The Dreams In Which I Am Dying…

The dreams in which I am dying isn’t a euphemism or any sort of literary device in which I try to educate or entertain the reader.

That’s a reference to recent dreams in which my mind replayed what happened the night I almost bled out. It’s me thinking hard about how while I lay there on the bathroom floor I considered letting go.

It’s me remembering that death didn’t seem painful and acknowledging how close I came because I really did think about it.

It’s me remembering that siren song of surrender and that it almost seemed attractive. It felt like it would be a relief and that so much of what I have carried could be set down and I could rest.

I saw my father and grandfathers on the other side of that door and I was excited to walk through it.

But when Dad held it shut something shifted and there wasn’t any question that I was going to live.

Some have said it seems like a contradiction but it doesn’t feel that way to me.

I can’t tell you how long I thought about letting go but I can tell you the docs were impressed that after that much blood loss I was able to pull myself off of the floor.

Life Choices & Changes

It’s December 1994 and I am standing next to Zion ‘Ziggy’ Karasanti. Ziggy is pointing to a picture of himself and two other paratroopers shortly after they liberated the Temple Mount and the Western Wall.

We’re at a kiosk he ran in Afula and 25 year-old Josh is trying to reconcile how this guy who sells slices of pizza and assorted other items fits the guy in the photo.

Moments before this photo was snapped I stood alongside a group of people and listened to him recount the story about what happened that day.

It’s an incredible tale and it strikes me on multiple levels not the least of which is I am thinking very seriously about making aliyah. I am thinking about going back to LA long enough to pack up my stuff so that I can return to Israel.

I am thinking about the commitment to serve in the IDF. I am thinking about what it could mean to be in harms way but like most 25 year-olds even though I know it could be dangerous I am not worried about it.

Nothing is going to happen to me. I have a funny digestive system but other than that I am mostly bulletproof.

I play pickup basketball 5 days a week and on Thanksgiving play tackle football with my fraternity. I have had the occasional injury but nothing serious.

On the basketball court I am known to dive on the floor or jump over chairs chasing loose balls. I am not as talented as a bunch of the guys I play with but I keep my spot by out hustling them.

Fast forward a bit and instead of moving to Israel I get married, have kids and live life. But I keep playing ball, I keep lifting weights and roll through my thirties, forties and into my fifties doing much of what I did in my twenties.

I know I don’t like or move like I once did. I joke about it alongside the boys. I complain about the mystery aches and pains, talk about taking my diet more seriously but never worry about anything serious.

And then that night in October comes and I come close to hanging up my spikes. It’s surreal to me to think about how close things came.

Yet I think about the nurses in the hospital and the docs who told me to pace myself. I think about how they said to give my body a chance to heal and how I mostly listened.

Once I began to hit the gym again I hit it with a ferocity. I wanted to get myself into the kind of shape where I couldn’t remember what it felt like to lie in a hospital bed.

I suppose you can blame that ferocity in part for shredding the tendon in my arm in late January. I almost didn’t go to the doc because I figured I could power through the pain and keep going.

Probably a good thing I didn’t and that I had the surgery to repair it. It’s 52 days since the surgery and I am chomping at the bit to be allowed to start lifting real weight again with my left arm.

But the benefit of that October adventure is I am more accepting of waiting until Mid May to start lifting with the left again. Especially since the surgeon says by December that left should be just as strong as it was before the injury.

What Are You Going To Do About It?

If you looked at my left arm you can’t tell a scalpel sliced me open so the doc could drill a screw through the tendon into my bone.

If you watch me hit the gym you’d have to pay close attention to see that when I lift it is only with my right arm or left. If you see me do most things you’d have no idea I am not quite a hundred percent.

You’re not going to look at me and think I am a pro athlete or that I am anything other than an almost middle aged father.

And that’s ok with me, almost everything that needs to happen now is contingent upon my own thoughts, ideas and actions.

I kind of like it that way, if things don’t go as I want I can mostly hold myself accountable.

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Most of the time these dreams of lying on the floor dying don’t do much other than make me wonder what’s floating around the back of my mind that I haven’t dealt with.

Some of my fans from elsewhere have found me here. The people who call me a Zionist with a sneer on their lip or who promise that every bad thing that can happen to me will.

They don’t recognize I don’t care what they think or the strength you get after having successfully beaten the Angel Of Death.

I am still not going to wear a sweater because someone else is cold or let TikTok grads who can’t form a coherent fact based argument dictate what I do.

Won’t say it’s not disappointing to see horseshoe theory in action or sad to see many easily manipulated and profoundly ignorant people buy into nonsense. Especially when they carry access to educate themselves in their pocket.

But this is the world we’re living in and we can take steps to affect change or we can accept the stupidity.

As for me, well I obviously decided I wasn’t going to check out so I am here to make things happen. And that is the end of this set of random thoughts.

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