A serialized autobiography, With All of Me, by Sara
Glaser, author of Lifesaver
Surgery came and went. I was anxiously waiting, yet at the
same time, concerned about learning what the doctors saw, and
did, and how I would cope with it all. On the second day, the
surgeon came to see me. "I assume you're a religious woman
(my hair was always covered so he probably guessed that I
was), so you most likely believe in miracles. We found no
trace or sign of cancer anywhere. When the first specimen of
liver was examined, we were surprised to learn it was clean,
so we sent another specimen to make sure. That too, was free
of cancer. We are dumbfounded!"
So was I! How could I have been told I had the most virulent
cancer, and that I had only three months to live? In spite of
many tests I had been put through, none of which (I later
found out) showed any trace of cancer, assumptions were made
and acted upon, rather than dealing with the available
evidence.
I could not help thinking back seventeen years to when I had
a complete hysterectomy, only to be told by the surgeon
afterwards that she did not understand why my doctor had
ordered the operation; it was totally unnecessary since
everything removed was healthy. It was one of the few times I
had surgery without a second opinion.
The liver surgery I just had made me look like something from
either a comics magazine, or a space-science fiction story. I
had tubes, wires, and bottles (not small vials or plastic
bags) connected to, and protruding from me, as I lay on my
hospital bed. When I asked the nurses why I was given a
private room even though my insurance did not cover this, I
was told that because I was such a frightening sight, they
did not want the other patients scared.
I recalled what Rabbi Kanievsky had said about atoning for
sins in this world so that the hereafter, eternity, will be
beautiful. In Mishlei 3:12, King Shlomo stated that
"He whom G-d loves, He chastises." The loss of possessions,
comforts, and or physical suffering, is designed to cleanse
one of sin.
A story is told of Rav Hama, one of the amoraim, who
saw a blind man studying Torah. He greeted him saying "Peace
be unto you, free man." The blind man was taken aback. "Was I
a slave that I am to be congratulated on my freedom?" "You
are free because your sufferings will bring you immediately
into Paradise," the rav answered.
When Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrkanos was ill, Rabbis Tarfon,
Yehoshua, Elazar ben Azaryah and Akiva, went to visit him.
They began to comfort him, saying that his sufferings were
sent to atone for the sins of the generation.
Rabbi Akiva's words of comfort were, "Suffering is precious,
for it atones." Rabbi Hyrkanos asked him from where he
deduced this notion. Rabbi Akiva answered, "King Menashe
studied a great deal of Torah, but did not repent his sins.
Only when Hashem afflicted him with pain and suffering did he
repent."
All the rabbis were weeping over the pain borne by their
venerated teacher, Rabbi Eliezer, except for Rabbi Akiva, who
laughed. When asked why he was laughing, he said, "So long as
I saw that my teacher's wine did not turn sour, his flax was
not smitten, his oil did not spoil, and his honey did not
turn sour, then I might presume that he had received all his
reward in this world. But when I see that he suffers, I know
that his reward is stored up for him in the future."
I realized that perhaps my mother was fortunate, after all,
because of the suffering she endured.
Lying on my hospital bed during the brief time called dusk,
as the sun was setting, and night was approaching, my mind
was full of thoughts and prayers to Hashem. Suddenly, I felt
someone's thumb pressing firmly on my right shoulder. Knowing
I was alone in the room, I was startled, and looking behind
my shoulder, called out "Who's there?" Immediately, I
received an answer. I did not hear anyone speaking, but the
message was clear and strong. "There is a light at the end of
the tunnel, so don't despair." Two days later, at the same
time, I again had this exact experience. Immediately, both
times, I felt calm, relaxed, and found myself smiling.
More and more, I feel Hashem guiding, or leading me in
certain directions, but this was the first time the
connection came via words.
After two months of recuperation, I was allowed to become
active. I resumed taking care of my brother in my home. A few
months later, he had to be re-hospitalized, first in New York
where surgery was done, then in Virginia near his home. It
was a difficult period. I was with him all the time. He was
afraid of being alone. If I left his room, or wasn't within
his view, he became upset. As a result, I usually "slept" in
a chair by his bed at night.
Sitting there at night reminded me that I was repeating what
happened when my mother was so ill, and would sometimes ask
me to stay with her during the night. The long, quiet hours
once again brought back memories.
Sammy loved music. One of the first things he would do when
he would come home is put a record on the phonograph.
One day, while lying in his hospital bed, he surprised me by
saying "If I get to go home, I want you to help me make my
kitchen kosher. O.K?" Holding back the tears, I said, "I'll
be happy to."
Towards the end, when he sensed how ill he was, he said,
"Shirley, I'm afraid to die among strangers. I want to die
with you near." I brought him to my home again. The doctor
taught me how to administer the morphine and how to increase
the dosage, if necessary. This was always emotionally
difficult for me to do. I was afraid of hurting him by doing
it improperly.
I had three eight-hour shifts of caregivers, yet I was afraid
to fall asleep lest the one on duty did so too and there
would be no one to help him if he needed it. It was so
painful to see him suffer. The slightest movement hurt
him.
His last Friday night, without planning to, I said
kiddush by his bed and gave him a bit of grape juice.
He whispered, "That's good." Except for a little ice cream,
he had hardly eaten the last three days.
Then, again without thinking about it beforehand, I read the
vidui to my brother, and had him repeat every few
words after me. I am so grateful to Hashem that He prompted
me to do this, because he died shortly thereafter, almost a
year after he was diagnosed with lung cancer.
I was reminded the hard way that Hashem does not give us
anything we can't handle; that He prepares the cure before
giving the illness. I thank Him from the bottom of my heart
for the inner strength He has given me so that I could
withstand the many physical and emotional difficulties in my
life.
Years before, I became aware of what a truly great blessing
it is to be able to come right back up again, no matter how
often, and how hard, I am knocked down. I would like to take
the credit for this, but I believe Hashem gave me, when I was
born, the tendency to think positively. I was blessed by
usually being able to see the glass as half full, rather than
as half empty, to feel hope rather than despair.
I remembered Hashem's words to me in the hospital about there
being a light at the end of the tunnel. I felt His words were
blinking at me, as if they were in Morse code.
The message I was getting was that I needed to do something
to feel good again, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
I needed to smile and be happy, to seek joy, to go on with
life for as long as Hashem gives life.
Immediately, I realized what I had to do. Study Torah!
Nothing gives me the excitement and joy that learning Torah
does, especially when I gain insight where previously there
were just words and their simple meanings. Almost as quickly
as I realized what I should do, I knew that the place to do
it was Jerusalem. The thought itself brought a much-needed
smile to my face.
[to be continued]
