Back in elementary school, I'm don't recall exactly which grade, a friend was diagnosed with something previously unfamiliar to me called leukemia. We were told that this is a very serious illness, and that he may or may not survive. It's the first time I genuinely remember wrestling with the idea of death and beginning to grasp the notion of mortality. Instead of wondering if we could get together to play catch (we were on the same little league team - boy he had a great arm!), I learned to be concerned whether he was having a decent day, week, or even semester. Thankfully, he overcame his cancer and stands testament to the possibilities of care, cure and life. For all the Eddies of my childhood, I am shaving my head.
As a teenager, a dear friend lost her father, all too young, after battling cancer. I still had not known death in my family personally. That summer at camp, I experienced the true power of community in the process of grieving, mourning, consoling and uplifting. We couldn't articulate it with these words, though we received somewhat of a masters class in comforting the bereaved. For all the "Sarahs" in my youth, I am shaving my head.
Serving as a young assistant rabbi in a very comfortable, well-to-do community, it was as if the world was only bright, shiny and positive. A growing congregation of good people dedicated to Jewish values and involvement, very little got in the way of whatever creative programs, activities and ritual we could imagine. And then it seems we had one after another young moms diagnosed with breast cancer. Looking back, I recognize that most of them were younger than I am now. Beyond the typical and wide-ranging obligations being a rabbi in this vibrant setting - I had to grow into the role of being able to hold hands, as it were, with these slightly older peers and their families as they confronted their questions: will I survive? Will I be less of a woman following surgery? Will my husband and children carry on after I'm gone? The meaning of just being present became absolutely clear. For the Karens and Anns and Lisas who've made me a better rabbi, I'm shaving my head.
Of course, not quite two years ago, our dear friends learned that one of their precious children faced his own challenge with cancer. I remain lost for words in gratitude for what I've learned through this episode. Their example as a family, in the range of what they've allowed others to witness, is profound: the raw emotion, gentle compassion, and genuine humanity in their expression from rage and frustration to humility and appreciation has helped cultivate a deeper understanding of love - not only regarding their children, also for the connected circle of family and friends who they embraced during this unimaginably difficult time. All while undergoing what my grandmother taught was the worst thing possible, that parents should never have to bury a child. For all the Sammys who have exemplified bravery and dignity - and so one day there won't be any more - I am shaving my head.
Humbly I know that I'm fortunate that my own family is, at least for now, healthy and safe. And who knows, that may one day change. Jewish tradition demands that we embrace, love and care for the stranger, the "other", as we know what it is to be that stranger. What could be more "other" than someone going through illness, disease or hardship that I've never known? And so it has become even more important to work on behalf of those who are struggling - and to teach my own children that their greatest potential is to make a positive difference in the lives of people beyond themselves. In gratitude for the Bens and Vereds in our lives,and in hope that they might know a world one day free from cancer, I am shaving my head.
Look into the Gerson Therapy.
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