Jewish Post, Indianapolis, Marion County, 23 April 1997 — Page 18

mj&jaai mls

How well planned everything seemed! I have known for more than three years I would have to have surgery "someday"... In March I learned that someday was sooner rather than later. You see, my aortic valve, the valve through which blood must pass when it leaves the left ventricle of the heart to travel through the body, was growing smaller and smaller. The heart was beginning to enlarge, and it was time to replace the valve, but in terms of days, or weeks, there was no urgency. I could pick my date. So, I chose July 1 for my surgery, because that would cost me the least down time. I would be able to go to my niece's wedding in New Jersey at the end of July. I would be able, I thought, to participate in a few August life-cycle events here, and I would be ready for this High Holy Day season. As many of you know, it did not happen that way. At first, everything seemed to go so smoothly. The angiogram I underwent two weeks prior to my surgery was no picnic, but the discomfort it caused faded when I heard the doctor say that I had no coronary artery disease. If one can dance for joy flat on his back with a tube in his groin — then that is what I did when I heard that my arteries were clear. At the same time, the test confirmed that calcium surrounded my aortic valve, the opening was continuing to narrow, and it was time to replace it. Surgery went very well, and I came home from the hospital six days later. I thought I would become a poster boy for heart surgery recovery. I began walking outside immediately and increased my distance a little bit each day. About two weeks after the operation, things began to go wrong. I was losing energy, not gaining it. I had increasing difficulty breathing. Walking for even short distances was an effort. I suspected something serious was amiss, because, when we went to see the doctor on July 18,1 could barely walk without assistance. I suspected something even more serious was amiss because, when we arrived in the waiting room of my surgeon. Dr. Harvey Bender, my cardiologist was already there waiting for me. When the doctor is waiting for you, ladies and gentlemen, something is not right. After a few questions, they took me for an echocardiogram, and the next thing I knew, I was headed for the operating room again. A considerable amount of blood and other fluids had collected in the pericardial sac that surrounds the heart. They had to flush it out. My memories of the second surgery differ from those in the first. I woke up the second time with this horrible breathing tube down my throat — a tube the doctors had already removed by the time I recalled anything from the first operation. Then I realized that someone had tethered my hands to the side of the bed to keep me from pulling the tube out. Talk about not being in control! I fought back tears a few days later when Dr. Bender informed me that there was no way I could go to New Jersey to officiate at my niece's wedding. Despite the reassurances of everyone in my family, I felt as though I had let all of them down — but — and this was the hard part — there was nothing I could do. The lesson of my second surgery is the message of this holiest of days. We never know what will happen to us. We do not know what tomorrow will bring. I have said before from this pulpit, but the words mean so much more to me now: The essence of Yom Kippur is a rehearsal for death! This white robe symbolizes the white burial garments in which traditional Jews lie in the earth. We are to examine our deeds, aware of the possibility that we shall not be here tomorrow. "Repent one day before your death," the Sages taught. "How do we know when we shall die?" the students asked. "You don't know," answered the Sages. "Therefore, search and examine your deeds, and repent today."

Another lesson my surgery retaught me is that life goes on. My niece got married. The Temple, clearly, got along fine without me, a fact I call "a sobering source of comfort." For this I thank the extraordinary efforts of Rabbi Morris, Cantor Gutcheon, Keith Kraft, Lynda Gutcheon, Gwen Moore, Alan Mazer, the officers and the entire Temple Staff. I am also grateful to Rabbi Falk, whose presence during they holy days has been a source of comfort to me and a source of enrichment to us all. No, no one is irreplaceable. I learned that for the first time on the first day of ice hockey practice during my junior year in high school. On that day, our new coach, Elliot Edelstein—the only Jewish coach I ever had — passed out a purple mimeographed sheet with a poem on it. Now, the macho men on the team snickered, but for some reason I took that poem home and hung it up over my desk. It has been 30 years since I lost that tattered sheet of paper, but its words and its lesson remain engraved on my heart, it will make no anthology of the 100 greatest poems of all time, but its lesson is worth sharing: Sometime, when you're feeling important Sometime when your ego's in bloom. Sometime when you take it for granted. That you're the best qualified in the room. Sometime when you feel that your going Would leave an unfillable hole. Just follow this simple example And see how it humbles your soul. Take a bucket and fill it with water. Put your hand in it up to the wrist. Take it out, and the hole that's remaining. Is a measure of how you'll be missed. You may splash all you please when you enter. You can stir up the water galore! But stop, and you'll find in a moment. That it looks quite the same as before. The moral in this quaint example Is to do just the best that you can. Be proud of yourself, but remember There is no indispensable man. Perhaps the most important lesson I learned from my summer ordeal is how blessed I am by the people around me. I have watched with amazement, these past 10 years how Nashville's Jews rally around one another in times of difficulty. It is — to my observation — this community's greatest source of strength. Words fail to express adequately my gratitude for your innumerable gestures of concern! I have found sustenance, courage and strength in your letters, cards, phone calls, visits, gifts, prayers, donations, good wishes and good thoughts. All I can say, from the bottom of my heart, is thank you! I believe God holds precious such acts of kindness. In particular I am grateful for the friendship I have developed with David Jacobs, who underwent a similar operation not long after mine. We have shared together the agonies and the ecstasies of this experience. I am also blessed beyond words by my family. Leo, Sarah and Benjamin have all been wonderful. So have my mom and all my relatives. Most of all, though, I thank God for Vickie and for the love and caring with which she graces my life. Her care has brought me through the summer; I stand before you tonight because of her. Among the get well messages I received, three anonymous ones Continued on page 15