Fight or Flight

When I am laid bare on a massage table, I find myself in the state of bliss. I am someone who craves moments of indulgence and gentle touches, unashamedly so. I am not lying there worried about not getting my steps in.

My best massage experience was in Bangkok while I was studying at the Mandarin Oriental Thai Cooking School. I'll never forget Ong, one of the students from the Thai traditional massage school at Wat Pho. Unfortunately, Ong was a stickler for the rules, and I couldn't convince him to come to the Mandarin for extra sessions.

Best cooking school in the world

The worst masseuses are those who are disengaged, unfocused, and use too much oil. They're the ones watching the clock—the absolute worst. And one thing to remember: never, absolutely never, let a massage therapist manipulate your neck unless they truly know what they're doing. It can really mess you up.

Touch is often overlooked, especially for those like me battling cancer. We don’t want to touch old people or sick people. While I use the simple idea of physical touch to illustrate the need for comfort, there is a deeper complexity to it than just that.

Since I returned to Israel in January, I've noticed a significant absence in my life: a lack of pampering. My apartment here in Tel Aviv has the essentials but nothing more— even the bathtub looks dubious. When we rented it while still in the States, the basics were all that mattered in this war-torn country. I needed an elevator, balcony, a safe room in the apartment (I would not make it to an underground shelter in 90 seconds), and a location on the third floor or higher (due to my cockroach phobia). It ticked the most important boxes.

My favorite room in my Tel Aviv apartment

Milwaukee in summer was where I felt truly pampered. After years of feeling guilty for escaping Israel during the summer, I finally embraced it. My siblings and I have a house there, a place we all cherish despite its quirks and costs. Built in 1958, it has a unique charm that is hard to let go of. Our mom's art decorates the walls, and a lime tree serves as a living curtain in the front—yes, a real lime tree that bears fruit indoors in Wisconsin.

But the true gem of the place is the private lake in the backyard. Hidden from the street, a bean-shaped body of sweet water emerges, perfect for swimming, fishing, ice skating, or simply enjoying the view. Most things change within a few years, but the lake is a constant from my childhood to my adulthood. There's no greater source of peace.

Lake vibes

This summer, however, I won't be there. I'm writing now from Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv, unable to fly after receiving stereotactic radiotherapy for advanced lung cancer.

The devastation of facing this new, overwhelming turn in my illness is beyond words. It's not just indescribable; it's an all-encompassing grief that shakes me to my core. The loss I feel is profound, and adjusting to my current reality feels almost impossible. Instead of the serene, comforting embrace of Milwaukee, I find myself in a war-torn land, living every moment under constant vigilance.

While there are tranquil spots in Israel, most are crowded and hard to reach, especially now in war time. The environment is hot, uncomfortable, and harsh. In this forced adaptation, there is a lesson in letting go. I am trying to find ways to incorporate more comforts into my little apartment, like buying a new couch and upgrading my bidet attachment.

Deep down, I know this is the right course of action, and I am trying to embrace the positive elements of this Plan B. At this juncture, I have faith in the Israeli doctors’ way of thinking. It's not that they are necessarily smarter here, but there's something different and special about them. These are “big picture” players. They don’t care for small talk and proper bedside manner, but they seem to actually give a shit whether I live or die. I may not have any warm blankets, ice, or the comforts of the hospitals in Milwaukee - but I have a feeling that I never experienced at Aurora Grafton or Froedtert Hospital - a sense of something much deeper.

As Shabbat approaches, a woman just now visited my room with yellow Post-it notes, asking me to write my name and my mother's name on one. She plans to place it in the ancient crevices of the Western Wall as a prayer for my health. It just feels right.