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.