Chemo is dull. It’s not that the Carmel Hospital Hematology Clinic isn’t charming, even unto the blast-resistant shielding that makes some cell phones inoperative.Others continue working, due apparently to a technological condition known as blat, or perhaps protekzia. My cell is not among the functional, except for one brief moment when I called my wife to tell her that she’d grievously malprogrammed her Nook, and whenever I tried to punch up something light, all I got for hospital reading was Camus’s The Plague.Nor is lunch unwelcome. On Sundays, they serve yellow; on Tuesdays, brown or green. What makes it special is that it’s brought to me by an excellent male nurse who reminds me of a gunnery sergeant I knew in the Marines. He’s a virtual ringer, except my old Gunny chewed tobacco and had one massively distended cheek. Gotta get that nurse a chaw. No, the real frustration is more existential. You come with projects that never get done. One, in particular.Sad to relate, I never finished ulpan. The class itself was wretched. A few Anglos, but mostly Russian women over 60 who’d constituted themselves into what I deemed the “Central Committee of the Fraternal Order of Babushki.” They sat in a bloc in the front.They never shut up. Still, I was having fun. I’d discovered in high school that my retention improved if my sentences were absurd. So I’d been coming up with exercises such as “The soldier goes to the bank in his tank.” “I study Hebrew because I’m in love with Tzipi Livni.” “I have a cat but no sardines.” “The (girl) soldier says to the general, ‘You are wrong again.’” But my real ulpan project – a comprehensive survey of the Israeli government – was barely under way when I left. So one Chemo Sunday I brought the paperback Hebrew-English dictionary that Bank Leumi had given me for starting an account (in America, you get a toaster) and returned to work.“The State of Israel has a president. His name is Shimon Peres. His job is to keep getting older. He does this very well.“The State of Israel has a prime minister. His name is Bibi Netanyahu. His job is to infuriate everybody. He does this very well.“The State of Israel has a legislature. This is the Knesset. The Knesset has two chambers. These are the Knish and the Kneidel. By law, sensible legislation must start in one chamber, stupid legislation in the other.Since it is usually impossible to tell which is which, this law is not enforced.“The State of Israel has political parties. Think of a restaurant menu. Some choices are always featured.They are not very tasty. Others are ‘In Season Only’ or ‘Market Availability.’ There is also a special children’s menu. The portions are smaller, but the children are permitted to scream and throw food while eating.” I’ll finish this essay next ChemoFest.At present, thankfully, I have no active cancer anywhere in the bod. They know this because, from time to time, they tie me down and stick me inside machines. My personal fave: the PET/CT nuclear scanner at Rambam. I’ve gone through the tunnel twice.The procedure is always boring. My fellow patients, never.First, they shoot you up with something radioactive.Then they put you in a shielded room and give you an hour to drink a pitcher of something dreadful. The machine is on the other side of the room’s inner door.The waiting room itself is not uncomfortable: soft armchairs and a big-screen TV.First time through, I noticed that another patient was intently watching an American film with Hebrew subtitles.He also kept looking at me rather oddly. After a few minutes, I realized that we were watching Groundhog Day. For the next half hour, between my poor Hebrew and his OK English, I conveyed that, yes, there really was a Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, and a groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil. And yes, amid great human pomp, he comes out of his hole every February 2 and bestows upon the Republic his weather forecast.“Crazy Americans,” the Israeli muttered as he was summoned for his scan. I decided not to let him know that some Americans thought Punxsutawney Phil was pretty good at predicting the stock market, too.Second time was more intense. There sat next to me a very large, very strong, very macho Israeli man, who strode into the room when called, then screamed and cursed for the next half hour. Seems the guy didn’t know he had claustrophobia until they rammed him inside. Judging from his appearance when he emerged, it probably took him several hours to get his eyeballs back into their sockets.I empathize, since I too am claustrophobic. My technique for staying calm? Let’s just say it would not be medically approved.The writer, an American immigrant, is the author of Yom Kippur Party Goods (John Hunt/O Books, 2011). His first novel, Ha’kodem, is in the works.
