Friday Dispatch: On Being in Limbo

Get ready for some ranting

Friday greetings,

I had melanoma in 2019. I had surgery that left a big scar above my elbow. We caught it early enough that no additional treatment was needed, and I have now graduated to annual full skin checks, the most recent of which was earlier this month. At the end of the all-clear appointment (BH – baruch hashem), I asked the dermatologist if there were any moles she thought we should keep an eye on. I’ve been reflecting this morning on her answer, which was skilled and thoughtful. She said no, and added, “If there were, I’d just biopsy them now. You don’t need that kind of worry hanging over your head.” I was so appreciative of her clarity and kindness.

Contrast this with an appointment I had yesterday to have something concerning looked at. The doctor entered the room, not knowing what brought me in (“It’s been such a busy day,” she apologized, saying she hadn’t even looked at my chart). I was sitting there, gown open to the back, naked from the waist down. She examined the area in question and took a photograph with my permission, which she then put up on the screen in front of us. We looked at the photo as we talked. I didn’t realize it til today, how disembodying this felt. She considered the possibilities, guessing at what could be going on, offering a couple of scenarios to watch for, and saying I could come back in today or Monday if it seemed necessary. I asked her if she would be sharing the photo with a specialist, a possibility she had mentioned earlier. She said she would – if I wanted her to. I did, but – get this – I didn’t want to inconvenience her! Wow. I said that was ok, we could wait and see. Instead of saying, actually, I don’t know what this is, let me reach out to some colleagues who might, she put it on me to determine how serious I felt it was. It was vague, open-ended, and inconclusive, the exact opposite of the aforementioned experience. I don’t fault her for not knowing, not at all. It was her lack of reading the room that astonished me. Also, she kept referring to menopause as The Change, like a thing we shouldn’t call by its medical name. She recommended one at-home treatment that might help, unless this turned out to be something else, in which case it might make it worse.

Afterward, I called M.J. from the car. I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes. Then I went back inside and wrote a note for the receptionist to give her. Dear Dr. _______: Actually, I would like you to share the photo with X specialist and let me know what they say. Thank you. I didn’t realize how upset I was about it until this morning.

I’m sure this is all colored by the backdrop of the hostage-ceasefire deal. Choppy thoughts. Amplified feelings. Hard to settle. Fraught and fragile. Red shirt I wore at a protest in front of the Beit Knesset: WE ARE ALL HOSTAGES. Predictably polarized responses. Bibi, Hamas, Trump. Maniacal, all. I hold my breath. Kfir Bibas turns two tomorrow. He and his big brother Ariel and their mom Shiri, among the 33 slated for release. Tortuous waiting, this not knowing. So many people living in hell. Physical health, psychological hell. Every life a whole world. And the other 65? Their families?

Yesterday I had lunch in Northampton, a town now notorious for its anti-Zionism. I wore my red t-shirt and my BRING THEM HOME dog tag. Nobody seemed to notice. Later, I poked at my wounds in ways I’m not proud of, looking at Instagram accounts of those who have not once mentioned the hostages in their protest of the war, people I used to call friends. People who had no prior connection to or relationship with Israel or Palestine who proclaim Alhamdulillah, the Arabic equivalent of BH, even though they lecture us about cultural appropriation and performative activism. Am I being petty and reactive? Ugh, yes. I will have plenty to account for come the Days of Awe. I always do, we always do.

For now, we continue to wait and pray. As Eitan Chitayat wrote: “Please be strong for all the families in this moment, now and soon.” Focus on life. Focus on humanity. Ours, theirs, yours, mine.

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And then there are the thousands of Angelenos, displaced, grieving, in a different kind of tortuous limbo I can’t even fathom. As I was putting away clean mugs this morning after finishing my coffee, I found myself looking at the shelves in our small kitchen closet, the handmade bowls and plates M.J. got for our ninth anniversary per that year’s traditional gift of pottery, the glassware and travel mugs and mixing bowls, and tried to imagine it all incinerated to ash. It’s impossible.

Limbo and liminal spaces are inherent to life. But when it comes to cancer, war, and catastrophic climate-induced natural disasters, we’re not talking about the kinds of waiting that anyone is naturally capable of weathering. These extreme situations stretch us, sometimes to breaking.

I generally avoid ranting in a public setting. I follow the wise guidance M.J. offered me when we first met in person 13 years ago to set a timer. Rant or wallow your heart out for a set amount of time, say 10 or 20 minutes. Or rant with/to one of your most trusted confidantes. We all know that suppressing anger and grief is also harmful and always backfires eventually.

Why rant publicly today, then? Honestly, I don’t really know. It just feels right to peel back the curtain sometimes. This, too, is real life. And you know what, I feel a little better. Like I can breathe and move on to the next parts of my day, sending so much care and compassion and my deepest prayers to everyone who is waiting today, waiting for biopsy results, waiting for red-haired babies to come home, waiting for the ceasefire to hold, waiting for terrorists to turn to do something constructive with their time and money, waiting for hardened hearts to soften, waiting for what will come next when their whole world has been destroyed. For many people, no amount of ranting will bring the least bit of comfort or relief.

For today, I am among the privileged who do not have cancer, or a beloved among the hostages, or a neighborhood in ashes. And while I know my ranting does nothing to help the world, I also know that honoring all that is also roiling with me clears the way to more presence and ability to do something useful.

It’s all so imperfect, my friends. And so we keep being human and doing everything in our power to recognize and honor each other’s humanness, too.

Shabbat Shalom and love,

Jena

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