I picked up the phone and thought about calling a few people I haven’t spoken with in quite some time. It was pre Yom Kippur and then it was post and I came so very close.
And then I decided I wasn’t going to do it and if that such a thing was to happen it would come from someone else.
The ‘stack’ is starting to heat up and I am beginning to remember how I used to write and the flow is freeing.
A few days later I come across a post by someone who considers themself to be an antizionist Jew. I think of many of them as being among the dumbest people around.
For thousands of years we finish every Passover Seder by saying “Next year in Jerusalem.”
Every time we pray we face Zion/Jerusalem.
There’s nothing wrong with Zionism. It’s Jewish self determination in our homeland to which we’re indigenous. Nothing says land can’t be shared peacefully.
The people who call themselves antizionist Jews remind me of the guy who thinks if he feeds a crocodile he’ll never be eaten.
Cruising through the post I see a note from this woman below who fits the model of the bigot who lacks self awareness of her bigotry.
She uses Zionist as a pejorative. I tell her Zionist is routinely used interchangeably for Jew and that she ought to own her hate.
But the real point I want her to get is to think about how her words read if you substitute Zionist with any other group.
I read the words and think about why I keep the lights on here and elsewhere. Think about it and wonder if I am being honest with myself.
It’s exactly a year since I had surgery down in the nether regions.
They told me it would be painful and I shrugged my shoulders at them. I am ready to fix the other issues, I can deal with some discomfort for a better quality of life.
The pain is temporary.
Someone should have told me to be careful what you ask for. It was far more painful than I expected.
Even with pain meds I didn’t sleep at all that first night. I spent the evening walking in circles, muttering to myself to focus on mastering the pain.
Took a few days, but I did master it. Got to a place where I was taking Tylenol during the day and something heavier at night just before bed.
And then the night of day nine things took a turn.
A stitch blew and I almost bled out on the bathroom floor. Got a ride in an ambulance for a four day hospital stay.
****
Flashback to July 2018 to a hospice in Southern California. Dad has been there for about three days now and one of the nurses tells me they are surprised by how strong he is.
“People in his condition don’t last as long as he has. Your Dad is really strong.”
I nod my head and say something about how well I knew it.
Later on I’ll stand outside in the dark and tell the Malach HaMavet he is a coward.
“They had to amputate part of his leg, he is in his seventies and clearly has had the cancer far longer than when we discovered it in February. And you still can’t beat him.”
There is no response and I stand in the dark thinking about the conversation with Dad and so many others.
It was his choice to go to hospice and by now the morphine drip has taken him beyond the place where he can have a discussion.
We watch him sleep and talk to him.
I look for a moment when it’s just me and him. It’s hard to find because everyone knows the end is close, but there is a time when my mom walks out with my sisters.
I slip my hand into his and smile. For years it was the biggest hand around and now for years my own hand has been exactly the same size as his.
“Dad, it is ok. You can let go. I have got this.”
My voice isn’t Barry White deep, but it is nowhere close to squeaky either. It’s hard to whisper, it’s more of a rumble.
I repeat my promise to watch out for mom and my sisters and tell him he can rest.
It’s my obligation, his watch is done.
I am straddling worlds again but this time I am in control. I have a goal, a thought, an idea and a dream.
I’ll be back to update this with something more substantial but the other place calls and I will answer.
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