Presenting an autobiography by Sara Glaser, initiator of the
popular Lifesaver Guide, making its debut in YATED.
WITH ALL OF ME
"I took stock of my life, and my goals for the future. Were
my priorities and activities leading me closer to Him? Was I
accomplishing enough? I made an alphabetized list, from A
through Z, writing down everything for which I was grateful
to Hashem. I read them regularly. I still do . . . "
The precious gift of Time-Life and other strong Elul
messages
CHAPTER 3
THE GIFT OF TIME
In 1983, three years after becoming Torah-observant, while
working at my desk at home, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in
my chest. I put down my pen and touched the area. I felt a
large lump. I was shocked and frightened. What is this?! I
wasn't aware of it until this moment. Could it be that I had
not noticed it before? I went to the mirror to examine the
area. I saw a large round protrusion. It hurt when I touched
it.
As I reached for the phone to call my doctor, I realized it
was after office hours. The next day was Labor Day. The
office would be closed. I would have to wait almost forty
hours before I could see the doctor. Each hour seemed like an
eternity. When I was finally able to call the office and
explain the situation, I was told to come right in.
After the examination, the doctor said, "You need to see a
surgeon right away. It might be cancer, and a mastectomy may
be necessary." I was surprised to hear her suggest a
particular treatment before the illness was properly
diagnosed. I said nothing. I was frightened at what I just
heard, and had been worrying about it for the past two
days.
"You need to take x-rays right away and bring them to the
surgeon. I'll make the appointment now." After making a few
phone calls, she said, "You won't be able to get the x-rays
taken for a couple of days. Should I make the
appointment?"
"Would waiting until after Rosh Hashonoh endanger my life?"
"No, I don't think so." I opted to wait. Waiting to find out
what is wrong when one is ill is most difficult and
stressful, as anyone who has experienced it will agree.
My first stop after leaving the doctor's office was to the
library. After scanning all the books on mammary cancer, I
selected five to take home. I had my homework to do, just in
case.
My praying that Rosh Hashonoh was with more than the usual
intensity. I kept asking Hashem to help me understand what I
should be learning from all this.
I had no doubts that what was happening was for my good, but
what I did not understand, was what Hashem wanted me to do.
How could I grow, how could I get closer to Him, if I did not
know what I needed to work on, to do teshuvoh on? I
begged Hashem for help and understanding.
I took stock of my life and my goals for the future. Were my
priorities and activities leading me closer to Him? Was I
accomplishing enough? I made an alphabetized list, from A
through Z, writing down everything for which I was grateful
to Hashem. I read them regularly. I still do this, adding
more things over the years as I think of them. It heightens
my gratitude to Hashem and reminds me not to take His many
gifts for granted.
The one possible answer I came up with during this ordeal was
the realization of how precious time is. Each moment spent is
gone forever and can never be returned. I don't know when
Hashem will take me, so I must make wise use of the time He
gives me. Time-life, is a gift from Him, and most precious. I
must not waste it.
At the time, however, this did not satisfy me. It seemed too
simple and obvious. I felt that it could not be the only
reason why Hashem gave me this experience. But I had no other
insights to enlighten me. In the future, however, I was
better able to internalize this knowledge. It was then that I
understood how profound this answer was. I realized what a
world of difference there is between knowing something
intellectually or emotionally, and internalizing it, having
both the mind and the heart, as one unit, to understand and
believe something. The latter is powerful. It becomes a part
of me.
*
For example, as a child growing up in Brooklyn, New York, I
knew I was poor. I was born a year before the Great
Depression of 1929. I could see how other children my age
lived and what they had in comparison to me, some more, some
less. I never went hungry, as some children I knew did. For a
while we did not have beds, so we slept on the floor, but it
and the linen were 'hospital'-clean.
These and other things, such as having very few toys or
games, never bothered me. I possessed one game during my
childhood. It was a board game called the Big Apple (which
was what New York City was often called). I also had a pair
of roller skates, jacks, and eventually, a bicycle. I enjoyed
them all, as well as jumping rope and hopscotch.
I never felt deprived or sad because I didn't have more
things. I don't think that occurred to most children in my
generation. We had each other to play with and used our
imagination and creativity to conjure up what we wanted or
needed for the moment, such as using a broomstick for a
baseball bat. This can be even more fun and challenging than
having everything handed to you. When I wanted ten cents for
a treat, I would search for discarded deposit bottles and
return them to the store for the money.
Reading and learning were, and still are my favorite
activities and the public libraries supplied me with what I
wanted, free of charge! While growing up, reading was more
than just fun. I could forget for a time what was sad or
painful for me by entering other peoples' lives. The stories
were filled with excitement, laughter, drama, or mystery.
When I was twelve, I remember thinking the days were never
long enough for me to do all I wanted to, and immediately
realized how lucky I was.
My friends could not understand why I did not look forward to
vacations. Instead, I anticipated the times when school would
resume. Learning was fun, my grades were good, and I felt
better about myself there than at home.
When I was sixteen, a talent scout from the famous Warner
Brothers movie studio, who saw me perform in an amateur
theatrical production, offered to have my mother and me go to
Hollywood so I could take a screen test. Momma refused,
saying she did not raise her daughter to be in show
business.
I was devastated. After he left, I asked her what was wrong
with show business. She replied that it is extremely
difficult for people in that work not to 'burn the candles at
both ends.' I had no idea what she meant, until years later.
As an observant Jew, I am grateful to her for that
decision.
But feeling poor is different from knowing one is poor.
Feeling poor made me uncomfortable emotionally. I felt
embarrassed and ashamed to be poor. Having to wear the
dresses the 'Relief" (as the welfare agency was called in the
1930s) gave to its recipients is one example.
These dresses were dull and matronly, and hung loose from my
shoulders like a potato sack. Every time I wore them to
school I dreaded it, thinking that all the students and
teachers would know that my family was on Relief. I felt like
I was waving a flag in the air announcing I was poor.
Other times I felt poor were also when I was in elementary
school. I would rush home at lunchtime, drop my books on a
kitchen chair, and with two big potholders, carry a hot
baking pan from store to store on our street selling Momma's
delicious potato or kasha knishes or cheese and raisin
danishes. If there was time, I would get a second tray and
continue selling the knishes or danishes until they were all
sold, or there was no time left.
It never took long for storekeepers and their customers to
empty the pan. Almost everyone in the neighborhood seemed to
know of and enjoy my mother's homemade products. I would then
run back home, gobble down a sandwich and a drink, and return
to school.
Selling Momma's food on the street was very difficult to do
because I felt like I was begging, asking others for help. My
parents divorced when I was three. I never told Momma how I
felt. I was old enough to know we needed the money. Besides,
sharing this with her would have only made her sadder than
she already was.
*
The answer to what was wrong with me was inconclusive, at the
beginning. After a time, the lump disappeared and the pain
was almost gone. The pathologists at the prestigious
university hospital, where the biopsy and subsequent
lumpectomy were done, said they had never encountered a case
like mine.
My doctor told me that the head pathologist in the hospital,
who had thirty years of experience, said this case was a
miracle. Both the hospital and the United States Army
Department of Pathology, to whom pathologists from around the
world go with special problems, agreed that this was a first
of its kind.
A number of specialists met several times before deciding I
indeed had cancer, and had to have annual checkups from then
on, but it was no longer there. I was also told that my case
was unique, and was written up in medical journals.
I was extremely grateful to our Creator for the miraculous
outcome. I was also grateful that He guided me to read books
on the subject. As a result, the doctors I chose performed a
lumpectomy instead of the much more invasive and more
commonly-used mastectomy.
