971. Hello again (and #BlogElul)

Hello again, world. It's Elul, so I thought I'd honor the month of preparation for something new by revisiting this blog and exploring the newness (including spiffier colors) within something old and good.

Let's see, since February, 2011, the date of my last post, I:

• chanted Torah A LOT, and loved every minute (even the nervous ones, much fewer these days)
• led High Holy Day services last September without being surprised by overly dramatic moments, an experience I look forward to repeating in a few weeks
• created art, in bits and pieces and way behind schedule, that I hope will be on a website very soon
• went to the gym more often than before
• wrote very little (and acknowledged that I can't do everything)
• said hello to my stem cell recipient, who's feeling great
• said goodbye to my dear cat, a beloved companion for 13 years
• ended a long friendship that had become toxic; as sad as a death, and I will be mourning this loss for a long time
• continued to be blessed with good health, an abundance of amazing, non-toxic, loving friends, unparalleled opportunities, and lots of luck.

In short, it was a year and half of life; a bit of a roller coaster, but not too much to complain about and an awful lot to celebrate.

I'm going to try to belatedly jump into #BlogElul, a terrific idea, and post throughout the month on the topic of the day. I'll also post links to the brand new @altoartist Twitter account. Today's topic, for the 9th of Elul, is "Blessings," so it seemed like an auspicious moment to count mine. A few weeks ago I also signed up for Grateful 160, which prompts you every day via email to list one thing for which you're grateful. Some mornings it's harder than others to find that blessing, but I always do—and then realize it was staring me right in the face.

968. Finally: chanting!

Yes, believe it or not—and right before Shabbat, to boot—a post about chanting. (Not that I don't have more to say about the stem cell donation. I finally got my act together last week and answered my recipient's note, accompanied by extensive musing about how she is now a part of me as much as I am of her. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, which happens more often than I'd like, I just imagine her life, struggles, strength. They trump mine many times over; acknowledging that, I shrug and pick myself off the floor. I'm beginning to think the donation worked both ways, a little bit of her spirit flowing into me in exchange for the cells.)

But back to chanting. I did so last week, just one short aliyah, for the first time in two and a half months—my longest leining-less gap in years. No particular reason for the silence, although I did get paranoid for awhile there (and successfully talked myself out of it). The current crop of b'nai mitzvah are more amazing than ever before, and generally cover the entire reading each Shabbat between the two of them. In some instances one child reads the whole thing his/herself, as will my brilliant student in September. The relatively few chances for adults to read went to people who asked, or (it seemed to me) hadn't read much in the recent past, so it was their turn.

My short section was to fill in for someone at the last minute, and I took the occasion to ask the cantor, hmm, it's been awhile, any more opportunities coming up? So I'm reading again next week, which feels very good. I mean that literally, physically: singing, breathing for singing, is more refreshing first thing in the morning than jumping into the ocean on a hot day. (Or inhaling a mug of soup on one of these recent freezing days.) Learning an aliyah becomes an aliyah in the truest sense—my soul feels lifted up with every word. I ran into one of my b'not Torah students at services last week, who acknowledged that it was really depressing to have stopped singing after that intense event. And I realized these past 2 1/2 months took the same toll on my spirits, as well. The break was good, in many regards; I re-channeled that creative energy to a bunch of new and previously neglected projects. But I'm very happy to redirect it back home, especially since those other ventures are starting to take flight.

967. Update!

Yes, another post not about chanting, and with an exclamation point in the title to boot—update received from my stem cell recipient, and so far all is well! Engraftment was successful, meaning that her body didn't reject my cells and they're starting the process of creating a new immune system. She's home from the hospital, although not yet out of the woods (rejection, infection, and other nasty things could happen at a later date)—but this was the first big hurdle. I'm glad to able to say "congratulations" in my answer to her note.

I am now very proud of my stem cells, if I say so myself, and of God (and many teams of doctors) for knowing what to do with them. This is great news to have at the start of the secular year, just as donating those cells was a fitting way to begin the Jewish new year. Good timing on the part of the universe, which sometimes does get it right.

962. A note!

So I sat down to get this blog back on topic and write about my new student, a little girl preparing for her Bat Mitzvah next fall—the first non-adult I've taught—and how brilliant and quick she is, with a beautiful, strong voice that belies her tiny stature, and an almost scary ability to remember tunes as soon as she hears then (or maybe all kids are like this, and it's just we adults who are a little slow?)—when suddenly:

A note! From my stem-cell recipient!

Of course the news was delivered via a cell phone message from the bone marrow people on Wednesday afternoon, same day and time as always. I guess Wednesdays are when they leave momentous messages. I'm at a client's office at that time, and answer only when I see that number on Caller ID—which for awhile was happening every week. This time the phone was in my bag, and I didn't notice the message until I was halfway back home. I ducked into a doorway and listened. Call me, said the woman who'd given me all the news since day one, and I'll read it to you before I send it to you! I ran the rest of the way and called, out of breath.

I had no idea my recipient could get in touch before a year had passed. I recall references on other blogs to letters received, but the chronology was vague; I assumed they came after a year. But in fact both donor and recipient can exchange notes at any time, as long as they remain anonymous, via the agency that facilitated the transplant.

It was a beautiful letter, full of thanks. My recipient is a real person, and my stem cells are now doing their work in her body. It actually happened; I haven't been dreaming these past 6 months; I have her voice, in writing, to prove it. She has a family, people she loves and who love her, and the goal of getting well in time to take part in a life cycle event next year. She received a transplant before that didn't work. I am her second chance and, in clear, strong handwriting that I saw today when I finally held the actual note in my hands, wrote that she couldn't find enough words to express her gratitude for my gift of life.

Ecstatic, astonished, overwhelmed, I exhaled the biggest ever sigh of relief... but a small part of me wasn't surprised. For some reason I always imagined her as having grown children and a big family, as the note implied, perhaps because I didn't want to think of someone so gravely ill as being at all like me, who have neither. Or that it was too sad to envision her all alone during this struggle. I had harbored a secret wish that she was nice and friendly, afraid of the opposite: that she coped with disease by becoming bitter, shutting off, and would never want to know me.

It's still very early, less than a month after the transplant. Bracha is nowhere nearly out of the woods, and all I know about her condition is that she has enough energy to write, which seems like a good thing. I'll get an official update in a few weeks, and then I'll answer the note. The next update after that will be in April, or perhaps I'll get a letter in reply. Even if I don't, I now feel like God has done God's job—and quite well, at that—for this phase of the adventure.

960. She jumped!

Whew. It's taken me a while to catch my breath after the donation. Physically, it was over when it was over and all I had was a big bruise on my arm. But the emotional bruise was bigger; as expected, I felt adrift. But I was secretly sure that expecting the feeling would fortify me against it. Not so. Suddenly there was nothing to do but... nothing, no more anticipation, no needles to stick myself with, just waiting to find out what would happen. And the possibility that, worst case, nothing would—a month would pass, and another and another, and "my patient" wouldn't be ready for the transplant.

But last week I got my monthly check-up phone call from the blood center, along with some very good news: "the product was infused" last Wednesday. Whew! Suddenly the whole adventure seemed scarier than even a really, really big needle: she jumped off the cliff, no turning back. And part of me jumped with her. I was taken back to the surreal feeling of that very first phone call: how is it possible that my cells can rebuild the immune system of a stranger? And how in the world can part of me be inside someone I don't even know? But it is. My friends keep reminding me that they're prime, healthy cells, and so have a excellent chance of fulfilling their purpose. I can only hope and pray, and try not to let good or bad fantasies of what might happen get in the way of living with the kind of patience and strength I imagine my recipient must have learned over the course of her illness, and the waiting for last Wednesday.

959. A list

Some random things, in no particular order, that are (in my opinion) more challenging than donating stem cells:

• Having surgery of any kind
• Root canal
• Food poisoning/stomach flu
• Ending a relationship
• Beginning a relationship
• Maintaining a relationship
• Obtaining a college education
• Working hard enough to pay all your bills
• Putting together an Ikea wall unit from instructions in Swedish (unless you're Swedish)
• Finding a job in this crappy economy
• Being audited by the IRS (so I'm told)
• Traveling anywhere by air, especially if changing planes is involved
• Chanting Torah

So I encourage everyone who is physically able to register with the NMDP. If you've lived through even one of the things on this list, trust me—donating stem cells won't seem hard at all.

958. Post-donation

I came home and fell asleep, and made it to Shemini Atzeret services the next morning after 12 hours of unconsciousness. I felt quite rested, although my energy level was less than normal and I looked kind of out of it. But happy. I also had an enormous bruise on the inside of my left arm, thanks to two IVs, bandages, and anticoagulant. (Something similar happened years ago when I gave blood.) It hurt to straighten my arm or apply pressure above the elbow, even that of a long-sleeved shirt. It's much better as of this writing, a week and a half later—today was the first time I woke up without any pain from sleeping on it—but still does hurt and looks (in the words of a friend) like I was the victim of domestic violence. I'm sure it will be better by next week; I haven't at all minded this physical sign of my donation.

I came home, slept some more, and headed back to the synagogue that evening for Simhat Torah services. I was glad to watch the joy rather than participate; my blood dancing through a big machine the day before was quite enough activity. The following morning I did manage a few circuits around the Torot while being very careful not to bump into anyone. And when I came home that afternoon I was welcomed by a beautiful bouquet of pink and white roses, still open and alive more than a week later,  from the blood center. I've made a point every day since to stop and inhale their aroma first thing in the morning, even before coffee, and spend a moment in gratitude for my life and health.

During Hallel on Shemini Atzeret, the cantor sang a beautiful, slow melody I'd never heard before to these lines of Psalm 116:

Be at ease once again, my soul
For the Lord has dealt kindly with you.
He has delivered me from death,
my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.
I shall walk before the Lord in the land of the living.
I kept my faith even when greatly afflicted, even when
in panic I cried out: All mortals are undependable.

God did not deliver me from tears at that moment; I wasn't sure if they were from joy, awe, or something completely different. I became the transplant recipient, caught between death and life and trying not to panic. I prayed I would prove her wrong about all mortals being undependable, and that she heard the prayers so many friends in my community had sent out.

The next day was Shabbat Bereshit. After talking to a friend about how many people were involved in this one miracle—everyone from the scientist who invented the apheresis machine, to the nurse who connected the collection bags, to the coordinator at the blood center who put thorough the paperwork, and the list goes on and on, hundreds of people trying to save the life of a single stranger—he observed that it was just like the parasha itself, the beginning of a story that repeats as soon as we finish telling it. Constant creation, routine and amazing. I feel like I've glimpsed angels in the back room, a new part of God that had been hidden to me. And have received, as another friend put it perfectly, the gift of being able to turn my life into someone else's path.

957. Donation, day 2

Day 2 was less dramatic because I knew what to expect, although no less intense—but not hard at all. I took myself out for breakfast and ordered the exact same thing as the day before (scrambled eggs, hash browns), since it seemed to work well. I watched through the diner window as people sped past to get to work, and felt suddenly swept up in routine, as well. Except my work for the day happened to be donating stem cells.

I left the diner and tried to get a cab, but soon realized this was impossible during rush hour. So I took a bus to the hospital, instead, which did feel strange—a little too ordinary for the task at hand.

I arrived at 9AM and met my friend Y., who had graciously offered to sit with me for the day. Although they hadn't yet finished counting the cells by 9:30AM, I was hooked up to the apheresis machine just the same. The "in" IV was placed in my right arm after a few tries (my veins were not in terrific shape after a day of hard work) and the "out" in my left, as before. But after a few minutes the machine started to beep—my blood was not flowing through the needle. It and my arm were moved and re-adjusted every which way, to no avail. Then F., my nurse for the day, called over A., a distinguished-looking man with some sort of European accent and apparently the go-to-guy for such problems, and they decided my right arm was a lost cause vein-wise. The "out" needle would now go in my left—along with the "in," through a different vein in my hand. A nice side benefit: I would have complete use of my right arm.

So IVs were moved around with very little pain (although I wasn't exactly relaxed about the whole affair), blood began flowing, and all was well. Turns out my veins weren't at fault, but rather a small blood clot at the tip of the needle site that appeared before the anticoagulant could start flowing.

By then my cell count had come back from the lab; they had over half of what was needed, but decided to keep me hooked up for the full four hours. The rest of the day was just like the day before, except this time I was in a different chair situated right in the thick of things. After hour three I was again completely exhausted, but this time hour three coincided with lunchtime. Suddenly I didn't feel well—dizzy, lightheaded. Y. and the nurse reminded me to eat, and I was just fine after a few bites of tuna on whole wheat.

Apheresis machine, day 2

Finally, hour four—the machine beeped "DONE", and a woman in a white coat carrying a big cooler swooped in and left with the bag of my cells. I was steadier getting up this time—my body, and particularly my left arm, had gotten used to not moving. All three donor liaisons arrived as I got unhooked, like an official farewell.

I couldn't leave the hospital until my platelet counts were checked—below a certain level required that a nurse tell me officially that I shouldn't skydive, etc. So Y. and I, along with K. from the blood center, moved into the waiting room. A man sat there there as well who looked and sounded like my sort-of Uncle Ray (my mother's best friend's husband)--tall, bald, amiable and funny. We all got into a conversation about the weather.

Suddenly K. stared at the man. "You're the courier, right"? she said. He nodded. (I assume she recognized his voice from phone calls.) This was the person who would hand-carry my stem cells to wherever in the world they needed to go. I don't think we were supposed to meet, and soon the conversation grew more circumspect, no mention of cities or names. C. returned with my blood counts—low, as expected. (They would be back to normal in a week.) F., the nurse, came over to remind me not to operate heavy machinery. I was glad to go home, although didn't want this adventure to end just yet—but I had the distinct feeling they were rushing me out, in case inadvertent clues were leaked about the destination of my cells. K. offered to get me a cab, and I gathered my stuff.

As I walked out the door, I turned and looked Uncle Ray straight in the eye. "Thank you," I mouthed. He nodded.

956. Donation, day 1

(Probably more detail here than anyone cares to read, but I wanted to capture a picture of the entire process.)

It feels like yesterday... it feels like years ago.

My friend Z.* gamely showed up at my apartment at 7:30AM, I picked up a sandwich at the deli for lunch, and we jumped in a cab get to the hospital by 8. Trying to write a note to the recipient kept me awake for most of the night before, but I was too excited to notice I was tired. We were greeted by S., the blood center liaison I met during my very first set of tests back in May. I was given a slightly-too-tight wrist ID band, and a finger stick blood test at the lab down the hall. Then C. arrived, the sweet gentleman from the hospital's donor center, and we headed down another corridor for my final Neupogen injection.

A nurse took my temperature and blood pressure, and I got on the scale. I had gained a pound since last week (they weighed me right before the first shot). No big surprise, I thought, considering all the Chinese food I ate that past weekend.

"Those are the stem cells," said C. "Your bones are literally heavier now." (Just as the verse from the Yom Kippur haftarah predicted.)

I was also sniffling, and my chest was congested. "You look like you have a cold," C. observed. I felt fine—but thanks to that massive amount of white cells, my body was trying to fight something off even though there was nothing to fight.

Another nurse arrived, the same one who had taught me to stick myself with a needle. She went through a checklist of side effects, and the answers were the same as the previous four days; a little achy, but nothing too bad. Did people usually have a lot of pain, I wondered?

"Only the men," she answered. "Cops and firefighters, big strong guys. We women are a lot tougher!"

She gave me the final two shots, and then S., Z., C. and I headed outside to a deli for breakfast. (NMDP protocol requires waiting an hour between the last Neupogen injection and the start of stem cell collection; other donor registries have different rules.) I had a big order of scrambled eggs and hash browns while admiring photos of C.s daughter, and then we all headed inside to the blood bank. A nurse asked more questions (no, I have not become a drug addict in the past five days), checked my temperature and blood pressure again and another finger stick to test hemoglobin, and began to affix little ID stickers to a pile of paperwork.

This is really happening, I thought. Soon I will be stuck with big needles. I had a sudden impulse to run back outside, maybe grab a coffee and bagel and sit in sunlight in the park. But the room began to spin before I could do any of those things.

"I'm a little dizzy," I said.

The nurse looked at me with alarm, darted out of the room, and before I could blink returned with Dr. D., in charge of the blood bank. His face radiated calm and confidence. "Have something to drink," he suggested. The nurse handed me a bottle of water. I took a sip, but by then the wave of irrational fear had passed, vanquished by the doctor's smile.

E. would be my nurse for the day, and he directed me to a comfy chair in the corner that looked like a cross between a hospital bed and Business Class. I climbed in, buttressed by pillows beneath my arms and behind my neck, and he began to describe the process while preparing needles, tube, dials, and other mysterious objects. (And I climbed out twice more to use the restroom. Four hours is a long time.) I was still nervous, even though I knew I was in the most competent hands in the country, maybe the universe. My cell phone rang: my rabbi, reminding me that the recipient and I were in everyone's prayers. (I think God must have whispered in his ear: "Right now is when she needs to hear it." It worked. I relaxed.)

The doctor, along with a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young man I gathered was an intern, came over before I could get nervous again. For the next 15 minutes Dr. D. explained the workings of the apheresis machine in detail: how it would separate my blood into red and white cells, the latter containing the stem cells to be transplanted, and then return the red cells to my body along with Citrate, an anticoagulant, and calcium to counter a side effect of the Citrate. I should tell the nurse if I experienced any side effects of calcium loss such as numbness of hands, feet, or face. I asked my burning question: how did the machine know which were the stem cells? It didn't, he explained. It was a centrifuge, so separated cells by weight—and so know how to grab the white cells. But they would look red in the collection bag, since the machine wasn't quite smart enough to filter out all the red cells.

All the blood in my body would go through the machine 2 1/2 times each day. At any given time about 10 oz. of my blood would be in that machine.

Dr. D. and intern left, and E. prepared the IV. My right arm would be "out". I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and felt a little needle prick in my left hand, a.k.a. "in". This was where my blood would return—minus the stem cells, so a smaller needle was just fine and I'd also have some mobility to do things like scratch my nose. It hurt a bit until he taped it down, and then I didn't feel a thing.

Then he went to work on the "out" arm, a bigger needle (to transport that pound of extra stem cells) for the vein in the crook of my arm. He stuck me—not nearly as painful as I feared—and then un-stuck me. Even though the nurse declared my veins to be in excellent shape not just once, but twice, and I'd spent the weekend drinking gallons of water to make them as plump as possible, they were not cooperating. He called over another nurse, and they bent intently over my right arm—and suddenly it was taped. They had poked around and found a better vein before I could even notice.

The machine began to hum, kind of like the rumbling of a subway or laundry room, and I saw a clear liquid drip into the bag closest to me.

"Those are the stem cells," said E. I said a Sheheheyanu prayer: thank you for this new season, this new beginning. Then my friend Z. came over and sat patiently for the next four hours, providing excellent conversation as nurses adjusted dials, straightened needles, hung new bags of liquid, checked my temperature, recorded numbers on forms at a little rolling table, and asked about side effects: none at all. (Thanks, I think, to the massive amount of calcium-rich cheese I consumed that weekend.) Although I wasn't cold, another possible side effect, I was grateful for the tip I read on a donor blog about wearing socks, since the blanket over my feet had to be lifted to get my blood pressure from my ankles (since my arms were otherwise occupied). Every once in awhile Z. and I stared in awe at the aphereis machine. (On Thursday at Shemini Atzeret services, I kept seeing it in my mind's eye whenever God's name was mentioned.) Meanwhile, the blood bank swirled with activity: a man in the next bed donating stem cells for an autologous transplant, his wife hovering patiently and nervously. Something important happening behind a curtain next door, nurses with masks going in and out. All the activity seemed routine and well-rehearsed, despite being miraculous.

I tried unsuccessfully to write emails on my iPad with two fingers. (By day 2 the iPad was a celebrity, with Dr. D. and E., the nurse, debating if it needed a phone or camera.) I did not watch any episodes of "Lost," as planned, since I had no attention span whatsoever.

Soon I barely noticed there was anything stuck in my arms. And I had no sense at all that blood was leaving my body and returning at a rapid rate. At about 1PM I managed to eat a sandwich with one hand, followed by a chocolate bar kindly provided by C. After hour three, I suddenly felt exhausted and could barely keep my eyes open. The nurse explained that my heart was working harder than usual to pump all that blood, so it was like strenuous exercise without moving at all. But I forced myself to stay awake, since I didn't want to miss a thing.

Soon another nurse came by and did some quick calculations: amount of stem cells needed divided by rate of blood flow = remaining time. Just a few more minutes. Then the machine flashed "ALL DONE!" (or something to that effect), and I closed my eyes and took another deep breath as the needles were un-stuck and neon pink pressure bandages applied. I couldn't believe four hours had passed; it really seemed like no time at all.

I swung my legs slowly over the side of the bed and waited for the room to stop spinning. I put my feet down on the floor and they felt different than at the beginning of the process—lighter. I could tell immediately that something was gone from my body. I stood up and shuffled across the room to the bathroom (all that anticoagulant did take its toll), and then out into the waiting area. After a few more minutes to make sure I was intact, and a big piece of chocolate cake courtesy of the blood bank, Z. and I hopped into a cab back home.

I tried to answer emails later that afternoon, and even managed a few phone conversations, but by 8PM felt like I had run a marathon. S. called to let me know that they hadn't finished counting the collected cells, so I should come back at 9AM the next day to find out how long I'd be needed on day 2.
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* Because most of my friends seem to have the same first initial, I've picked random initials for everyone. They know who they are, which is what really counts.

955. Done!

Full story to come, but briefly—all done! Intense and exhausting (even though I just sat in a comfy chair for many hours each day and listened to the big chugging machine give my blood the best exercise it ever had), but not hard at all. I experienced no side effects, and they were able to harvest even more cells than needed. (See below, the bag on the far right, about 2 hours into the process on day 1.)

A longer description to come soon. Hoping everyone had a joyous Simhat Torah filled with dancing, singing, and all sorts of new beginnings.

954. Handicapped bathroom

Yesterday, as planned, I spent part of the day with old friends at a place where a nurse could not come to give me the second Neupogen shot. One of these friends, whom I hadn't seen in about 25 years, was a doctor, and she agreed to supervise as I self-injected.

Soon as I arrived, we headed into the women's handicapped-accessible bathroom. "Wow, I can't believe it's been so long!" I said, and then pulled down my pants and began to laugh. It was, by any stretch of the imagination, a ridiculous situation. My friend, very serious back in the 80s and, I soon discovered, even more so now, didn't find it funny at all, which made me laugh even more. I quickly composed myself and laid all the injection paraphernalia atop the toilet tank.

I was able to fill the needle with medicine, but was very grateful for her presence—I didn't realize that you have to keep pushing and depressing the plunger to get the air at the top to disappear. The first shot was easy, but halfway through the second I had a moment of panic that that the needle was going was too far into my thigh, and froze. Very eager to leave the bathroom ("People might get the wrong idea!"), she pushed my hand away and finished pressing. She was already gone by the time I pulled the needle out. (She did eventually laugh about the whole thing later that afternoon.)

I felt just fine afterwards—tired, a few twinges in my legs. Woke up this morning without any pain. A chatty and pleasant visiting nurse arrived at 9AM to give me day three injections, along with a story of the famous bone marrow donor she visited a few weeks ago who got both their photos in the paper. My lower back, legs, and right shoulder did begin to hurt a few hours later, as if I had slept funny or overdone it at the gym. It was impossible to find a comfortable way to sit on the couch, but the floor was just fine. And the pain went away entirely after two extra-strength Tylenol. Now I'm kind of stiff, and glad I don't have to take any long walks.

Tomorrow, lots of distracting work and then I have to write a note to give to the recipient. And download some movies to my iPad. And then I show up at the hospital Tuesday morning at 8, bringing layers of clothing because I'll probably get cold during the donation. (But how will I put on a sweater if I have IVs in both arms?)

953. Dart

On Friday morning I left Sukkot services early and, lulav bag in hand, got on the bus to the hospital to meet C. and K. for my first Neupogen injection. (K. was the person who called me that very first time in March, and whom I didn't believe.) They shepherded me through a finger stick to test my blood levels, and then we headed to a room down the hall to wait for a nurse. Someone came to take my vitals (how I managed to lose a pound during the holidays is a greater miracle than matching to be a donor), and then A. arrived.

I cannot imagine a better nurse to teach someone known to faint at the sight of blood how to inject herself with a needle, as I would need to do for the second shot. A. looked very much like an actress whose name escapes me: Jamaican, no-nonsense, perpetual smile, drily honest sense of humor. "I gave myself shots seven times a day when I was pregnant," she said. "I'm a nurse, and it was still weird. But you can do it." This was not resounding encouragement. C. handed me a big envelope with the paraphernalia required by both myself and the nurse who would administer the third and fourth shots. He removed the needles, which I was surprised to discover weren't pre-filled. ("We're old fashioned," explained A.) I'd need to stick two of them into two separate vials, and then stick myself twice in the thigh. It was awkward to hold both needle and vial while pushing the plunger, and I had a moment of fear when she explained how to tap it to get rid of air bubbles—wait, isn't that how people commit homicide (at least on House, M.D.)? Thankfully, not a danger in this case. (I probably couldn't even give someone a mild headache with that little needle.) An air bubble would cause a bruise, nothing more.

"Just pretend it's a dart," suggested A., and grabbed a chunk of my thigh to demonstrate. Suddenly the needle was in; I barely felt it. (Never before have I been grateful for the abundance of flesh on my thighs.) I depressed the needle, just a little sting. I got up and filled the next needle, and then sat down on the table and stuck myself. Actually, I stuck myself and immediately pulled out the needle, almost a reflex action. The second try was successful, and I pushed the plunger. This one stung a bit more, since there was more medicine in that vial, but really wasn't bad at all. I think the trick is in not thinking about the fact that you're sticking a really pointy needle into your body.

I looked up and A. was beaming. "Excellent," she said. I felt very proud.

So I went back home with the next three days' worth of drugs and a prescription for Tylenol 3, as well as a goody bag filled with rainbow-colored candy, more Tylenol, a little "Be the Match" lapel pin, a sweet thank-you card signed by everyone at the blood center office with a free movie pass tucked in and, best of all (since it was 2:00PM by then and I hadn't even had breakfast) a big dark chocolate Hershey bar. I ate half, followed by a slightly healthier omelet. K. explained that the anticoagulant administered during the donation would leach my body of calcium, so it wouldn't hurt to beef up beforehand. So I went to the store and treated myself to three kinds of cheese.

Then I waited for the side effects. Some discomfort on Sunday and Monday would be a good indication that the Neupogen had "mobilized," i.e., was doing its job to send my white blood count to the moon. I could expect pain my lower back and sternum, major sites where stem cells grow. Went home, took a nap, then walked to Friday night services and dinner with friends. All was well except for a strange feeling of my feet being very heavy, and I think I was a little dizzy—but that might have been all in my head. I had a lovely evening but was distracted by worrying if and when those symptoms might start, so left early and slept really well.

"Sukkot is a holiday of the body," observed the rabbi at services on Thursday. On the High Holy Days we immerse fully in our spiritual lives to contemplate past and future—but on Sukkot we can actually touch the fruits of those ideas. We grasp and shake the lulav, inhale the aroma of the etrog—in mystical interpretation, representations of the spine, eyes, mouth, and heart—and connect to heaven and earth through a very physical ritual. Another reason why Tuesday, the sixth day of Sukkot, seems like a good time for the donation.

952. 99.9%, part 2

(Continued from here.)

At the hospital, C. told me that the recipient was about to start the transplant preparation regimen that same day—chemo and radiation to destroy her immune system in preparation for the healthy stem cells that would rebuild it. No turning back after that for either of us. So this was the last thing I expected to hear on the other end of the phone:

"I'm so sorry. They want to postpone the donation."

Seems the recipient was on a drug regimen to improve her condition, and a few more weeks would help even more. Was I available next month? Of course, whenever needed. But I was all psyched to get it done already. And my friends were psyched for me; now I'd have to tell them it was another false alarm. Boy, did I feel petty. Someone else's life was at stake, and the only thing I could think about was my own schedule and Facebook status.

But that really was all I could think about.

Before I could continue to dislike myself and add to the long list of items requiring breast-beating in a few days, the blood center lady continued: "There's another option. You could donate now, and they'll freeze your stem cells and transplant them in a month."

Yes, yes, I want to do it this way, I said, even before she finished the sentence. Sleep on it, she suggested. No need for an answer right now. So I pondered, and waffled: October, without the added complication of the Jewish holidays, was more convenient, and it also would be a little more dramatic in Grey’s Anatomy style: donation done, they’d whisk away the bag of cells and new life would start flowing through her veins within hours. Cut to commercial. Yeah, right.

One of the things I hate most, aside from anchovies and cigarette smoke, is indecision—but I was completely stumped, even more so that the situation warranted. Either option was fine with respect to the recipient's heath, or they wouldn't have left the choice up to me. But at that moment, maybe because Yom Kippur was right around the corner, I was desperate to make the decision for the right reason and not just the most expedient. I spoke to a number of very wise people, and interrogated the blood center: are you sure frozen cells are OK? Yes, and she was deemed an excellent candidate for that process, not always the case. I lost a night's sleep, and realized that patience was something I needed to work on in the new year.

Then a friend posed a question: will the recipient be told about your advance donation or find out only when she was ready for the transplant? I thought about how this woman might feel, twice turned away at the edge of a possible new future. If she knew my cells were ready the second she was, no need to wait or wonder if I'd lose patience and decide not to donate, maybe this would give her even more hope and strength.

I confirmed that she would know in advance, and it became a much easier decision. On Friday I’ll get the first Neupogen injection, and everything is set for next week as originally planned. On the same day this last bit of drama unfolded, I was also asked to read part of the Yom Kippur morning haftarah. This was one of the verses:

The Lord will guide you always.
He will slake your thirst in parched places
And give strength to your bones.
You shall be like a watered garden,
Like a spring whose waters do not fail.
—Isaiah 58:11

So maybe now, and not next month, is the right time for that added strength in my bones, so they can become a spring.

Hag sameah, and wishing everyone a sweet and happy Sukkot.

951. 99.9%, part 1

I took these notes last Monday morning:
_____

9/13, 10:30am

Sitting in the hospital's cancer treatment center waiting room waiting for the donor liaison, who will shepherd me through repeat blood tests. Other people here with colorful scarves on their heads, walking in and out wearing surgical masks and beautiful but obvious wigs, some smiling, sone stony-faced. And others, like me, whose reason for being present can't be guessed from appearance alone.
_____

Then C. arrived, and I had stop writing. And it seemed there wouldn't be much of interest to say until the donation, because the tests were uneventful--5 more vials of blood (a breeze!--I think I'm finally cured of my fear of needles), another nurse poking the crooks of my arms to assess the state of my veins (could they have changed from a few months ago?), more of the same questions about travel, drug use, and sexual history (just as boring as back in May). "So this is really, finally going to happen?" I asked. "Yes," said C. "100% sure."

The blood bank head nurse also gave me a little tour of where I'd hang out all those hours, a subterranean but cheery room bustling with energy and purpose. She explained that a new blood bank was being built, but for now the only window was a painting donated by a former patient, a beach scene in tropical colors that would be visible from my bed, the one next to the big, noisy Frankensteinian filtering device. (Otherwise known as an apheresis machine, aka thing that performs miracles. I made a mental note to ask someone to explain, over the course of the 8 hours I'd be tethered, exactly how it knows which are the stem cells.) It was reassuring to see that exact spot, and be reminded that this event was routine for everyone except me. (In the next bed was a bored-looking teenager hooked up to an iPod and cell phone as well as a central line. The nurse explained that she was getting an infusion to treat a neurological disease. All in a day's work.)

The nurse also reminded me that I wouldn't be able to go to the bathroom for 4 hours, so not to drank any coffee beforehand. I think this aspect of the experience makes me more nervous than anything else. But I'll live.

By then the blood tests had been rushed through, and C. reviewed them: no change, all was normal. He also volunteered the weight of the recipient, more than mine, and explained that this meant a large number of stem cells were needed and so the donation might take the full two days--unless my blood decided to flow quickly. An anticoagulant would encourage the process. (I wonder if the rabbis ever devised a prayer for fast-flowing blood? Maybe one of those psalms that compare life to a swift stream would do the trick.)

(It's strange to know nothing more about a person than age, illness, and number of kilograms. When I told some friends, they got worried--she needs to lose weight! It can't be good for her health! Then we considered the possibility that she was taller than I was, as is the case with much of the world. And then we realized how ridiculous we sounded.)

I got back home and reviewed the facts; tests OK, person in charge said it would definitely happen. I had told some friends about the whole saga, but not everyone. This seemed a good time to share the news on Facebook.

I posted, and comments started coming in--yes, it's amazing.

And then the phone rang, a familiar area code. (Continued here.)

949. Dog with a log between its teeth

In just a few hours I head back to the hospital for a re-do of all those blood tests from last May, just in case I met up with a nasty mosquito during a recent weekend trip down the Amazon. (Not.) Assuming all is well, my first of five Neupogen shots will be on 9/24; I'll need to leave second day Sukkot services early in order to get to the hospital on time. After five days of injections, my stem cells will be practically leaping out of my bones, and hopefully not causing any discomfort in the process.

The next three shots were to be given at my home by a VNS nurse. Inconveniently, I have plans to be elsewhere on 9/25. I usually stay close to home on Shabbat but this was a special occasion, in the works for awhile. Someone else could give me the shot, which is subcutaneous and not intravenous (i.e., the kind of needle you stab yourself with in the arm or thigh, like a diabetic does with insulin), but that person would first need to submit credentials to the donation center and be thoroughly vetted. Of course this makes sense, but is also a big pain. The other option, which a few dear doctor friends convinced me is perfectly feasible, is to give myself the injection. Needles give me the creeps, but I opted to go this route after a dozen phone calls failed to identify a suitable injection-giver. They'll teach me how to do it at the hospital, and send me home with a cooler full of drugs and gel packs. One of the friends I'll be with is a doctor herself, so can supervise.

Or I might decide to skip the event, which will require stamina and some running around, and just lounge around at home that weekend. I have 11 more days to decide; it wouldn't be the end of the world, and would probably be the spiritually saner course of action. I was originally set to read Torah on the second day of Sukkot, too, but some people far wiser than I suggested I focus my kavannah on the impending donation rather than on vowels and trope. To be honest, I haven't been able to focus on much of anything for weeks. I've cranked out some less than brilliant work, paid bills, gone to the gym, all the usual stuff. But a good chunk of my brain is floating in a fog somewhere above. Often it feels real, other times utterly impossible and I wait to wake up, but then it's real once again and all I can do is smile and marvel, or sing. Rosh Hashanah couldn't have come at a better time.

The other day I wondered if this is how parents or pregnant women might feel, a mixture of awe and a massive sense of responsibility. (How I wish I could ask my mother; oddly, coincidentally, I am now the same age as she was when she had me.) But then I decided it fell into a category all its own. Unlike a child, we are both responsible; the recipient of my stem cells chose to place her trust in a complete stranger. I can't imagine a braver act. Maybe I'm reacting as a surgeon or cop might, or that guy on the trapeze who catches the other guy by the wrists after he flies through the air. There is no way to sufficiently rise to the responsibility of embracing so much trust. All a person can do is keep living and breathing and doing her best, and God will take care of the rest.

On the way to services the other morning I passed by a big, scary-looking man walking an even larger scary-looking dog. The dog was also armed, in case they were not imposing enough, and held a log, the trunk of a small tree, in its jaws. Man and dog trotted past, and I gave them a wide berth on the sidewalk. And then they were gone, no harm done. I think that's how the donation will feel: some shock, excitement, a little fear, and then--done. Meanwhile, I finally fixed the alarm clock in my bedroom to display the actual time after years of keeping it set to seven minutes ahead, or maybe it was six, which I thought helped stop me from being late and forced me to rush, since I could never be sure of the actual time. But in reality I just subtracted six or seven and went about my business. Now, instead, I will be forced to focus on the present moment alone.

941. Jewels of Elul blog tour: “The Art of Beginning... Again”

This post is part of Jewels of Elul, which celebrates the Jewish tradition to dedicate the 29 days of the month of Elul to growth and discovery in preparation for the coming high holy days. This year the program is benefiting Beit T'shuvah, a residential addiction treatment center in Los Angeles. You can subscribe on Jewels of Elul to receive inspirational reflections from public figures each day of the month. You don’t have to be on the blog tour to write a blog post on “The Art of Beginning... Again”. We invite everyone to post this month (August 11th - September 8th) with Jewels of Elul to grow and learn.

We hope you’ll share the program now with your friends and followers to spread the word about Jewels of Elul. If you’d like to, you can also folllow Jewels on Twitter or join the Facebook group.

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Two weeks ago at services, the rabbi spoke about Parashat Shoftim:

Deuteronomy 20:5 Then the officials shall address the troops, as follows: "Is there anyone who has built a new house but has not dedicated it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another dedicate it. 6 Is there anyone who has planted a vineyard but has never harvested it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another harvest it. ..."

This section is particularly appropriate for this time of year, she observed, because it's about our goal for Elul: finishing so that we're ready to begin. Yes, we have the freedom to start anything at any time–but can we truly renew, release bonds, until those loose threads are tied?

Well, it would be lovely if life had the good graces to work according to the Jewish calendar, with resolution achieved like clockwork. But what if I can't make peace with those I've wronged by the end of Elul, or Yom Kippur, or even by Hoshana Rabbah, the day when those gates really, finally, close? Am I out of luck until next year? I don't know—but I don't think so. I love that in Judaism there's always another chance. Year after year we find new light in the darkness on Hanukkah, learn how to be free on Pesah, grow up as ethical beings on Shavuot; starting over doesn't happen just once, even though Elul gets all the press. Remembering that every day is an opportunity to reboot takes some of the pressure off for me at this time of year. But not all of it.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately because Elul for me, this year, is mostly about my role in the process of someone else's re-beginning. As readers of this blog know (all 5 or 6 of you, thank you immensely), a few months ago, incredibly, after 11 years in the National Marrow Donor Program registry I matched with a stranger to be a bone marrow donor. It was scheduled for July, but she had a setback and it was postponed indefinitely. My speechless awe tumbled quickly into anger—how dare God have the chuztpah to offer hope, and then yank it away? In truth, I had no idea of the extent of her illness, or how much hope there ever really was. All I knew was that I might be cheated out of the gift of being able to help.

And after grumbling for a few days, I realized I was more upset about losing my opportunity to do a cool, once-in-lifetime mitzvah than about the recipient's grave situation. I hated this encounter with my own selfishness and impatience, which I tried to explain as a reaction to God's random screwing around with the timetable. I felt completely powerless; it drove me crazy. This was Elul, the time to fix. I wanted to DO something. My Elul for the past 6 years had been about action—rehearse, sing, feel like a wrung-out sponge, and then like a new person. The Elul of waiting around was my old life, been there, done that years ago in Row Z of a moribund synagogue in Queens.

But then I thought about the waiting of my recipient. How could she possibly bear it? Did she try to reimagine time, creating new holidays, new beginnings and endings, in place of the real ones she might never again experience? Unable to take action and grab onto life, to complete any task at all, was she able to glimpse the future through love, laughter, the light of the sun coming through the trees?

I hope so, because this unknown woman (I named her Bracha—all I know about her is that she needs blessings, and everyone deserves the dignity of a name), this Bracha, by the simple fact of her existence and surprise of our connection, has taught me not to stress out over Elul. My beginning for this year happened in March, when I first learned I was a match. Maybe something was resolved in order to create that beginning, or not. It doesn't matter; what counts is that it changed me. I started exercising, to make sure I was in good shape for the donation. I plunged back into the world of dating after a long hiatus; I figured those odds must be better than the ones I just beat of matching to a stranger. Bracha reminded me that life must be grabbed onto, over and over again, to renew even when messy, loose threads of unfinished business stand in the way.

And life may end up fitting neatly into the calendar this year, after all. I recently learned that Bracha is now stable, and the donation has been rescheduled for the end of Sept. For the day of Hoshanna Rabbah, in fact—when the gates symbolically close, and we really, finally, do begin again.

938. Agenda

Interrupting the current ongoing story for another ongoing story. A few days ago, exactly one month since I heard from the bone marrow donation people, I emailed for an update. I steeled myself for bad news; if the recipient was sick in July, what were the odds that she'd be strong enough to withstand the procedure just one month later? I prepared to mourn the end of this glimpse into how small the universe really is, and the life of a woman whose name I don't know, but who has become a profound influence. (What would that mourning feel like? I know the pain of losing parents, and even of the death of part of my past--a hole of grief one blindly, painfully escapes over time, if lucky. How much does it hurt to lose something you never really had in the first place?)

The shock of our connection reawakened me to the great luck of my life, and reminded me to discard complacency, a recent trap, and live instead with equal measures of patience and urgency. Thanks to Bracha bat Sarah, I began to pursue some long-dormant goals. I'm eating better, exercising, honoring the good fortune of a healthy body, and feeling more happily alive as a result. And I don't want that to end--I don't want to stop feeling hopeful, as being blindsided by bad news can do. So over the past few weeks I've tried to protect myself, practicing for pain by imagining the worst and then ignoring it entirely. The real answer made me giddy:

"Well, you must have some kind of intuition going on, because I just received an email that the patient may be ready to proceed."

It was the day before Rosh Hodesh Elul--what better moment to begin a journey of change and renewal? Yes, I'm still willing to donate, I answered when they asked (as they must before every stage; I can back out at any time, no questions asked. But if I turn back too late in the process, the patient will die.) Yes, any day is good -- well, actually not. I'm kind of busy during the weeks of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and don't want to run the risk of getting exhausted the week before, either.

They got back to me today with new dates at the end of September, right before Simhat Torah. I had a feeling all along that it would happen over Shavuot. You couldn't script it more perfectly--harvesting the stuff of life during the holiday of the harvest.

I still need more blood tests to confirm that I haven't caught anything nasty over the past two months. Various administrators must exchange paperwork. It's still not a sure thing; I don't believe that man plans and God laughs (well, maybe God does laugh at times--but at our excellent jokes, not at us), but God certainly has agendas about which we have no clue. So I'm prepared for anything. And if it really does happen--I will not only celebrate new Torah the next day, but also the renewal of life. And not just Bracha bat Sarah's, I hope and pray, but mine as well--the miracle of this connection will change me forever.

931. Is nisht

For some reason today I thought about a phrase that permeated my youth--I can't recall exactly who said, it, or when, but probably everyone, all the time: "So, is nisht." I never learned to speak Yiddish, but when I was a child most of the people taller than me did, so I'm left with a sort of sense memory of many words. Perhaps it was a shortened version of "nisht gerferlach", "not so bad". I remember it meaning something like today's "Whatever...", a sigh of resignation acknowledging that life isn't perfect, but it's time to close the last chapter with a resilient thwack of the pages and move on. Or, in the words of my cousin Bunny z"l, "You do what you do."

It's very hot. It's been very hot for weeks, turning most New Yorkers, including myself, into boiling, inert, annoyed people. So, is nisht. Yesterday at services the rabbi reflected on his longstanding curiosity about why far more people come to services on Tisha be-Av*, the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, than Yom Ha'atzma'ut, one of the most joyous. Why does mourning come easier than celebrating our greatest modern miracle? He quoted from Aviva Zornberg's latest book, The Murmuring Deep, and (I am simplifying radically) her observations on the psychological aftermath of being "the chosen people." Why us? Are we worthy? Did we really deserve to survive all the unspeakable tragedies that befell us? And what of the ones not chosen--where do our responsibilities to those others begin and end? Biblical characters grappled with these questions (i.e., were neurotic) long before Freud put names to the problems, and we continue to do so. One way is by seeking out opportunities, such as Tisha be-Av, to relive our pain, which is more familiar to us than our triumphs. In doing so, we remind our still-incredulous selves that we really did survive.

As he spoke, I thought of my more immediate struggle with a similar concept, my postponed stem cell donation. Why was I chosen? No reason at all, most likely. It just happened, one of many great random acts of the universe. But if that's how God works,maybe the same is true of the Jewish people--there is no great plan, and we were chosen just because. We are bound to do our job as good Jews nevertheless. It is a baffling and unsatisfying answer, usually the case when trying to apply logic to theology. What really counts is how we react to this knowledge. This unknown woman has already taught me about patience, and living in the moment (and enhanced the coffers of JDate, eHarmony, and a couple of local coffee shops and bars in the process). I hope I may one day return the favor, and can only pray that knowing I remain in the wings will help her find hope and strength.

(Bracha bat Sarah has also helped me gain the smallest bit of insight into the suffering of families of those at war. How to ever relax, or stay sane, when you don't know if your loved one will return? I've never even met this woman, but whether she will live or die is always in my consciousness.)

So, is nisht, it remains above 90 degrees everywhere in the U.S. (except, I hope and pray, Alaska), and I continue to work too hard and take a few breaks during the day to practice my upcoming trope triple play (chapter 4 of Eikha tomorrow night; the Torah reading on Tuesday morning; haftarah at Tuesday Minha). I didn't set out to be such an active participant in Tisha be-Av, but it just sort of happened after a few years of saying yes whenever the cantor needed someone to chant. Maybe there's a greater reason behind it, who knows, and I am learning something that I will one day understand.


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* Which I grew up pronouncing "Tish Above"--maybe that's the Yiddish way--only to learn in the last few years that it's properly called "Teesh-ah-bay-Av." Which feels a little too modern on my tongue, and elicits stares from Jewish friends who don't go to my synagogue, so I usually compromise somewhere in between the two.

929. Time travel

Haven't written very much lately, but I've been busy--with life, and chanting as well. This morning at the minyan I read a short section from the beginning of Mas'ei, all that going forward from place to place. On Shabbat Pinhas I chanted about sacrifices from Pesah through Yom Kippur, mostly all the same except for an extra "and" and inexplicably changed trope now and then. I guess the Masoretes wanted to make sure we didn't fall asleep when reading it for the 5,000th year in a row. I was worried I'd screw up my old friend the Pesah maftir, which became much trickier when paired with similar but slightly different other sections, but everything went well until the end of Rosh Hashahah and I made up a bunch of trope. I ended in the right place, however, so all was well. I'm very glad these hiccups no longer give me heart attacks.

The summer is officially here--98 degrees as I sit in Starbucks typing into Evernote on my iPhone with the ancient, collapsable Bluetooth keyboard that never quite worked years ago with my Treo (it does now, perfectly) and Yo-Yo Ma in my earphones drowning out generic 40s jazz--and it will be short one. The holidays start right after Labor Day, so rehearsals will need to be sometime in August. This logistically annoying earliness is probably why the cantor asked myself and the other hazzanim just last week if we wanted to sing again this year. (Duh.) The subject line of his email was "High Holy Days 5761," leading me to wonder if time travel was among his many talents (since we're about to enter the year 5771). Details, details. The early notice was welcome, even though I've finally stopped angsting (much) about whether I'll be asked back each year.

The email also reminded me that I need to finish writing about last year's High Holy Days, which were lovely but not without drama. I will do that before something else eventful happens that's worth chronicling (donating bone marrow, for example; still on hold.)

925. Names

Once again, a phone call in the middle of the day as I sit at my desk. I recognize the number; my stomach drops. This can't be good. Two weeks ago, unable to wait a second longer for an update, I emailed the donor center. "We have no news about a delay in collection," they answered. So I began to count down the days, imagining what DVDs I'd watch during those hours when I wouldn't have use of my hands, and who could sub at my networking group. I began to smile all the time. Suddenly it didn't matter what else happened in the world; life was certifiably good.

I pick up the phone: a familiar neutral but cheery voice. "I'm so sorry, but your recipient had a relapse." Catch-22: the illness has to be grave enough to require a transplant, but not so bad that the process will kill her. It's not cancelled, however, just postponed to some unknown time. Am I still interested in donating? Of course. Thank you, we'll keep you posted.

I knew this might happen—the possibility was mentioned on every sheet of donor literature I received—but I still feel horrible. I want her to be OK. I want to fix her. I have no idea who or where this woman is, whether she has a family, kids, is nice or mean, hopeful or desperate. All I do know is that God is being very annoying. I have something she needs—but now, all of a sudden, she can't receive it. I guess life often works this way; we love someone but they're not ready to reciprocate, or we possess talent but not means. But in most cases we can find tools to help us change and discover how to accept those gifts. In this instance, the recipient and I are both powerless. All we can do—all I can do—is be grateful that science and circumstance brought us this far, and that the story is not yet over.

When I first matched, I wondered what I might learn from the experience. It's been a lot, so far: that it's not about me, and humility is a virtue I need to work on. Patience, too; things progress in due time according to a hidden schedule, and there's no point in delaying life until we figure it out. (I had been afraid to make vacation plans, just in case—what if something bad happened before I could donate? But something bad could happen while crossing the street. I now have plans, and know that my stem cells will be happier as a result.) The most unexpected thing I've learned, however, is about names. I wanted to include this unknown woman in my prayers, yet was uncomfortable doing so. I didn't want to feel too attached, and set myself up for unnecessary pain—what if she died? Or survived, but never wanted to meet?

But I couldn't remain detached. Like it or not, we're connected; I can't pretend otherwise. But just as I had been unable to articulate my awe and joy at the start of this process and lacked a "container" for the experience, I also was unable to formulate a prayer on her behalf. Here was my chance to escape from powerlessness, but each sentence I tried to whisper seemed to lose its glue and scatter into random words.

Friday night in the middle of services, I suddenly knew what was missing: a name. I might never learn it, but she has one, and it's hers alone. It gives her dignity, and proves that she's a person and not just a collection of symptoms. I understand why, for legal and psychological reasons, the bone marrow people can't tell me what it is, but I can no more ignore its existence than the profound connection we already have.

Names in Judaism are mystical and powerful, and many people assume a new one one during illness in order to trick the Angel of Death. They're like scaffolding to support and identify our uniqueness to the rest of the world. Praying for this woman without using her name felt like trying to grow ivy without the wall, nowhere solid for the the leaves to climb.

It came to me a little later in the service: Bracha (blessing) bat (daughter of) Sarah. That's all I need God to hear: please send blessings. Also, a reminder of the blessings that her existence has already brought me. "bat Sarah" because I assume she's Jewish, since we share ancestors somewhere down the line. If not, I trust that God will insert the proper appellation. I guess it's pretty chutzpadik for me to name a total stranger, but we all have alternates for different situations: nicknames, "mom," "dad." This one is for talking about her to God, nothing else.

The moment I discovered this name, I felt like a physical weight had been lifted from my chest. I can focus once again, after two days of sadness and a whole month of being self-absorbed. Her name will remind me that everything good, bad, and ordinary, is also a miracle. Until the good part of that miracle takes place, please include Bracha bat Sarah, whomever she may be, in your prayers for healing.