor, sad, heroic victim of terror that came through his department. My doctor was not sure what was stronger, his horror or his embarrassment.

So again, what do people do with these photos? I mean, it is not as though the people being photographed are particularly attractive. (If you do not mind, we will save the "beautiful souls" and "brave spirits" and other similar claptrap for someone else's blog). Are they like trading cards? Can you collect the whole set? Do people swap them? "I will give you my brave widow and traumatized soldier for your orphan with a head injury"? Are there point values involved? Who sets them? I have a friend who was also injured in a bombing, but much more seriously than was I. She is now in a wheelchair where I have only minor signs of injury (though they are visible to Israeli men turned on by scars). Is she worth more points than I am?

As for me, I have long since entertained this mental image of folks going back to the States, downloading their photos to a DVD and regaling their friends with a slide presentation of their trips to Israel. "This is me at the Kotel. This is me in Tiberias. This is me with Gila, the Poor, Sad, Heroic Victim of Terror ®…. She's so brave."

It goes without saying, of course, that one cannot talk about Victims of Terror without proper attention being paid to our bravery. Random true story: someone once commented to my father, with no small amount of outrage, that it was terribly wrong that all of the newspapers were writing about me, and not about those who died. My Dad's response: it is kind of hard to interview the dead ones. Obnoxious, but oh-so-true.

Any thoughts?

Loneliness

This was written about nine months after the bombing, in December 2002 or thereabouts. It was a particularly low point, to put it mildly. Even though I know that half of you will not believe me and will write stuff like "oh, I hope that things improve soon", things really and truly are much better now. I have long since completed my classes and now have loads of free time to see friends, vegetate in front of the TV (am now waaay into Israel's version of The Biggest Loser) and otherwise goof off. With the exception of the odd surgery and hearing aid fitting, the bombing is a part of my life to the extent I allow (aka-writing). I have friends. They call me. I call them. They invite me to do stuff. Sometimes, I even go. Most importantly, I developed very good bombing-groupie radar and can effectively avoid those types from the getgo. Now that adds to quality of life.

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The mass of former slaves, wandering in the desert after their escape from Egypt, complained bitterly of what they had left behind: safety, comfort, water and cucumbers. I sit here in my apartment, safe and comfortable, ready streams of water for the asking and my refrigerator just chock-full of cucumbers. Nonetheless, I find myself envying those wanderers. Not for their misery, but for the fact that they had others to share it with.

If there were one thing that could set me running back the US, to my own Egypt, it would be the loneliness. I miss having friends. I miss being sought out and important. I miss people calling me to invite me out to do things. I miss having plans and what to do on the weekends and feeling good because I am the type of person who virtually always has what to do, and with whom to do it. I have been living in Katamon, home of one of the most active social scenes in Jerusalem, for a year now, and I find myself quite alone. I have virtually as many friends now as I did when I left Ulpan—not many.

I did not expect it would be like this. At the time I left Ulpan, I thought I would go out and meet people and make friends…maybe even (finally!) start dating again. It just has not happened. That is not to say that there are no good reasons for my situation. There are. The first, and most obvious is my preparation for the CPA exams: from July to December I spent three to four nights a week in night school and the other nights studying. I admit that I was obsessed, but I was set back six months by the bombing and I just refused to be set back again. I decided, the cost be damned, I was going to pass the exams on my first try. I succeeded, but the cost was very high indeed. I had no time for a social life for those six months.

The second reason is the bombing. As ironic as it may seem, considering how people have fallen over themselves to reach out to me, the bombing has gutted my social life. First, months of doctors and paperwork and stress and speaking to groups and everything else bombing-related has left me so drained of energy and patience that I simply do not have the strength to try and deal with new people. Second, my hearing loss has made socialization both less fun and less rewarding. Finally, I find that I do not trust people as much anymore. You would not believe how many people want to know me only because I am a Victim of Terror, and not because I am me. One woman I know actually stopped inviting me for Shabbat dinners (and stopped accepting my invitations) as soon as I asked her that she no longer announce to the entire table that I was injured in a bombing.

I know and accept that there are valid reasons for this isolation I find myself in. And yet knowing that there is a reason doesn’t make me feel any better when I realize that, for the last week, no one has called me apart from Galia, Debbie and Yael. People I know are doing things, going out, and having Shabbat meals. No one thinks to include me.

The last week has been particularly difficult. I decided to take advantage of my break from classes by going out and doing something about my social life, or lack of it. Sitting around and whining and feeling sorry about myself isn’t going to help, right? G-d helps those who help themselves! Except that sometimes He does not. I went to services and asked the few people I knew to introduce me around. They all looked at me as though I had suddenly sprouted another head. I went to a lunch with people I barely knew; everyone was so busy talking about the people that were not there that they had no time to talk to me. After months of internal debate, I forced myself to call a shadchan. Twice. She never called back.

Last night I hit rock bottom. I was supposed to go to a Hadassah “Evening of Entertainment” in honor of the hospital. I had an appointment at National Insurance in the city center immediately before and intended to travel to the hospital from there. When the time came for me to catch the bus to the hospital, I found myself trapped in a vicious mental circle. I could go to the event, by myself, where if I met anyone it would be because one Hadassah lady was introducing me to another Hadassah lady as GilawhowasinjuredatMahaneYehuda. Alternatively, I could go home and spend the evening, Thursday night, the kickoff to the Israeli weekend, by myself. I found myself wandering up and down Ben Yehuda, close to tears, trying to figure out which would be the less pathetic and heinous way to spend my evening.

I do not miss the salary, the larger home, the food—the stuff from the States. The lack of security I feel on public transport here as compared to in D.C. is offset by the greater security I feel walking around my city at night. What I miss is the being wanted. I find myself comparing. If I were in the States, I would not be by myself so much. People would be calling me. People would be inviting me to do things. I would not find myself standing alone after services, feeling like the worlds’ biggest loser, watching everyone else chat and smile and be liked. I would not be coming home at the end of the day, and finding that I had no messages.

Those bitterly crying slaves had no idea how good they had it

What Luck?

Life is not fair but we desperately wish to think it is. We are not all equally blessed…but who on Earth can comfortably stomach the concept that he has been shortchanged by G-d? This is why we spend so much time justifying reality. That is why we put forth so much effort inventing and then trotting out our "this is really a good thing, this is for the best" mantras. I am no different from anyone else. In respect to the bombing, if not in respect to various other aspects of my life, I have my own collection of mantras. I was blessed. What happened to me was for the best. I am a better person for what happened. If G-d were to come to me today with an offer to repeat this period of my life, but without the bombing, I would turn Him down. Usually, these mantras satisfy my craving for blessings. Nonetheless, every so often, I find myself questioning the fairness of it all.

My moments of doubt are both entirely random and entirely predictable. If you were to record what passes through my mind when I attend a simcha (a joyous occasion, ie. a wedding or baby naming)—at some point or another, you would find the bombing. But my moments of doubt feature at other times as well. They like to come visit late at night, when I am alone in my apartment—writing or watching television. They remind me that I am going to go to bed alone. They listen in when I hear about someone my age that is ten times more successful than I am. They join me in contemplation every April as I switch over my to my summer wardrobe and ditch the closed toe shoes and nylons—nylons in Tel Aviv in the summer being madness—and have to once again get used to showing off the scars on my leg to the world.

Generally, the moments sound like this: "How much did this cost me?" I can itemize and I can measure what the bombing gave me but I also know that nothing is free. Everything has its price, its opportunity cost. What opportunities did I lose? All of the time I spent in treatment, all the energy and focus I had to put into just keeping my head above water and myself marginally sane, all of the months I spent with an obviously scarred face. That year I spent being introduced to all and sundry as "Gila-the-woman-who-was-injured-in-the-pigua" instead of "Gila, the nice, single Jewish woman who just made aliyah from the United States". The six months I spent retaking courses I was already nearly done with. The three years post-bombing that my career choices were heavily influenced both by mental exhaustion and by my fear that I could get bombed again and my fear that another employer might not be as nice. If it were not for the bombing, maybe I would be married too? Maybe I would have children too? Maybe I would be more successful and further ahead in my career? Maybe I would have an apartment and a nice car and would be completely settled and established? Maybe I would not be so afraid of "what catastrophe is waiting for me next—what will I need my savings for" that I might feel secure enough to buy an apartment or a nice car? What future was stolen from me?

A few weeks after the bombing, a close friend of mine—the friend who "got" the guy I was crazy about—came to visit me. She brought a pint of Ben & Jerry's. She had great news. She received a job offer with a fantastic salary. She wanted to celebrate and since my going out was a bit problematic, she decided to bring the celebration to me. I was genuinely happy for her. I was also very glad that she was treating me normally—as a regular friend who was interested in her life as well—and not as a pathetic, generic mitzvah project. At the same time, I could not help but think: I was the one who worked the hardest, who studied the hardest in Ulpan, who did the most planning…and I end up with nothing and she ends up with everything? Her life is moving ahead while mine has stopped short? This is not fair! Six years have passed since that day and enough has happened in both of our lives for me to accept that it was not that simple. Nonetheless, I still feel like that, sometimes. How can I look at this and say it is fair?

Maybe it is not fair. A day after my release from the hospital, I sat with Nomi and Michael Elbert in their kitchen. Michael was on a roll. "Everyone is going on about how lucky you are because you were not killed and you are going to be okay. How is this lucky? A young woman caught in a bombing, seriously injured with damage to both of her eyes, hospitalized for two weeks…that is not lucky. That should not be!" At the time I dismissed his words. I thought his friends were right. I was lucky. Several years later I had cause to remember this conversation and to reconsider my blithe dismissal of his analysis. I was discussing with a friend the health of a third woman we are both friends with. This woman underwent difficult fertility treatments in order to have her first child. In the course of checkups to prepare for a new round of IVF, it was discovered that she had cancer. She spent the next year in treatments; as of that time she had been given a clean bill of health though it was not clear if she would be able to bear any more children. My friend's take on all this was similar, though not identical, to that of Michael's friends: if it were not for the fact that our friend had fertility problems, and that doctors insist on such a careful check before starting fertility treatment, the cancer never would have been caught so early and her cure would not have been nearly as assured. Ergo, our friend was lucky. I took the part of Michael. I found this type of logic ridiculous. Our friend had to suffer through fertility problems and cancer. She should not have had to go through either, much less both, and certainly not both by the age of 30. How can you possibly define this as luck? This should not be.

The truth, as much as there can be said to be a truth, is that both sides are right. It is not fair that one woman should suffer so much to have kids, and should suffer so much for the right to raise them…while her friends receive both in quantity and with no suffering whatsoever. That is true. Yet, it is also true that if she was going to have cancer, it is lucky that she had the fertility problems which led to the cancer's discovery. For that matter, were it not for those fertility problems, she might not have had children at all. It is because of the problems that she decided to start having children as early as she possibly could, instead of waiting several years as do so many women who marry at the relatively young age that she did. Had she waited, her fertility would have been destroyed, and that without a child there to comfort her. All of these are true, so who is right and who is wrong? Is she lucky or is she not? Is she blessed or is she not?

Am I lucky or am I not? Am I blessed or am I not? Is this fair or is it not? I can tell you that there are plenty of times I raise the issue with G-d. Listen, G-d, so far I have had kidney disease as infant and rather serious issues as a child, adolescent and young adult. And I deserve a bombing too? And cancer three years later? How can that be, G-d? My friends get everything handed to them: nice normal childhood, nice normal college educations, nice normal dating lives, the husband, the children, and the home. I get a bombing. I get cancer. They are the lucky ones, not me, and if you call what I have luck, well then, enough. Enough! Enough! Keep your type of luck, or give it to the irritating, chirpy, brainwashed and smug bastards who call me fortunate. I would like to see how blessed they would feel were they me. If this is Your love, than just give me Your hate, and be done with it already. נמאס לי כבר!

I challenge G-d to call me blessed and to call this fair even while understanding that even if this was not fair, I was blessed and I am quite fortunate. I made it through okay, and I took far more out of the bombing than it took from me. I stand by my contention that this was the best thing that could have happened to me even as I feel sorry for myself for having to go through all of this. I scream at G-d in my jealousy even while understanding that I very well may have nothing to be jealous of. What do I really know of the lives of my friends? I wrestle with G-d while understanding that there really is nothing to fight about. Things just are, and what do I know of the workings of the universe? Not everything that happens is or will be within the bounds of my mortal comprehension. I put on the rose-colored glasses and I take them off—grateful, bitter, grateful, bitter, grateful, bitter.

I want the blessings I want but I receive only those of G-d's choosing. So am I blessed or am I not? There is no answer.

Vignette from the life of a Poor Sad Heroic Victim of Terror ®

A couple months after the bombing, I spent a weekend in Tel Aviv with my friends Yael and Debbie. On Friday, Yael and I headed off for a day at the beach. On our way there, we popped over to Shuk HaCarmel, the Carmel Farmers Market, to pick up stuff for lunch. We arrived at the Shuk at around noon—an hour when the place tends to be completely packed. Yael got a bit nervous.

"You know, it is really crowded…." She did not have to say more.

"No, it is okay", I blithely responded. "We are not really going into the shuk, see? We are buying stuff right at the entrance".

Yael just looked at me. Oh, right. Entrances to open markets are bad.

I really should know this. But whatever. Nothing happened.

Time

The usual caveats apply. This was written in August 2002, at around 2 AM when I was too stressed out to sleep. As in, a long time ago and at a particularly tough time. Life is much better now.


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I have a really nasty confession to make. Last week, when I learned that Americans had been injured in the Hebrew University bombing, one of the thoughts that went through my head was “Thank God! I am off the hook!”

"Off the hook for what?", you ask (even as you wonder how I could ever be so callous). Trust me, four months of this, and you would be callous too. Ever since the bombing, I have been, if you will excuse my pun, bombarded with requests. Can I do this interview? Can I come speak to this group? I feel as though I have become something of a poster child for victims of suicide bombings. This may be an overstatement. Maybe Israelis who are injured go through the same thing. However, what I have heard, over and over, is that I am special. I am not special because of the extent of my injuries. In comparison to many, my injuries were not at all extensive. Nor am I worthy of note because I displayed bravery in the face of danger. There was no bravery here. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rather, I am special because I am a native English speaker. To be more specific, I speak English with an American accent. As of last Thursday, however, there is a whole new crop of American English speaking Poor Sad Victims Of Terror ® available to give interviews. I am off the hook.

But why would I want to be off the hook? I should want to help! I should want to raise awareness! (And, ahem, money). I should be elated and honored to meet with every last solidarity mission that comes through this country. I should be begging for the opportunity to share with them my poignant-but-gutsy story. I should be grateful for the chance to explain, for the 100th time, and probably to the secret disappointment of the questioners, that, no, I do not get nightmares and am not particularly traumatized. I should get misty eyed as groups sing Am Yisrael Chai way off key, to cheer me up, and read me letter after letter from elementary school children. (Of course, I should also keep a straight face as they inadvertently read me, with great ceremony, one child’s awestricken letter to a Brave Israeli Soldier ®, even though I am a Poor Sad Victim of Terror ® and not a Brave Israeli Soldier ®).This is my golden opportunityto Do My Part, to Make A Difference. To Pay Back my Debt to Life, the Universe, Everything and the Worldwide Jewish Community…and I want to be off the hook? What is wrong with me?

This is what is wrong with me. For the first month and a half after the bombing, I was not working, and could not do much of anything. The month after that I only worked two hours a day. During that period, if people asked me to sit for an interview, or meet with groups there was no problem. I had the time, I was grateful for the help I had received and I pass it forward. But I never thought that this would last beyond the first month or two. My assumption was that the interest would wane as my wounds healed, and I became less dramatic. That did not happen. Four months after the bombing, I am still fielding at least one or two requests a week. Friends, acquaintances and organizations will write or call with requests. “A solidarity mission is coming to visit and your story is so great, so inspiring, (read: “so likely to raise money”) that we would love if you would speak to them”. Or, “So-and-so is writing a graduate thesis/ filming a documentary/ writing the Great American novel/ working on a very deep and meaningful conflict resolution project/ whatever and they were looking for good people to interview and your story is so powerful that I gave them your email. I hope you do not mind”.

I do mind. I really do. Although I am still undergoing treatment, and probably will continue to do so for approximately the rest of my natural life and perhaps a couple years beyond that, I really am trying to get my life back on track. Last month I went back to school and started working half time. As of now, August, classes are in full swing, I am working close to full-time and have finally come off the dole. To summarize, for two months now I have been juggling all of the elements of real life: work, classes and homework with the critical elements of being a Poor Sad Victim of Terror ®: administrative fun with National Insurance and countless doctors’ appointments. I do not have time for this. As difficult as it has been for me to learn how to do so, my nice American-accented English is now expressing the word “No”.

But if I chalk my feelings up to a lack of free time, I am only telling half the story. The other half goes something like this: “I am sick sick sick of this god-forsaken, stupid bombing and of being a god-forsaken stupid bombing victim. I want it all to go away”. This has nothing to do with trauma. I emphasize this because whenever I mention this aspect of being Poor, Sad Victim of Terror ® to people, their faces immediately take on this sad, ‘I-understand-your-pain’ expression. They speak to me in slow, gentle tones just dripping with concern: “of course, it is painful to re-live it”. To clarify. I am not traumatized. I am not in pain. I am stressed and I am irritated. To use the vernacular, I am royally pissed off.

Here is what all of you seem to be forgetting. You can put terrorist activity in a defined space. When you have time, and to the extent you have time, you can take it out and play with it for a spell. You involve yourselves. You read articles. You send checks. You write your representatives in Congress. You are all very sincere and well meaning and believe that it is so important that those outside Israel really understand what is happening and understand what we Poor, Sad Victims of Terror ® go through. Then, when you are done being sincere and well-meaning, or if you discover that it does not fit into your schedule this month, you can go off and do other things.

You are dabbling in my bombing. I am wallowing in it. I cannot escape. What am I supposed to do—say I am done with it? Ignore it? My entire life has been taken over by this, this, THING, and it will be taken over for the foreseeable future. It is now nearly four months out, and I have five doctor’s appointments next week. At a minimum, I will literally be dealing with the medical treatments for the next year and a half. I still spend at least several hours a week dealing with National Insurance. My career, my earning power and my absorption into a new country have all been shoved back six months to a year. Beyond the obvious fallout there are other, more subtle intrusions. The bombing has leached into the simplest of my actions. I choose to wear a sundress because there is a heat wave—and have to bear people staring at the scars on my arms and legs all day. I went to the beach with friends and had to put on mounds of sunscreen and rent two umbrellas because I am forbidden to sunbathe. I went to a sandwich shop with my cousin and had to ask the staff to turn off the music so I would be able to enjoy a conversation during the meal. I went on a blind date and ended up waging a futile battle with my hearing aids as they picked up every conversation but the one I was having. I made the mistake of explaining the situation to the guy. Instantly, I stopped being Gila the person and was transformed into Gila the Poor, Sad Victim of Terror ®. I spent the rest of the evening answering questions about the bombing. Needless to say, he was not interested in me, even though he found me so sad, equally brave, is sure I will meet someone and wished me a refuah shlemah. Can’t I do ANYTHING without that stupid bombing coming along?

I am just so tired of the whole thing. I am sick of doctors, sick of the hospital, sick of National Insurance, sick of my hearing aids, sick of my glasses and sick of my scars. I am sick of people asking me about my recovery. I am sick of being stressed out—so stressed out that here I am sitting at my computer at 2:00 AM because I am too wired to sleep. In short, I am sick and tired of being a bombing victim. The last thing I want to do now is give this bombing more of my life. There are new American injured? Yofi. I am off duty and off the hook.

Security

July 2002

Today, at long last, I visited Rivka, my audiologist to receive my hearing aid. Did you know that hearing aids are actually programmed to match an individual’s hearing loss? It was news to me as well. Anyway, this takes a few minutes, and requires concentration, so I sat quietly in her office as she worked. As I waited, I found my attention drawn by a poster put out by one of the companies that manufactures hearing aids. The poster was comprised of pictures of happy people of all ages, engaged in a variety of activities, interspersed with pictures of hearing aids. Do not ask me how I knew, but I could tell that all of the people were American. It is hard to explain; there was just something so clean and wholesome about the people and the photo backgrounds that it was really self-evident.

For the first time, I found myself a bit homesick and longing for the good ol’ US of A. To be in a big country, far from enemies. I could live in the middle of the States, in Chicago, far from all borders, and not have that feeling that someone was going to attack me. If the US were invaded, it would take the invaders some time to get to Chicago, and the US would surely defeat them before they got too far. The only one with half a chance to get close would be Canada, and while they hold us in some disdain, I do not perceive them as being too much of an actual threat. I could go to the mall without anyone checking my bag and ride public transportation without checking every face (even those of the children) for a suspicious look. Just to relax, just a little. It would be so easy.

I sat in her office, and looked at all those nice faces, those happy, smiling, open faces of people who doubtless all lived in nice houses in the suburbs or perhaps even in small, friendly towns out in the Midwest…and I missed the security. I missed the feeling of feeling safe. Even after September 11th, you surely cannot know what it is like to live here. There I sat, a young-ish woman getting a hearing aid because my eardrums are shot to hell and my teeth hurt because my nerves are regenerating and my right eye gets tired and cuts out at about 9:30 every night and my body is covered with ugly scars and I am trying to get back to work but it is tough with all of the appointments and the paperwork and I want to find a job at a bigger firm and move up a bit and develop an actual career here but maybe I should stay put until the economy improves and who knows when that will be and the exchange rate has gone to hell in a hand basket and so my rent has gone up a couple hundred shekels already and after missing so much work because of the bombing who knows when I will be up for a raise again and I hope I can find another job in January and move to Tel Aviv but hey, man makes plans and God laughs and maybe I will be bombed again and so it really is not a good thing to plan too much.

I am stressed and I am tired and for the first time in my life, I really have a bit of a clue as to what foreigners perceive when they look at America and Americans. Here I am already so tired and dreaming of security and idealizing life in the United States…and I have only just started living in Israel. I am still two weeks shy of a year here.

Rivka finished programming the hearing aid. “Okay, let me show you how to use it”. I tore my eyes away from the poster, listened carefully to the instructions, booked a follow-up appointment and stuck the hearing aid in my bag and went to my home, in Jerusalem, in Israel.

I chose this home, with all that it entails. I do not regret it, but sometimes I wish that it, or I, could just all go away for a while.

____________________________________________________________________
First, a caveat…. This piece is historical; it was written in July 2002. As of today:
1) My hearing is better, but still not great. I also look completely normal. I see my scars, but you would not.
2) I have a good job at one of the big accounting firms
3) The job comes complete with a very respectable salary
4) The economy is (tfu tfu tfu) doing well
5) I live in Tel Aviv

Of course, each step to this point was laced with panic…but that is another story, or at least a separate post.

Second, this seems to be a good point to give a public thank-you to my bosses of that time, Zvi Marsh and Shea Klein, who not only held my job for me, but who continued to give me raises on schedule, without any consideration to the fact that I was barely in the office for four months. May G-d be as kind to you as you were kind to me.

Hearing

Today, I am going to jump back in time again, to an article I wrote in June 2002. And also again, I am going to start with an update, just so no one feels compelled to sob over my plight.

The holes in my eardrums are now closed. In the end, only one ear required surgery. Today, the hearing in my left ear is considered to be largely within the normal range, with only a mild hearing loss. My right ear was less fortunate. It did require surgery, and what is more, the surgery made my hearing worse and not better. The loss in my right ear is considered moderate to severe. I own a hearing aid for my right ear, and I should use it but I do not. (Do not ask me why—I really do not know). Anyway, I am in the process of looking into getting a new hearing aid—a small one that fits right in the ear. I am hoping that something small, sophisticated and comfortable might be able to breach this inexplicable mental block. In the meantime, with some minor adjustments for the disability, I function quite well sans machinery, though I suspect that my friends and co-workers would be quite happy if I start to use a hearing aid and stop asking them to repeat themselves. (Though as a reminder to any lurking friends—I still will not be able to hear you at restaurants or weddings. Hearing aids not helpful at noisy events….)

One more thing: there is no recovery process here. The recovery process is over. My hearing is not going to get better. It just is.

On the bright side, I have gotten smarter about what I tell people. Now, when someone asks me why my hearing is lousy, I adopt a surprised look, as though this seems like such a weird questions to ask, shrug my shoulders and reply: "oh, it has been that way for years". Which is true. Can I help it if they assume that I was born with a hearing loss?
______________________________________________________________
June 2002

I can hear the telephone. It goes “ring ring ring”.

The toaster also makes a ringing sound when the toast is done toasting.

Birds say “tweet tweet” and cats say “meow”. A bird is singing outside my window right now. I can hear it. The world is full of wonderful, interesting sounds, and I can hear them all.

Yes, I finally got my hearing aids.

I have what is called sub-total perforations in both of my eardrums from the bombing. I have a mild to moderate hearing loss in my left ear, and moderate to moderate/severe hearing loss in the right. My doctors say the holes and the loss are correctable, although that will require two surgeries over the course of a year. The hearing aids are to get me through in the meantime. The surgeries are considered to be routine, as surgeries go, and the loss is not considered severe. All in all, this is a relatively minor injury. However, this “minor” injury has had a profound, and even shocking, effect on my personality.

To understand the changes, it helps to understand what it means to have a “hearing loss”, and I will give credit to my audiologist, Rivka,, for explaining this to me. Eardrums perform two major functions. One, the eardrums amplify sounds as they come into your ears. Secondly, our eardrums allow us to filter incoming sounds. Your eardrums are the tools that allow you to sit at a table and simultaneously engage in conversation with A while half-listening to a conversation between B and C and blocking out the conversation between D and E.

Put it all together, and a hole in one’s eardrum means you cannot hear half of what is going on, and what you can hear, you cannot understand.

What has this meant for me? To start with the basics, if I am speaking one-on-one with a person, I generally have to ask them to speak up and to speak very clearly. The existence of any background noise, (i.e. music, traffic or another conversation) makes it very difficult for me to hear because I no longer have the ability to filter out unwanted sounds. Even the sound of my own chewing is disruptive and I have to avoid crunchy foods when having conversations. I find that I hear best when speaking with one or a few individuals, face to face, without background noise, and without people talking over one another. It is almost impossible to have a conversation with a person if they leave the room-even if they are speaking loudly. Rivka told me that this is because I am probably doing far more subconscious lip reading than I realize. Actually, once she said this, I realized that this is why my ability to hear has picked up with the improvement in my vision. For that matter, it explains why my ability to hear English is less impaired than my ability to hear Hebrew. I have 25 more years experience in English than in Hebrew.

But if the physical aspects of hearing loss are challenging, the mental and emotional impact has been devastating. I am isolated. The heart of the social scene in Jerusalem is the Shabbat meal, and the heart of the Shabbat meal is the conversation. I cannot participate in these conversations anymore because I cannot hear well enough to follow. Even if I try to speak only with the person next to me, the conversation tends to be somewhat stilted as the buzz of the surrounding conversations impedes my ability to hear the person I am speaking with. The same limitation applies to virtually every social situation involving group conversations, be it chatting with people after services when everyone gathers outside the synagogue to shmooze, going out with friends to a café or even just having a simple get-together in someone's living room. Sure I can participate, so long as no one minds if I interrupt the flow of the conversation every 5 seconds to ask “What? What?” And that is assuming that the language being spoken is English. If the conversation is in Hebrew…well, forget about it.

There is really nothing I can do about the situation, and so more and more, I find myself sitting quietly and saying nothing. What is the point? I do not even sing anymore. For those of you unfamiliar with Shabbat meals, it is the tradition to sing songs during the meal. However, when I sing now, I cannot hear the other singers, making it impossible for me to sing with them. Sometimes I mouth the words. More often, I do not bother.

As a result, those who have met me at group events since the bombing would probably describe me as quiet and shy. And indeed, I have become shy. I no longer feel comfortable engaging new people in conversations. Admittedly, even before the bombing I lacked self-confidence with Israelis, but now I feel that way with everyone. I feel stupid, awkward, tongue-tied and boring. The fact that I am self-conscious about my looks does not help, of course. So now, when I go to group events, I no longer try to meet new people. Instead, I hang out with the people I know. If I do not know anyone, I find a corner and sit there quietly with a vague and hopefully pleasant expression on my face, catching conversations as I can, and waiting for the time that I can escape and go home.

A couple weeks ago, I was invited to a Shabbat meal hosted by an retired couple that makes a habit of inviting singles to join them for meals. The guests included a married couple, myself and four other singles my age, —two women and two men—and like me English speaking immigrants. The two women were well dressed, well spoken, attractive, and exuded intelligence and confidence. Then there was me: scars on my face which I have yet to figure out how to cover, bad hair, a stupid looking headband, glasses, and of course, half deaf. The other guests were soon engaged in an animated conversation. I could not follow. What was I supposed to do? Stand up and scream that I may look like shit and be deaf as a doorknob, but hey, behind it all is intelligent, interesting, witty person? Hell, I do not know that I believe that myself. I did try. I made an attempt to talk to the guy next to me, but I could think of nothing to say aside from “oh, you are from Toronto? What a beautiful city”.

Oh yeah! That is some witty and intelligent conversation there! My, I must be the world's biggest dolt.

Maybe I am imagining things? Maybe I was always this boring, this retreating, this shy, this tongue-tied? Why do I feel like I was been transformed into someone else? I know I used to be too aggressive, and too argumentative, but I toned that down a bit and learned to be nicer. I know I used to feel stupid with Israelis, but I thought that was just with Israelis, and that it was because of the language barrier. Was I always like this? I couldn’t have been. There is no way I could have as involved as I was in D.C., had as many friends as I did in D.C., if I were really like this. I keep trying to remind myself of that.

But now I have hearing aids. They don’t help me filter sounds, but they do amplify sounds so that conversations are easier to follow. I wore them last night when I was at dinner with my cousins. So long as the background noise isn’t too bad, I can even follow multi-sided conversations. Okay-so I have a tool to bring back my hearing. All I need now is a tool to bring back me.

Dear God, Ummm....do you like pancakes?

Every year I do something to celebrate my bombing anniversary. Some years I do festive Shabbat dinners. One year I had real party complete with alcohol, but without the loud music. (My friends were so pleasantly surprised that I actually served alcohol that they did not think to complain about the lack of music. But—hello—my party and my house…why should I not be able to hear?). Last year, I bought a bicycle. In short, I have yet to do anything that could be remotely classified as commemoration, contemplation or an expression of gratitude to G-d. My friends' annual rendition of "happy bombing anniversary to you—we're glad you're not dead" does not quite hit the sensitive note generally called for in a commemorative event. As for expressions of gratitude, I suppose one could argue that the bike acquisition was kind of like turning my face to the heavens and saying to G-d: "Yeah, well...bite me."

(Luckily, He has not taken me up on that yet, but then, I am going biking tomorrow. If I get hit by a Mack truck, we will all know why. Of course, I am hoping that the bemused good humor holds….)

To get back to, and perhaps even complete the subject, I suppose that this is all part of the attitude I have adopted towards my bombing, which can be summed up as: If you absolutely, positively must be in bombing (which we do not recommend, as it tends to fatal, or at least highly injurious), but anyway, if you MUST…you may as well have a good time with it.

As you might imagine, not everyone shares my views. Similar to my views on trauma, every once in a while these vast differences in world view result in my completely putting my foot in it. Take the conversation I had with my friend, Inna who was seriously injured in the July 2002 bombing at Hebrew University. Her one year-anniversary had just passed and (do not ask me how) we got on the subject of what she did to mark the date. Without thought, and in fact without even asking her what she had done, I jumped into my usual memorial-ceremony-bashing-shtick: how the ceremonies are stupid, how all of this self-conscious melodrama is stupid, how having a party is so much more fun and/or appropriate. Of course, not only was she not having a party, but she did go to a ceremony and furthermore, she found the ceremony to be very meaningful. I cannot remember how I got out of that one; I probably just mumbled something like "Oh-yes, but of course, Hebrew University would have one—you guys are an academic institution—and my bombing…hell, we are just a bunch of Kmart shoppers". She bought it, and she is still my friend. Or she did not buy it and is pretending to be my friend for the cookies? Wait…I will have to ask her about that…. Okay, just got off the phone. Inna reports that 1) she remembers the conversation, 2) she still goes to the annual ceremonies and 3) she is still my friend both for the cookies AND because she had already taken the trouble to put me through the exclusive "Inna's friends training course", in which one learns all sorts of useful skills, like how to push a wheelchair over gravel, up over curbs, up the stairs, etc. all without dumping Inna onto the ground. Israel is not exactly what one would call handicapped-accessible. From Inna's point of view, I may be something of an idiot, but I am a useful idiot. (Hi Inna!)

Anyway, the point of all this is that my sixth bombing anniversary is April 12. This year, after much reflection, I have decided that the time has come for me to adopt a more mature attitude toward the day, to allow G-d in, to incorporate Judaism into my celebration of this day. Therefore, this year, I am having a pancake party.

Now I realize that, for some of you, and in particular the Christian somes of you, the connection between "pancakes" and "Judiasm" or "G-d" might be somewhat unclear. Allow me to cast some light. Pesach (Passover) is coming. During Pesach, Jews are commanded to eat no chametz, or leavened bread. Typical Pesach preparations include house cleaning to downright obsessive levels in order to rid the house of anything currently chametz or possessed of the ability to become chametz in the future. For example, I have two bags of flour in my freezer. Flour is an essential ingredient in bread. The flour must be used before Pesach or I will have to throw it out. I have a bag of chocolate chips. Chocolate chips can be added to bread dough to make chocolate bread. I have chocolate ice-cream, which is commonly coupled with chocolate bread to make chocolate ice-cream sandwiches.

Ergo, chocolate chip pancakes with a side of chocolate ice cream=Pesach cleaning =religious observance. I hope that this clarifies matters.

Alternatively, I suppose that one could also interpret the pancakes as a hidden message to G-d. "Dear G-d, I am sorry for being such a snot. Please do not turn me into one of these while I am riding my bike. Thank you. Much love, Gila". But frankly, I would rather not.

(What, you thought I was going to say I was going to say "prayer service"? Nu, be'emet....)

Perspective

One caveat....this article was written nearly six years ago. I look much better now!

Though I have (unfortunately) managed to gain back all the weight (and then some) that I lost on the exclusive and oh-so-fab Machane Yehuda bombing Diet Plan.

If only I would get off the computer and get the butt to a gym....

**********

June 2002

I am not dealing with the bombing nearly as well as everyone seems to think that I am. Everyone comments on my good attitude and how I am so “up” and positive and optimistic. Me, I don’t know if I would use those words. I am practical. I am pragmatic. I am good at putting things into perspective. Nonetheless, there are places where this ability has failed me completely and I have become hysterical.

The medical, financial and career related issues are easy enough to deal with. Yes, I was hospitalized for two weeks and was in danger of losing my sight. Yes, I am still undergoing treatment, and will be for the foreseeable future. But it could have been worse. Perhaps it should have been worse, seeing how close I was to the terrorist. I was actually unbelievably fortunate. As it was, I haven’t lost my sight and none of my other conditions are life threatening. All in all, they constitute a source or irritation and aggravation, not danger. I myself have seen others in far worse shape than am I.

True, I have been unable to work and am looking at a summer of not working or working half-time, at best. I am getting payment for the lost hours from National Insurance, but these are determined based on my salary through March…before the raise I received in April. That being said, if one were to do an accounting, I probably would be found to have come out ahead. The couple thousand shekels I will forgo in salary has been more than made up for by grants I have gotten from organizations which help victims of terror. (Sure, a chunk of that is paying for extra expenses which National Insurance won’t reimburse, but just the same.…) Add in the value of the computer I am typing on (a gift from the Hadassah chapter in DC, and nicer than anything I would have been able to afford) and I really have nothing to complain about.

Emotionally, it is a bit tougher for me to get past the fact that I pretty much lost the entire last semester. I was killing myself to get through my classes to prepare for the accounting boards. I lived, breathed and ate Israeli corporate, constitutional and employment law; I made such an enormous investment of time and energy. At the time of the bombing, the end was in sight. I was about two-thirds of the way through each of the classes and was registered to take the exams in May and June. Now I have to start the classes over and I won’t take the exams until November.

Even here, however, the situation isn’t dire. First of all, I have been set back six months. In the grand scheme of a lifetime (assuming I successfully avoid other life-shortening catastrophes) six months is nothing. As for having to review material I already learned, how well did I learn it in the first place? There is no doubt that I missed a fair amount of the material in the first place, just because of the language barrier. Plus, they offer the exam in English in November. All in all, I will have a far better chance of passing the exams.

So as you can see, up through this point, when I put it into perspective I see that it really is not that bad. I can deal with this.

And then I come to my face, my eyes and my hair…and everything goes to hell.

I have scars on my face. A pink scar is slashed across my forehead and brown spots are scattered on my cheeks, with an extra-large one on the side of my mouth. The right side of my jaw, where I took an extra dose of shrapnel, sports a combination of both brown and pink marks. My friends try to cheer me up by telling me that they look like acne scars. Right. They look like scars.

My right eye is surrounded by raised scars and requires plastic surgery to correct the shape. My eyes are framed by huge eyebrows I am not yet allowed to pluck and glasses I am not sure I like. My eyes are sensitive to light, and when I go out, I have to wear enormous sunglasses that fit over my glasses. You know the ones—the type senior citizens wear after cataract surgery. The only benefit is that no one can see my eyes. It cuts down on the “what happened to her” looks. My eyes are supposed to look normal after my plastic surgery; but what if the surgery isn’t successful? What do I do then?

My forehead, cheeks and jaw are full of shrapnel and are lumpy to the touch. The shrapnel damaged two nerves in my face, leaving portions of the right half of my face numb. You can’t see the lumps or the numbness, but I can feel them. I run my fingers along my jaw and it feels as though there is cotton between the lumpy, mottled skin and my finger. When I use the muscles in my face to speak or smile I feel as though I were stretching stiff rubber. The shrapnel may or may not come out on its own and the numbness may or may not go away.

My hair was shaved around my forehead so doctors could close up a gash on the top of my head with 10 inches of staples and stitches. I have a long white scar centered on top of my head. I cover the area with a headband and take comfort in the fact that my hair is growing in, and that I prefer to part my hair on the side anyway. The real problem is in the back of my head. I have developed a huge bald spot where my hair fell out as a result of the trauma. So far, not only is the bald spot not growing back in, but I believe that it is actually spreading. I am afraid to wash my hair, afraid to brush it, afraid to do anything which might cause more hair to fall out. After a lifetime of playing with my hair, twisting my curls, tossing locks back off my face, I hardly dare touch it. There is one exception. My bald spot is still covered by other hair, but it may be only a matter of time before that falls out. Whenever I move my head to the side I gingerly touch the area. Is the bald spot exposed? Is the hair which covers it thinning out? I am even more terrified by the prospect that my hair may never grow back, or will grow back thin or straight or both.

It is just not fair. I never saw myself as being particularly pretty but the weekend before the bombing I felt beautiful. I had started exercising very intensively about six weeks before and had lost quite a bit of weight. My roommate had a Shabbat lunch and I remember dressing for it quite carefully. Tan pants which showed off my improved figure. A simple white button- down shirt that fit me just so. My gold and silver watch, received for my graduation and simple silver earrings. My eyes and complexion were enhanced with neutral, barely- there makeup. I may or may not have put on foundation. I really did not need it, a point my roommate much envied. To complete the look—my hair gathered up into a simple knot on the back of my head. My version of a Grace Kelly look. I do not remember exactly how I looked, but I remember precisely how I felt: lovely. Less than one week later, all of my good features: my eyes, my complexion and my hair were destroyed, just shot straight to hell. And it doesn’t matter if I have makeup or headbands to hide the damage. I know it is there. I know that I am an ugly woman and that there is a fighting good chance that this is all I will ever be.

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and am struck by the overwhelming sense that I almost look like me. It is surreal. In the space of an explosive second, I disappeared, and was replaced by someone who is almost, but not quite, me. I look in the mirror, and see a stranger with a scarred face and thinning hair and I think, “I will never really be me again”. How do you deal with that? How can I possibly put this into perspective?

How can I put into perspective the fact that no one is going to want an ugly me? What hope is there for me? I am already 31 and I never had much luck in the romance department. The last “long-term” relationship I had lasted for about two months, and took place six years ago. In the 4 ½ years before the bombing, I had no boyfriends, and virtually no dates. No one thought I was interesting or pretty or anything enough to even invite me out for a cup of coffee. And now this happens. If no one wanted me then, who the hell will want me now? Or consider the flip side, even if someone were to ask me out, how could I possibly accept? I cannot, in a million years, ever imagine kissing a guy so long as I have a face like this; so long as humiliation is barely hidden under a headband and foundation. What else can I do but panic?

My doctors, my friends and my family tell me: wait. In a year, two years, I will see, it will get better. The pink scars will fade. There are creams to clean up the brown spots on my face. There are lasers to clean up the blue spots on my arms and legs. My hair will grow back—normally it starts within a year. Relax. Don’t panic. Give it a year. Give it two. Did I mention I am 31? Did I mention my birthday is in September? I’ll be 32? Did I mention that I was already thinking about looking into freezing eggs? How many years do I have anyway, before it is too late?

How can I put this into perspective? How do I rationalize this away? Unlike the health, the finances and the classes, there is no “at the same time” or “however”. There is no bright side. I lost something and I am simply not going to get it back. I have been taken away and been replaced by someone with a far lonelier, bleaker future.

What the hell do I do now?

To all the lurkers out there....

....I was wondering if you would mind checking in, and letting me know where you are lurking (country/ state/ etc).

No particular reason--just curiousity. I did think of adding one of those little map things, but this is more fun.

Thanks!

Gila

Life as a Poor Sad Victim of Terror ®

June 2002

Some of you might be curious as to what the life of an official Poor Sad Victim of Terror ® is like. What do we do? How do we find meaning in our shattered lives? I do not know how representative I am, but as I am probably the only Poor Sad Victim of Terror ® that most of you know, you will have to make do with me. My days have been spent: shopping, visiting every last doctor at Hadassah and giving mounds and mounds of paper to National Insurance. Come! Let me take you into my life!

(Feel free to sob openly at the pathos of it all).

SHOPPING
True, unless one is buying a bathing suit, pathos is probably not the most applicable word. Nonetheless, shopping is not nearly as much fun as it sounds. Despite the amazing success of the one-and-only "Machane Yehuda Bombing Diet Plan", my time at the mall has not been spent clothes shopping, but rather it has been dedicated to a crazed search for a computer desk. It became my passion, my obsession, my version of the Holy Grail: to find the perfect computer desk.

I was ultimately successful, and I am now typing at my new desk. I must tell you, I cannot dress well to save my life (another reason for me not to spend too much time clothes shopping), but when it comes to picking computer desks, I rule. My desk fits perfectly into the one open corner in my room AND has shelves for my printer and scanner AND shelves for random crap AND room for my screen AND did I mention that it really is a perfect fit AND I am going to shut up now, because I don’t want you to be insane with jealousy. Though you should be.

And yet, there is a dark cloud to this silver lining. Despite this amazing success and my newfound happiness, my obsession troubles me. Call me superstitious, but the last two purchases that I got so mental over were my glasses and my leather Naot mini-boots. Both items were destroyed in the bombing. Coincidence? I think not. Clearly, something is going to befall my desk. More to the point, I am concerned that whatever befalls my desk will befall me as well. Granted, the chances of my bringing my desk to the bus stop are rather low (I am not allowed to lift over 10 kilos, and besides, where would I put my computer?), but that befalling something could come into the apartment. While I don’t expect a terrorist to barge in, it is theoretically possible, for example, for a car or other large, destructive object to come crashing through my window, and land on my desk. Or it would be theoretically possible, but for the minor details that my apartment is: 1) on the second floor, 2) in the back of the building and 3) faces a tree filled lot and not a road. So, in this case, “theoretically possible” has the same weight as it does in the sentence “It is theoretically possible that Bibi Netanyahu is actually a giant squid”.

Though, to be quite frank, that really would not surprise me either.

WHY HADASSAH NEEDS TO GIVE ME A COT
In what can only be described as an outstanding show of courage and strength, despite the deep, dark shadow of doom lurking over me and my desk, I have managed to stay focused on my recovery. In the process, I have accumulated an impressive collection of medical personnel. At this point, I am up to eleven different medical professionals working on various aspects of my case. If you factor in the fact that every time I go to Plastic Surgery I get a different doctor then the numbers are even higher. For my purposes, I tend to view the plastic surgeons as one person whose name and appearance go through radical changes, and whose memory of my case mysteriously vanishes after each visit. The humorous part of all this is that I am not in bad shape at all, and in fact I am well enough to work full time, but unfortunately, am so busy with doctors appointments that I do not have time, and am stuck at two hours work per day.

Why do I have so many doctors? In part, the volume is attributable to my having a large number of smaller, irritating problems, My jaw muscle is damaged, parts of my face are numb, I have lots and lots of shrapnel, my eardrums have big holes in them and so on. The rest of the increase is through a game popular with medical personnel: “Bounce”. The object of the game is to see patients without treating them.

Here is how it goes. You go to a doctor with a problem. The doctor evaluates the problem. The doctor’s goal is to figure out how NOT to treat you. Based on how creatively he does this, he earns points. The department with the most points gets a toaster. The scoring system is as follows:

5 points: The doctor says that your problem is untreatable, or that it may be treatable, but that success isn’t actually 100% guaranteed, and so he isn’t going to try. Then he tells you to go away. Doctors don’t get a lot of points for this one because it doesn’t really call for much creativity. In fact, according to my roommate, this is the standard operating procedure for Israeli doctors. She explained that doctors would much rather not treat you because treating you is more work than not treating you. (I do have to admit that there is a certain logic to that). In response, Israeli patients have learned to ignore the doctors, and just continue to make appointments. As Pnina put it, “doctors are State employees, and they have to see you”.

10 points: The doctor tells you that your problem is treatable, but not right now, and that you will have to wait some indeterminate amount of time before he does anything. The trick is coming up with a plausible reason for the problem not being treatable. “The body should be given a chance to heal itself” is plausible. “Elul is a bad month for medical procedures involving your kidneys because the spirit of the month can create negative vibes that hinder recovery” is not plausible, unless the patient is from California, or affiliated with one of the crunchier Hassidic sects (Breslev, Carlbach, etc).

20 points: The doctor refers you to another doctor and/or department.

On occasion, if s/he is tired or not feeling creative or just generally just not feeling up to playing, the doctor will just treat the problem. In that case s/he gets no points. Most of my doctors fall into the five and ten-point categories, but certain departments have racked up an impressive amount of 20 pointers during the course of my treatment. Plastic surgery is the most skilled by far, probably because I really am not quite sure what they are supposed to be doing in there anyway. Whenever I go, and it does not matter what I go there for, they tell me that cannot treat me for a year, and in any event, I should go to Dermatology or to a specialist within plastic surgery to discuss the issue further. Maxilofacialar is also proving to be a real contender—they referred me to two different doctors in one appointment alone. (I was there because of damage to my jaw, and the doctor ended up referring me to a specialist for treatment of a scar on my arm. I think he got bonus points for that). Departments who are more closely associated with a particular bodily organ just cannot compete.

All in all, my medical personnel are multiplying like rabbits. Every week, I think to myself: “this week we will actually solve medical problems and next week I will only have two appointments and will be able to work half-time”. By the end of the week, the two appointments for the upcoming week have somehow become five or six, and nothing is solved. To top it off, all of these appointments have to be paid for, which means I have to supply…

PAPERWORK TO NATIONAL INSURANCE
National Insurance gets copies of everything. So far, I have turned in the following:

• Copy of my discharge letter, noting the treatment I would need in the future
• Copy of my discharge letter, amended to include the minor point (forgotten by the physician) that I no longer have eardrums, and as such, treatment by an ENT would be advisable
• Receipts for medical supplies, cabs to doctors’ appointments and prescriptions. All of these have to be neatly taped to pieces of paper and submitted with descriptions and a summary sheet showing amounts due by type and total amounts due. Or at least, I think they have to be. I cannot help myself; I am an anal-retentive CPA. If I were a real Israeli I would probably just toss the receipts into a plastic bag and drop the bag off at National Insurance with a note asking for money.
• Letters from my doctor saying that I cannot work, or that I can only work part time.
• Copy of my eyeglass prescription and the receipt for the glasses
• A letter from my ophthalmologist, explicitly stating that I need glasses, because the fact I had surgery on both of my eyes, and had a test for eyeglasses and I am (based on the prescription) pretty much blind as a bat, is not sufficient support.
• Referrals from doctors authorizing me to visit yet another department in the hospital.
• Referrals from doctors authorizing me to visit private physical therapists not in the hospital. Why should Hadassah get all the fun?
• Copies of every other piece of paper I receive from doctors and/or the hospital. I have no idea if National Insurance needs them—I send them just to be sure. What the hell.
• “Hazmanot” (invitations) for each and every appointment I schedule at the hospital.
  

The last item is, by far, my favorite. The way it works is that I get printouts from the hospital when I schedule appointments. I then send in the printouts to National Insurance. National Insurance reviews the appointments, and sends me individual confirmations, stating that they will pay. Yes! For each and every appointment with each of the ten (10), no sorry, as of today that it now eleven (11) doctors I am seeing, I have to get a confirmation. You might wonder, what would happen if, say, I were to get up in the morning and realize that I never received the confirmation for the appointment I had in plastic surgery at 9:30? At first, my solution was to make a panicked call to my National Insurance social worker to beg her to have a confirmation sent. But now I am wiser and far, far, far more experienced in the Israeli medical system and I have discovered that I can just hand over my Macabbi health insurance card to the clerks and let them bill Macabbi. That way, Macabbi gets to hound National Insurance, thus saving me time and energy. I think this is a far better solution than my doing it.

My second favorite item is the receipts. Receipts rank high in my list because, theoretically, National Insurance is going to give me the money back. I have not seen any cash yet, but Eli, the National Insurance clerk assigned to my case, has assured me that I am getting much closer. As I mentioned, I was recently officially recognized me as a Poor Sad Victim of Terror ®. This is actually a good thing, because now my payment for the period of hospitalization and recuperation can be approved and will hit my account in a week and I will start getting reimbursed for expenses within two weeks. Granted, one has to take into account differences between the standard definition of the word “week”: seven days, and its definition according to National Insurance: “random period of time which generally starts out with a base of seven days and is then, in accordance to some formula known (or not known) only to National Insurance, increased in some number of intervals of ten days”. Nonetheless, this is a step in the right direction.

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UPDATE

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Quietus Leo has just informed me that doctors really do play Bounce, but that they use the term "turf". "Bounce" is when the turf returns to its own department.

And you guys all thought I was being paranoid, didn't you? Vindication is MINE!

Home

“What was to become of Gila” was a topic of much discussion while I was in the hospital. No one was particularly enthralled with the concept of sending me home, where I would have to deal with everything on my own. (By this point, it had become clear that my roommate was not going to be a particular pillar of support). The hospital social worker, Barbara Jacobson, was in favor of my going to a sort of resort for a week. National Insurance was willing to pay for me and one friend; it would allow me the opportunity to recuperate in peace and quiet. Other ideas that were tossed around: my cousins in Ramat HaSharon, the parents of one of my friends who own a home with a garden in Zichron Yaakov and friends in Jerusalem with an extra bedroom.

I rejected all offers. I was adamant. I wanted to go home.

While he was here, my father got to know some of my friends. In particular, he really clicked with Nomi and Michael Albert. At some point, he and the Alberts decided that I would spend my first days of freedom with them. I cannot remember now if I was involved in the decision-making process, or how I felt about the delay in my going to my own home, but in retrospect, it was the best decision possible. The day I was discharged, I was exhausted and in a state of mental shock and was not in any condition to take care of myself. My father is a physician and it is entirely possible that he knew that this was coming.

And indeed, the days with my friends served as the breather I needed in order to get my head back on and take control of the situation. Nomi and her family made sure I rested—she actually instructed her two sons, ages sixteen and seven, to keep a close eye on me in that regard—fed me lots of homemade soup, kept the number and length of visits in check and got me through the first day of outpatient visits (itself a challenge). Shabbat I spent with Galia and Steve; we all agreed that I owed them a Shabbat since I had rudely not shown up the last time I was invited.

And yet, as kind and caring as my friends were, and as obvious as it was that I really needed the TLC, I spent the entire time chafing at the bit. I did not want to be with them. I wanted to go home.

On Sunday, April 28 Galia loaded my stuff into her car and drove over to my apartment. We walked up the stairs together. With one hand I held onto the groceries I had bought on Friday, and with the other I held onto Galia as she guided me up the stairs to my door. Pnina had made me a set of keys to replace my set that was missing. I inserted the key in the lock, twisted and opened the door.

Home.

Galia brought up my stuff and put it in my room. I thanked her, and she left to go to work. I shut the door. For the first time since the bombing, I was really and truly alone. Excitement bubbled up. I could make myself a cup of coffee! I went to the kitchen, put my groceries in the fridge, and made myself a cup of instant coffee which I then sat and quietly enjoyed.

To this day, that moment ranks as one of the happiest moments of my life. After two weeks of being a patient, a statistic and a victim, it was lovely to be once again be a ben adam, a human being.

A Unit of One

I arrived home to an empty refrigerator. Within a day or so it was full. The cleaning woman arranged for by National Insurance did a massive shopping trip for me and made me a pot of soup and a local chesed group brought me prepared meals. None of this diminishes the fact that I came home to bare shelves, save for those items that I bought and carried in myself.

In retrospect, this was the worst. I say in retrospect because at the time, it was not so bad. At the time, it actually felt rather cool. "Look how tough I am! My roommate does not have time to pick up milk and cottage cheese for me? Who needs her? I can take care of myself". After two weeks of being completely helpless and dependent, any chance to be self-sufficient was a delight. Looking back, however, I find the scene to be absolutely horrific. The mental image I have of myself—a pathetic, battered, blinded creature, being gently led up the stairs to my apartment as I clutch in my free hand a small sack of groceries—is so pitiable that it makes me want to cry.

This is not to say that people did not care. The opposite is true. From the very first day, people I knew and people I had never met showered me with gifts, help and offers of more help where that came from. Friends and strangers, individual volunteers and big organizations all pitched in to aid in my recovery and recuperation. They filled my hospital room with chocolate, flowers and stuffed animals, filled my prescriptions, arranged for my phone to be replaced and offered (and gave) financial assistance. My friends and my roommate's friends made sure that my days and evenings were packed with visitors. My American friends helped to keep my quieter moments entertaining with packages of large-print books and books on tape. Since the damage to my eyes made reading Hebrew tiring, the director of a local Anglo community center took a few hours out of his evening to come over and read to me the National Insurance pamphlet explaining my rights. And since I could not see well enough to venture out alone, friends, volunteers and one National Insurance home-help aide all took time out of their days to accompany me to the hospital, the bank, the mall and anywhere else that required going to. My every need and desire was provided for, be it scarves and headbands to cover my bald spot, dental floss and deodorant, or a night out at a Chinese restaurant.

Everything was filled save for my refrigerator. It could have been full. I know I could have asked someone to go shopping for me. Any number of people would have been not just happy, but literally thrilled to help. But asking for help is brutal and accepting help is worse. It makes no difference whatsoever that that the request is justified. It was all I could do to ask my roommate, and when she could not (I think she was out of town), it was almost with a sense of relief that I said to her and to myself "well, okay, I will do it myself". And so I did. When a friend came to visit me, I asked her to walk me to the corner store where I bought cottage cheese and milk, by myself and with my money.

Since that day, I have undergone four surgeries and one radiation treatment. I have become a sort of expert in the art of coming home from the hospital. Before I leave, I always make sure that my house is clean, that my laundry is all done, a pot of soup is cooked and that my refrigerator is full. Each and every time, this process of cooking soup and filling the refrigerator has the same exact effect: to fill me with melancholy.
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About two years ago, I had a conversation with a man whose daughter was seriously injured in another bombing. He described the battle they had waged with National Insurance in order to get her certain benefits. At the end of his story, I looked at him. "Tikva had you to do all of this for her. She did not have to any of this?" He responded in the affirmative; whether he felt disappointed or chastened by my response I am not sure. He expected me to listen to the conversation, hear what he said about the fight they had waged, to compare it with my own, somewhat lackluster fight, and to be impressed. Instead, all I heard was the word "We".

More recently, in the fall of 2007, a co-worker's wife became seriously ill. My co-worker spent several weeks at his wife's side in the hospital. As chance would have it, this was around the same time that I underwent two surgeries on my eyes—another remnant from the bombing. The first surgery involved my being hospitalized over Yom Kippur, when the roads are literally closed. The second surgery required only an overnight stay; I did not bother to tell people I was being admitted. As a result, a good chunk of this time in the hospital was spent visitor-free. I had this in mind when I spoke to my co-worker on the phone. Even as listened to him describe his wife's condition and made all of the correct responses, in the back of my head, again, all I heard was the "we". She was not going it alone.

We did this. We hired a lawyer. We submitted forms. We are stuck in a hospital. Not Tikva, even though it was her injury. Not my co-worker's wife, even though she was the one who was sick. The family, the husbandwifemotherfathersisterbrother together. We.

"We", means that that the two or three or four….are actually a unit of one. "We" means that help is received by right. Help is received on demand, or even before demand. But I have no we. I am my own unit of one. In my world, help is for the asking.

I have to ask, to beg, to grovel. To ask means it is not self-evident. To ask means that the "askee" can say "yes" or "no". To ask means that it is charity. To ask means that I am a charity case—either because I cannot do on my own or because I lack anyone to do for me. My unit has only one. To ask means that the help will be limited, in accordance with the schedule and the needs and the personal strengths and weaknesses of the person being asked. I cannot demand. I cannot expect. I can only…ask.

And how much can I ask, anyway? Can I really ask another person to put his or her life on hold for a day or two days or a week to sit with me in the hospital? Can I really ask another person to put his or her life on hold for a month in order that she or he be available to come with me to doctor appointments—all so that I do not have to spend hours lining up individual volunteers to do accompany me to each and every appointment? Can I really ask another person to go to bat with National Insurance for me, to do all of the paperwork for me, to deal with all of the doctors for me? To deal with this whole stupid mess? Can I really ask another person to be with me all of the time, so that when I finally break down, there is someone there?

The day I finally broke down, really broke down, I had no one. The stress of the bombing, the medical issues, the administrative mess…everything…had been building up for weeks until it exploded. Over Shavuot I had a meltdown. My roommate was freaked out and pretty much useless. I sat by myself in my room, hysterical, my door closed so I would not disturb my roommate. Suddenly, there was a knock on the front door. By chance or by miracle, Lior and Yael had popped over; Lior’s candle had gone out; could he get a light from Pnina? As soon as Yael saw my state, she ditched Lior and stayed with me until I calmed down. I cried all weekend, and all weekend, like magic, people just appeared. Edith came over. My cousin Talia called—it just so happened that she was going to be in Jerusalem—a once in a blue moon event. Maybe she could stop by? They saved me.

Can I really trust in and depend on G-d to always send a person when I need them?

I hate to be dependent on another. Even when it is God.
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Even G-d has His limits. Yes, I have help and yes, I have support…right up to the door of my house. From that point on, I am alone. There is only so far my friends can accompany me. Without the aspect of obligation, without the "we", we remain our own, separate units. As much as my friends love me, they can turn me and my bombing on, and also off. At a certain point each day, everyone, the friends, the volunteers and the well-wishers all go home and leave me alone with this mess and everything else I did not ask for.

If I never marry, this is what I will miss most: the comfort of knowing that some things are self-evident and do not have to be asked for. B'ezrat haShem, with the help of G-d, I will always be able to manage but this is what I will miss: the feeling of being a part of a functioning unit, instead of the dizzying, hollow sensation that I am the unit— a unit of one. I am alone.

A Long Time, Sweetie

The weekend after I was released at the hospital I went to stay with my friends Galia and Steve. I was simply exhausted and depressed-as much from the challenges of getting used to handling the crisis as from my injuries themselves. Of Friday night Shabbat dinner I have only the foggiest recollections. Saturday morning I woke up, hung out with Galia for a bit and then went down for a nap. I woke up around lunchtime and joined Galia, Steve, Galia's mother, Michal, and their guests for Shabbat lunch.

The meal was a disaster. The damage to my ears made it very difficult for me to participate in the conversation. (It would be two months until I got hearing aids, and a few months more until I learned the essential trick to managing group meals: sit on the end of the table—good ear in, bad ear out.) Beyond that, I was tired and spaced-out. Midway through the Shabbat meal I had to go lie down. Doing so, I felt that my friends and the other guests were rather taken aback by my excusing myself; how come I wasn’t well enough to sit through a meal? I was not offended, rather I agreed with them. It had been two whole weeks. What was wrong with me?

Galia and Steve do not use the phone on Shabbat, and I did not want to disrespect them, but I had to talk to someone. I closed the door to the guest room. I dialed my cousin, Talia. She picked up. I told her that I would have to hang up if anyone came in. Then I started to cry.

"I don't understand. I am so tired. It has been two weeks. I should be better by now".

"Gila, you are being ridiculous. You just went through a bombing. Of course it is going to take a while. You are just an overachiever ".

"But is has been two weeks. I thought I would be a lot better".

"Motek, sweetie, it is going to take a long time".

I don't remember what I said next. I think I may have just cried on the phone.

The Long Day

Fear can make your body do many things. It can make your brain work faster, your legs run harder or your ears more sharp. Or sometimes, it can make everything—your ears, your eyes, your body and your mind—shut down completely. That is what happened to me.

On Tuesday, April 23, the doctors decided that I was well enough to go home the next day. Fantastic! I was elated. On Wednesday April 24, I woke up and realized that elation was the last thing I should feel. The appropriate feeling was panic, and lots of it. That morning, for the first time it really hit me: I, Gila Weiss, had been seriously injured in a suicide bombing. Not somebody else—ME—and I was supposed to deal with it. I had to deal with doctors. I had to deal with National Insurance. I could not even leave my house alone; but I had to figure out how to buy groceries, fill prescriptions and get to and from the hospital. For that matter, groceries, prescriptions and cabs require money, and I could not work. Yet another thing to deal with! I had to do all this half deaf and mostly blind. I had to do all this in Israel and in Hebrew, which were to me still essentially a foreign country and a foreign language, respectively. Worst of all, I had to do all this all alone. My father had left on Monday night.

Clearly, this was impossible. To do this in the United States, in English and in familiar territory, would have been like learning to walk a tightrope. To do this here and under these circumstances was learning to cross a tightrope on a unicycle, backwards and with a wedgie. I absolutely, positively, could not do this. Nononono. I was not going to do this. My body, agreeable as ever despite its injuries, immediately went into full “not-going-to-do-this” mode and shut down. It was as though I had taken four heavy-duty cold tablets. My already limited sight and hearing got even worse, my entire body was tired and ached, and I felt more tired than I had ever felt in my life.

Barbara, my social worker, tried to boost my spirits and confidence while walking me through the steps involved in getting discharged and moving to treatment on an outpatient basis. She sat next to my bed and spoke quietly to me. "Really, you will be fine. It will not be that bad. We will help you." Unfortunately, she did so while rounds were still going on. From across the room, one of the doctors (undoubtedly getting revenge for my incessant questions) turned around and screamed at me. "What is wrong with you? You had had your turn, and now you are disturbing everyone!" That was the last straw. While Barbara went off to give the doctor a piece of her (very pissed-off) mind, I pulled the curtain around my bed, curled up with my teddy bear and burst into tears. Throughout my hospital stay, there had been a certain element of trying to be the perfect patient, the perfect victim of terror (do not ask me why—I am an accountant, not a shrink). And now, on top of everything, I had done something terribly wrong! I was bothering the doctors! Not only was I supposed to do things I clearly could not do, but I was also a selfish, worthless brat. Now the nurses joined my social worker in trying to cheer me up. One by one, they came by my bed and told me not to cry. Zeh beseder-it’s okay. You did not do anything wrong. The doctor was wrong; he should have seen that you were speaking with your social worker. Nothing helped. I felt wretched.

Fortunately for everyone concerned, my friends arrived to save the day. Barbara gave up on trying to tell me what needed to be done and told my friends instead. Debbie dealt with admissions, Valeria packed my bags and Nomi handled everything else. A volunteer from Sela, an organization which aids immigrants in crisis, showed up and made sure I had cash to cover immediate costs. At Nomi's request, the department nurses put together a collection of medical supplies to get me through the first day or two. All the while, I lay in bed, in a daze.

By the early afternoon the discharge work was complete and I was free to go. Debbie and Valeria came back to my room to collect me. They bundled me into a cab and whisked me off to Nomi’s where I was to spend my first couple days of freedom. Once there, I ate something and went right back to sleep. In the evening, friends came to visit. I sat there as though drugged. I could barely hear a word they said; it was as though everything was coming from far away. All the while, my mind was in a state of panic. How could I do this on my own? What was I going to do? My friends were a bit freaked out at my depressed state; up to this point I had presented an unfailingly cheerful countenance. Was this to be the new Gila? They left after a very short visit. I went to bed early.

Sometime in the night, somehow, the fear left me. I work up in the morning and the paralysis was simply gone. From that point on, I managed.

Cool Random Things

Speaking to my normally sarcastic, slightly acerbic sister on the phone and having her burst into a paroxysm of giggles when I described how I gave myself a dizzy spell when I accidentally smacked myself in the face with my teddy bear. (My inner ears were really out of whack).

Plotting with my friend Debbie as to how we were going to disguise ourselves as Dr. Gila and Nurse Debbie, go prowling the hospital for cute guys and give them physical exams. My father was here for this conversation. I am pretty sure that he did not enjoy it.

Asking my father, while I was still in the ICU, whether the IV drip I was on was dietetic. I may be wrong about this, but I suspect that this rather typical (for me) question probably made him feel much better about my chances for a full recovery. Much to my disappointment, he said no. Nonetheless, I lost weight.

The day after I left the ICU, I asked the nurse if I could take a shower. Sure, but she would need another family member to help. Unfortunately, the only family member there was my father. However my friend Debbie was visiting and she immediately announced that, after five months of dorm life-there was nothing we hadn’t seen. I was covered with scabs, wounds, cuts, stitches-she didn’t bat an eye.

Even better--being able to take a shower on my own.

Walking around in slippers for two days after I left the ICU until it finally dawned on us that 1) I owned no slippers (or rather, I did, but they had been blown up) and 2) no one had brought me slippers and therefore 3) clearly, I had someone else's slippers. When I was transferred from the ICU, someone else's bag was inadvertently sent with me. My friends bought me lovely green monster slippers instead.

A friend of mine came to see me in the ICU. At the end of her visit, she told me that she would come back the next day. I told her to wait till next week. I had been told I would be hospitalized for a several weeks, and I figured that the visitors would taper off, and I would be lonely. It never happened. Every single night I had a crowd of friends come to visit me.

Blissfully bobbing around in my bed to and singing along with a Benny Goodman CD…and then opening my eyes to discover my bed surrounded by what appeared to be every last medical resident at Hadassah. Glad you liked the show, boys!

Receiving books of get-well pictures drawn by children from the pre-school I worked at during ulpan. I still have them (the pictures, not the children).

The hospital social worker, Barbara Jacobson, walking in with my mother's class ring the very morning that it occurred to me that it had been removed at some point, and that I should try to locate it.

Chatting with my aliyah shaliach (immigration representative), Gabi Raubitschek, about how the hospital food had not improved since the days when she was a child, and her parents worked in the hospital. (As an update, I have been hospitalized several times since the bombing and I can attest to the fact that the food has still not improved. Fortunately for me, however, they built a mall next to the hospital and the mall has all sorts of places with edible food.)

At my request, my bosses bringing an assortment of office supplies to the hospital to help me get organized. They had already figured out I was a bit of a control-freak; I don't think they realized it was to quite this extent….

After days and days fantasizing about flossing my teeth, (or rather, nights and nights-it kept me occupied during those hours when I could not sleep and could not do anything else) my friend Nomi bringing me dental floss.

Two of my friends going to the police station to collect my beloved Franklin planner and then sneaking into the hospital long after visiting hours were over to give it to me. One of the two had a broken leg; they pretended that he was a patient in order to get past the guard.

My dad telling me that he was proud of me.

BG (Barbara Goldstein, head of the Hadassah Organization for Women office in Israel) showing up at the hospital with a milkshake minutes after my father had left for the airport. It was 10:00 at night, and she must have been tired, but she knew my dad was leaving and wanted to make sure that I was okay. I was not okay. I was curled up in bed, holding my teddy bear and crying.

My friend Vered noticing that my lips were cracked and dry and rustling up some Vaseline to that I could do something about it.

The moment my friends finally managed to make it clear to me--after about a week and a half of my insisting that I must have been far away from the bomber because, look! I was really not that badly injured--that I had actually been very, very close to the bomber. Three meters away (ten feet), to be exact. My head literally started spinning.

Finally being able to read see well enough to start reading my Dave Barry book. After all the hordes of visitors had left for the day, sitting in the open area of the ward with a cup of tea and my book, and pretending I was a normal person having some quiet time before going to bed.