Back from Australia and navigating the 8-hour time difference with more difficulty than expected. Not much has changed here in Israel, except my attitude. As long as this government remains in power, I have little hope for change.
I came back to a slew of scans and doctors’ appointments in an effort to get it all over with. I heard what I expected to hear: there is no treatment, my cancer is spreading and basically “live your life.” This is a relief for me. I did not want to be bamboozled into treatment of little known value.
There are no instructions for living a life with an expiration date stamped in bold. Should I still bother with sunscreen? Schedule mammograms and colonoscopies? Is it worth buying a wetsuit for just a handful of swims? These questions swirl in the quiet moments.
At the religious women’s beach, I find an unexpected vibrancy. They are clothed from head to toe, yet their allure outshines any bikini-clad hipster lounging at the main beach. Mystery leaves room for imagination to wander. They nibble on radishes with a playful reverence: “The radish must come before the bread!” In the water, they shed their responsibilities—no work, laundry piles or simmering pots to think about. Their joy radiates, pure and unfiltered.
It was these women who introduced me to the idea of a wetsuit. The practicality resonated: cold water, despite all the benefits I preach about, has always kept me on the shore. They shared tips and tales—the struggle of zipping it up, and the dizziness and nausea they felt at first. It seemed like a rite of passage, like an invitation to stop hesitating and plunge in.
I keep thinking about Dustin Hoffman in the 1967 movie The Graduate. I have not updated my cinematic references in years. This one remains a quintessential milestone for me, a timeless classic.
