Chapter Five of Sara Glaser's autobiography, With All of
Me
CHALLENGES/OPPORTUNITIES
"Hello, Shirley, this is Dr. Brown." It was seven o'clock,
Monday morning. The phone's ringing woke me. "I'm sorry I
have to tell you this, but your brother has lung cancer, and
it's very bad. Can you get to his place right away? I'll wait
till you arrive there before I call him so he won't be alone
when I tell him that I want him in the hospital this
morning."
I had hardly been back a month from Israel and my meeting
with Rabbi Kanievsky shlita and his rebbetzin. I was
still sorting out what they had told me regarding reward and
punishment, and the World-to-Come. I was also working on
figuring out how my experiences related to my thoughts and
actions. And now, this. Hashem had not stopped 'talking' to
me. But was I listening or understanding?
Many thoughts raced through my head as I rushed to dress and
drive from Baltimore to my brother's home in Arlington,
Virginia. The doctor seemed to know him emotionally, as well
as physically. I was impressed with his sensitivity in
calling me first so I could be with him when he heard the
terrible news.
Sammy, four years my senior, had never married. We had no
other siblings but we were usually there for each other. I
did not want to believe that he, a person who could light up
a room with his smile, might be leaving me. In fact, with my
medical history, I had expected Hashem to take me first. I
prayed the doctor was wrong.
While driving, my mind went back twenty-five years to 1962
when my father-in-law became ill. His wife felt she could not
care for him when he came out of the hospital. Rather than
have him go to a nursing home, I insisted he stay with his us
— his oldest son, Steve, and myself.
I was sitting at the kitchen table one Monday morning, doing
homework (I was studying for my Master's degree), when I
heard my father in-law crying. I went to see what was wrong
and saw him sobbing, his chest heaving up and down. "Dad,
what's wrong? Can I help you?" When he calmed down, he said,
"I know I'm dying and I know I can trust you to do as I ask.
This is how I want my funeral to be." He proceeded to give me
all the details, including the kind of coffin he wanted.
The following Sunday morning, my husband woke me and said he
thought his father was dead. Dad was the first person I knew,
and was close to, who died. It was a traumatic experience. I
sat near him crying for what seemed all day, until the people
from the funeral home arrived and took him away. He was
seventy-two years old.
I began following his instructions of just six days earlier.
It was a most difficult and emotional task. The next day, one
week exactly from when he told me he was going to die, we
buried him, another victim of cancer.
*
I looked at the road signs to make sure I made the right turn
for the 14th Street bridge, which would take me from
Washington, D.C. to Arlington, Virginia, where Sammy lived. I
had about fifteen more minutes of driving time left.
How was my brother going to react when he was told he was so
sick? He never suspected he was ill. He had been swimming
every day, was tanned from the hot summer sun, and except for
a rather sudden weight loss, which he assumed was a result of
his swimming, appeared fine. He had gone to the doctor to
inquire about his recent night sweating. The doctor told him
to take a chest x-ray. Now, three days later, we learned he
was terribly ill.
I thought of my mother who had exploratory surgery three
years after my father in-law died. The doctor suspected gall
bladder problems, but it was cancer. Without being told, she
seemed to know what she had and that her time was limited.
Once again, I was given instructions, this time by my mother,
on how things should be done for her funeral, as well as how
to handle her assets and personal belongings. The doctors
gave her six months. She endured for seven.
She was not as fortunate as my father-in-law. He died
peacefully in his sleep before any of the predicted pain set
in. Momma's mind stayed alert, but physically she became more
and more dependent on others, even for the most personal
functions. This robbed her of her dignity. She experienced
much physical pain, as well.
*
Finally, I arrived at my brother's apartment. The doctor's
call came just as I walked in. The next months were a
horrible blur. He was hospitalized for two weeks. I moved
into his apartment so I could be only a few minutes drive
away from his hospital room, where I stayed from early
morning until ten or eleven each night. Eventually, I brought
him to my home so that I could care for him personally.
Almost three years before, when I was operated on for colon
cancer, I was told there was at least a 50% chance it would
return within three years, most likely to the liver. While
caring for my brother, I was informed that tests I had
recently taken made the doctors believe that this may have
happened. I had to be admitted to the hospital for additional
tests. Before doing this, I brought my brother back to his
home, and arranged for him to have daily care.
Almost a week had gone by, filled with many tests and
examinations. The oncologist assigned to me, whom I had not
yet met, came into my room, introduced herself, then calmly
said I had the most virulent kind of cancer there was, had
three months to live, and left.
I was angry. Did she think she was G-d that she could predict
how long people would live? Even though we live in an era of
specialists dealing with just about every part of us, I
believe that medical schools need to teach their students
that patients are whole human beings, not an arm, a liver, a
lung, and so on.
All people, especially those who feel so vulnerable when ill,
need to be treated with respect, dignity, and sensitivity. A
number of doctors need to understand that they are not G-d,
and therefore, should not tell patients they have a specific
amount of time to live.
I prayed to Hashem to give me more time, time to grow
spiritually, to be able to give Him nachas. I also
wanted to be around to see my children married, and
hopefully, enjoy grandchildren.
Chanukah was being celebrated during the week I was in the
hospital taking tests. One of the many women from the
religious area of Baltimore that I was now living in who
visited me, someone I did not know, brought a jar of potato
latke batter, a jar of applesauce, an electric frying pan,
oil, a spatula, and a plate and fork. She found an outlet by
the windowsill and proceeded to make me some delicious
latkes. She explained that just because I was in the
hospital, I should not be denied the pleasure of this aspect
of the holiday. It wasn't long before the nurses were lining
up to share this special treat with me.
Just before the winter holidays, I was discharged. I was to
return for liver surgery the first week in January, to see if
a pump could be inserted internally which would spray the
liver with chemotherapy medicine.
I did not know too many people in Baltimore, where I now
lived, because much of the year since I moved there was spent
elsewhere, first in Israel, then with my brother. The evening
before I was to be re-admitted to the hospital, women, most
of whom I did not know, kept coming to my home to say
Tehillim.
They occupied the chairs, the sofa, and the steps leading to
the upstairs bedrooms. The overflow stood wherever there was
room. I was very touched by this display of concern, and
grateful for their prayers on my behalf.
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!"
