This Normal Life — All about "normal" life in Israel

Cloudy with a chance of missiles

by Brian on July 13, 2025

in Cancer,In the News,Living Through Terror,War in Gaza

It takes about two-and-a-half minutes for a hospital patient like me to get out of bed, throw on my slippers and robe, grab the IV pole in one hand and my nephrostomy bag full of that night’s urine drain, open the double isolation doors, don a mask and a protective smock and shuffle my way down the labyrinthine corridors of Hadassah-University Ein Kerem Medical Center’s Sharett Institute in Jerusalem’s Ein Kerem, to the safe room tucked away in the nurses’ training area. All the while, other more agile individuals zip by with looks of empathy and superiority.

Once there, there are usually no seats for this straggler. From time to time, a kindly shelter-goer, younger and more able than me, offers to scootch over or share his or her seat with this eyes-half-closed, tongue-wagging-out portrait of pre-dawn pathos.

At home, in the not-so-distant past, when sirens were just becoming a daily part of our life, Israel’s Homeland Security developed an alert that screeches on every phone in the country, warning that “something” is coming to “somewhere.” I’d get dressed and wait at the top of the stairs in our apartment. If it wasn’t a false alarm (as was the case more often than not here in Jerusalem), and a siren did sound for our area, only then would I trudge down the 42 steps to our shared protected “miklat.”

That seemed like a sound strategy when the missiles were launched by the Houthis in Yemen whose aim is notoriously inaccurate and less frequent.

Not so in the hospital during the 12-Day War with Iran, where the nurses bang on your door and stay with you until you get to your destination, fall or fail.

Hospitalization is already a bitch. Add in missiles and you haven’t created an environment conducive to relief. (Those 5 a.m. blood draws will interrupt anyone’s sleep cycle.)

Fortunately, because of my immunodepleted system, I am back in a private isolation room on the Bone Marrow Transplant ward.

I am admitted on a Thursday and set up my room the way I like it. Midday on a Friday, Dr. Arnon comes to visit.

His expression is resolute.

“It looks like they’re going to have to move you to a different room, on level -4, the basement.”

“It’s not as nice,” Arnon admits. There are no windows, “but there’s an upside: The entire floor is a protected space. So, if there’s a siren, you don’t have to move!”

“But why?” I protest. “I like it here. All my stuff is here. I know the staff and all the protocols.”

“You tested positive for CRE,” Arnon elaborates.

CRE is the dreaded antibiotic-resistant bacteria you really only get in hospitals. CRE is short for “carbapenem enterobacterales.” It can cause pneumonia, urinary tract infections and meningitis, among other ailments. In 2017, 13,000 patients in the U.S. contracted CRE. It preys in particular on immunocompromised people.

While I don’t have any CRE-induced illnesses (yet), the problem is that the other people on this ward are immunocompromised, too. “So, if you’re stuck in

a small, protected space with dozens of other patients, you could spread it to them. On -4, by contrast, everyone has CRE, so it’s not a problem.”

I wonder how they handled Covid in in the early days of the pandemic? I imagine the opposite: Under no circumstances are you allowed to leave your room.

Arnon and I argue back and forth. The head nurse jumps in.

“What if I refuse?” I demand, getting more and more agitated.

“You could do that, but we’re trying to get you better from this infection that sent you here in the first place.”

Eventually, I acquiesce, and an orderly who speeds through the corridor, presumably dreaming of someday changing careers to Egged bus driver, rolls my bed and suitcase to -4.

My face drops even more than I know possible, and I nearly throw a gargantuan tantrum. This is not a series of private rooms with doors and TVs and a place for someone to accompany you to sleep; instead it is one big space with about 25 people, most of them in dire condition, with flimsy curtains between beds to provide a modicum of privacy. They wheel me next to a man who screams every 10 minutes at the top of his lungs in Yiddish-tinged Hebrew, “I don’t want to be here! I need to get out! Save me!

I know what you mean, buddy!

Other patients are groaning incessantly. The beeps and tweets and rhythmic cheeps of the IV machines sound like birds sending out mating calls across the cavernous room. The nurses’ voices seem cranked up to eleven, speaking as loudly as they can, yelling across the expanse. There’s no red button to summon a nurse as you have in a proper ward; you have to catch his or her eye through the curtain which the previous nurse invariably forgets to close. Lights out at midnight? Better bring eyepatches.

How is this supposed to be a place of healing? I wonder. The copious quantity of invisible germs floating around the ward, gloves and smocks notwithstanding, must be astounding.

It is, in short, to paraphrase children’s author Judith Viorst, shaping up to be a most terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way to spend a night.

I am determined to get out of there.

I call my hematologist and insist there must be an out-of-the-box solution. After numerous consultations and an as-expected sleepless night, it is decided I can go home the next day. My wife, Jody, will administer the IV antibiotics herself antibiotics there. A nurse explains exactly how to do it. It’s not what the doctors’ prefer, but it’s a workable compromise and my infection ultimately abates.

If it is my misfortune to have to be hospitalized when missiles from the Middle East come a calling again, I only hope that, by then, my CRE will have resolved and diminutive protected spaces will be but a memory.

I first wrote about floor -4 for The Jerusalem Post.

Photo by German Krupenin on Unsplash

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This is your brain on mushrooms

by Brian on June 29, 2025

in Cancer,Health,Just For Fun,Mindfulness,Reviews,Science

I’m staring down a mug filled with a warm brown liquid. I’ve traveled a long way to drink this cocktail that looks like chunky hot chocolate.

“Drink it down slowly,” instructs Shawn, my guide for what will be one of the most unusual therapy sessions I’ve embarked upon, unusual because the chunks in my beverage are not undissolved chocolate squares but psilocybin – that is, magic mushrooms.

I haven’t come all this way to see Shawn just to get high. This is about psycho-spiritual healing.

I had been itching to see what psychedelic-mediated therapy would do for me ever since I began following Michael Pollan, the author of the best-selling book How to Change Your Mind. A little psilocybin, mushroom advocates explain, can work wonders to address one’s fear of death, an issue that’s become much more up front for me as I’ve been going through treatment for aggressive lymphoma.

Many people who choose to dabble in psychedelic-mediated therapy go to one of the luxurious retreat centers that have popped up in places such as the Netherlands, Jamaica and Costa Rica. There are usually around five therapists and 15 participants. Costs can rise into the thousands of dollars for a weekend, including gourmet vegan meals.

Shawn offered a different approach: one-on-one therapy while under the influence. He would stay with me for the entire trip (which lasts around six hours) in order to contain me if uncomfortable or painful memories arise or in the unlikely event I had a psychotic break.

The mushroom drink was not unpleasant. Any bitterness was masked by the sweet chocolate. After draining my mug, I lay down on a mattress on the floor of Shawn’s counseling room and donned a pair of eye patches. Some people opt to wear headphones, too, but Shawn suggested he play music on his Bluetooth speaker so we could communicate more freely.

I relaxed on the mattress, waiting for the mushrooms to work their magic, so to speak, but after 45 minutes, I didn’t feel much of anything.

“That’s odd,” Shawn said quietly. “Two and a half grams is usually enough for a first time.” He brewed up another half a cup which I enthusiastically downed.

Another 45 minutes passed and … still nothing. Did Shawn procure the wrong kind of mushrooms? I worried.

I started to drink a third cup when, finally, I started feeling woozy. I lay down again. I was prepped to see reality blur, colors dance, maybe even a few visions of angels.

To my surprise – and initial disappointment – there were no hallucinations forthcoming. I was definitely in an altered state, just not what I’d anticipated.

And then I couldn’t shut up.

For the next three hours, my mouth ran almost stream of consciousness, like a populist politician at a pre-election rally. I related how I felt betrayed by my body. I shared personal details about my family

All the while Shawn listened intently, feeding back to me what I’d said, asking questions where appropriate, gently guiding, always nurturing. Would my babbling still seem so erudite when I listened to the tape – yes, Shawn recorded everything – the next morning?

“I’m probably driving you nuts,” I said to Shawn at one point.

“Everybody’s journey is different,” Shawn responded, adding that mine was not such an unusual reaction. “I’m here for whatever comes up.”

It’s hard to imagine how this would all work in a group retreat setting. Part of the power of this encounter was having Shawn there by my side the whole time, facilitating what essentially became a multi-hour therapy session.

It was late afternoon by the time the mushrooms wore off. Shawn prepared a plate of rice, beans and salad (what, no fungi?) which I eagerly devoured (for the full psychedelic experience, you’re not supposed to eat anything prior to ingesting the psilocybin).

In the days following my trip, I noticed that I was feeling more vulnerable and exposed than usual. A sense of surprising sadness had broken through my usual veneer of normal functioning. I would get teary unexpectedly. I wanted to hug whoever was nearby. It was as if my heart had cracked open, suffusing me in unbridled love.

Indeed, the sensation I had after the trip was not unlike falling in love for the first time.

I wanted more!

Had the mushrooms stripped away my usual cognitive defenses to reveal emotions I’d long hidden away? Maybe. One of the ways psychedelics work is by blurring or breaking down the barrier between the logical, cognitive, intellectual left side of the brain and the emotional/ creative/ connected right.

I was now living much more on the right side of my noggin. Or put differently: I had access to the side of my brain I tend to shut down to avoid getting too close to difficult, painful thoughts.

My wife, Jody, has had these sorts of intense experiences at the end of the week-long meditation retreats she used to attend in the days before Covid. Mushrooms got me there in just a few hours. In terms of return-on-investment, I’d say the mushrooms win.

“How long will this feeling last?” I asked Shawn, as I prepared to leave.

“Could be a week, a month, or maybe forever,” he replied. “Once the gate has been cracked, you’ll know how to open it again.”

“Do people come back and do psychedelics with you a second time?” I asked.

“Some,” he said. “You didn’t have a bad trip; you didn’t feel nauseous. I think you might be ready for a higher dose next time.”

But alas, the feelings ultimately faded and my fears around death returned, although these days they’ve given way to musings about the nature of quantum mechanics and consciousness. Or was that, perhaps, also an after effect of the mushrooms?

I first experimented with magic mushrooms for The Jerusalem Post.

Photo by Damir Omerović on Unsplash

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Could consciousness last forever?

by Brian on June 15, 2025

in Reviews,Science

Neuroscientist Sam Harris is a five-time New York Times best-selling author who explores controversial questions about society, current events, religion and moral philosophy on his popular podcast Making Sense.

His wife, Annaka is a science writer herself. Her book “Conscious: A brief guide to the fundamental mystery of the mind” became a Time best-seller in 2019. She’s just released a new documentary series on the consciousness conundrum. In its eight audio episodes, “Lights On” tries to answer, among its many questions, “Is consciousness fundamental?”

“Fundamental,” in this case, is a shortcut that scientists use to signal that consciousness is not something that arises from matter (i.e., the physical structures of our brains and bodies) but is rather a basic building block of reality itself.

That is, consciousness is more like the concepts of space, time or energy than it is a manifestation of our living brains, only to vanish when our bodies stop functioning.

Compare consciousness to a radio. You can smash the radio and the music stops, but that doesn’t mean the music came from the radio. The device just translated a signal that already existed “out there.”

In my article, “Can quantum entanglement save my failing body?” (May 4, 2024), I explored how quantum mechanics might explain how consciousness could live on after we die. That piece pursued a scientific bent. This time, I got to thinking more about the philosophical desirability of a consciousness that continues forever.

In short, would one even want this? And how does that change my own thoughts as a cancer patient about dying, whether that’s sooner or later?

For most of my life, my biggest worry about death has been the fear of non-existence. How can it be that one moment I’m a living, sentient being, interacting with the world, writing, loving, playing, traveling, parenting, husbanding and so much more – and then in the blink of an eye, all goes black?

Philosophers and mindfulness gurus will present reassuring platitudes such as, “We come from nothing before birth and that’s where we go back to.” But after decades of living in a world filled with “somethings,” non-existence is truly terrifying.

My hope, rather, was to somehow be able to export into the cosmos an immortal consciousness that would allow me, at the very least, to “watch” what happens to this world, to my children and grandchildren and all their descendants.

That in turn would address my insatiable curiosity that wants to know everything:

What will happen with all the technology I track obsessively today? Will artificial intelligence help or hinder humanity?
Will there be an eventual cure for cancer, or extended lifespans (even if I can’t take advantage of either)?
Will the world descend into tireless tariff tits for tat and totalitarianism, or will a backlash cement compassionate capitalism over the next 10,000 years?

On a more mundane level, if I were to die before the conclusion of a particularly binge-worthy TV shows (see my article, “A couch potato’s TV dreams,” April 20, 2025), how would I ever find out who or what was behind that smoke monster on “Lost.”

If consciousness is fundamental, though – meaning it continues even when our bodies don’t – I could still “attend” my grandchildren’s bnei mitzvot and eventually weddings; I could observe them as they grow up and have their own children.

But I would essentially be a ghost. I couldn’t interact physically with the humans I loved and left behind – or the ones to come – for whom I’d exist mainly on videotape and, for anyone willing to spend the time, my collection of articles, books and radio shows.

Moreover, if consciousness lasts forever, I’d eventually have to witness all those I loved die themselves. Would I be able to interact with them in a post-physical world – a heaven of sorts? Or would I be forced to mutely watch humanity destroy the Earth and, eventually, billions of years from now, sit back as the sun explodes and the universe collapses in on itself?

And what then?

What began to dawn on me as I explored this agonizing and, for now, unknowable philosophical enigma, is that it has changed my views on death. If before it was fear of non-existence, of “missing out,” I propose a new label: SOMO – the sadness of missing out.

Fear turned into sadness parallels two of the seven stages of grief, defined originally in part by Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Indeed, this SOMO-powered response might provide a more uplifting frame for someone who’s currently sick and scared.

It also might allow me to spend more time focusing on the things I want right now – getting down on the ground and playing with my two adorable grandchildren, taking short but manageable hikes, enjoying the best take-out food Jerusalem has to offer – rather than being overwhelmed with the inevitable nihilism of an immortal yet untouchable consciousness.

In an episode of the third season of the hit TV show “The White Lotus,” a Buddhist monk describes consciousness after death like a drop of water returning to the ocean. Consciousness is not lost, but nor is it individual anymore; it’s part of a collective.

While that’s a nice way to think about the future with less – if not no – sadness, it’s a bit too woo-woo to provide real comfort; I still look to science, not spirituality, to guide me, which is why I’m eager to start Annaka Harris’s documentary.

Or maybe it’s time to drop some psilocybin (magic mushrooms), which can be quite effective at transforming our beliefs on death.

Or so I’m told.

I first wrote about whether I’d want my consciousness to last forever at The Jerusalem Post.

Image by Julien BLOT from Pixabay.

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Words matter: How we speak about cancer can hinder healing

by Brian on June 5, 2025

in A Parent in Israel,Cancer,Health

In 2017, when I was diagnosed for the first time with lymphoma, I wrote a frustrated piece about how the words we use to speak about cancer can significantly hinder one’s experience of healing.

Now, with the effects of cancer treatment staring me squarely – and much more threateningly – in the face, I wanted to revisit that article and share some of what I’ve learned in the ensuing eight years.

The single biggest issue I have (as do many others, I presume) is the personification of the interlocution.

What I mean is that nearly every conversation – be it in person, via WhatsApp, or other types of Internet communication – is not really about me. It’s about consoling you. That’s not to say you’re doing this for any nefarious purpose. Perhaps when confronted with something truly terrifying – “my good friend might die” – you simply want to let that person know you care.

But it always starts with “I.”

• “I feel so bad.”
• “I know you’ll get better soon.”
• “I hope this is just a blip, and we’ll have many more trips and tiyulim together.”
• “What’s your Hebrew name? I want to pray for you.”

It’s so – and I hesitate to point fingers and label anyone this way because it applies to good friends as well – so very narcissistic. And it puts the onus on the side of the sick person to essentially comfort the comforter.

• “I don’t feel that bad, really.”
• “Of course, I’ll be getting better soon.”
• “I’m still looking forward to that family trip to the fjords we have planned for this summer!”
• “You want to pray for me? Knock yourself out (even though I’m convinced it won’t do a thing).”

Underlying the message is the ultimate caveat: If I don’t get better, on what or whom can we blame my demise? Not having the right attitude? My essay from January 10 on “Cancer is not a battle” addresses how our choice of words can inadvertently weaponize the experience in a way that may also end in defeat.

Speaking to someone with cancer comes with all sorts of new challenges. Asking something as innocuous as “How are you?” becomes a loaded question even when the intention was to be a breezy placeholder for a longer conversation to be held later.

Should the person suffering from cancer respond by kindly cocking his or her head to deflect such an unbidden and upsetting chat? Or do you play along by inserting a cheerful sidebar, leading inevitably to the follow-up: “Tell me all about it!”

How can you suss out where the person in front of you is holding regarding whether the time is right to initiate a more substantial dialogue?

There’s more background to my sacred screed, and it involves an argument my wife, Jody Fox Blum, and I have been having for years. When I don’t feel well – whether that’s from too much pain or being overwhelmed by emotions – I have little room left in my brain to “see” Jody, to understand and acknowledge what she needs.

To my horror, I’ve become that same narcissistic id that I berate others for lobbing my way – and yet I do the same, seemingly without compunction.

It can be over something small – the air conditioner is too cold, it’s too hot – or something big – with whom would I be comfortable having sleep over in my hospital room? Jody, of course, but she would quickly burn out without a break.

I rage and I vent, but eventually I “see” Jody enough, and we come to a compromise. That’s who we are and always have been as a couple.

But then it occurred to me – I’m not being seen or heard, either. That’s not to say Jody doesn’t perceive how much I’m suffering, how each cough is like a dagger stabbing into my rib cage (necessitating more of my new best friend, fast-acting Oxycodone syrup).

But if I’m being honest, I want her to internalize the full experience of my being in pain; what feeling discomfort strong enough to send you to the ER at midnight is like; and what that would feel like if it continued for six months with nary a break.

Naturally, I don’t want Jody or anyone else to go through such pain (just as I’m happy never having birthed three babies). But when you say, “You’re going to get better,” it makes me wonder if you don’t “see” or “hear” or “experience” me, but what you really want is to get away from my presence as quickly as possible, lest my contagion of misery prove truly catching.

In 2018, in my first round of chemotherapy, I wrote (on one of my least religious days), “Instead of praying for me, the next time you’re walking down the street, smile at someone you don’t know or just say hello to a stranger. And when you do, please think of me.”

That sentiment still sticks. But let me update that with a new credo for 2025, one that encapsulates what I’d like to hear now and that might indicate you do, in fact, see me:

“It sucks. It just plain sucks.”

I first shared my thoughts on how we speak about cancer at The Jerusalem Post.

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The full Monty

by Brian on May 16, 2025

in Cancer,Health,Technology

It was around the same time as my formerly slow-growing cancer transformed into its aggressive cousin, with new tumors sprouting up in alarming succession, that our 14-year-old Maltese, Monty, developed a tumor of his own. Not lymphoma impacting the kidneys like me, but a large tumor on his liver.

He began losing weight, his spine stuck out, more reptilian than mammalian in appearance, and he couldn’t stop peeing. We tried to increase his walk schedule from three times a day to every two hours, but with my own mobility compromised, my wife, Jody, lined up a rotation of neighborhood teenagers to pick up the slack.

A lock box with a combination was installed on the wall outside our front door to allow easier access for our intrepid dog angels, but when even their visits proved not to be frequent enough, we opted to put him in doggie diapers so he could wander around indoors without ruining our rugs.

The parallels with my own situation proved to be unnerving.

Like Monty, I had already lost weight and my spine had become more prominent, too. With my main tumor bearing down on my bladder, one night I woke up having wet the bed, incontinence being the latest indignity.

Before you know it, dreadfully embarrassed, I was wearing diapers of my own.

“The difference between the two of you,” Jody explained, “is that Monty can’t tell us how he’s feeling but we can put him down when it gets to be too much. You, on the other hand, can describe exactly what’s going on in painstaking detail, but we’re not considering euthanizing you!”

For both of us, though, a sinister countdown had started. Monty’s outcome was mostly foretold: Our vet gave him three months without medication; double that if we plied him with steroids, painkillers and liver aids. We saw no reason to prolong the end for a dog whose age in approximate “human years” was fast approaching 98 and who was clearly suffering.

Still, as I grappled with my own agony, waiting for the sci-fi CAR-T treatment that could potentially cure me, a black humor overtook any residual optimism.

Who would die first, Monty or me?

While I wasn’t anticipating an imminent demise for myself, for Monty, it was a real question: When would his quality of life become so compromised that it was no longer worth trudging on?

Most of the day, when he wasn’t searching for a place to pee, he just lay around, already looking half a corpse. But then we would come home from the hospital or an afternoon playing with the grandkids, and he would squiggle and wiggle and look at us longingly with those big black eyes (the ones from which he couldn’t see particularly well given his deep cataracts).

Ethically, though, making the call at this point still didn’t feel right.

The first serious writing on the wall came when Monty began having neurological events. One day, he returned from his walk unable to use his front right leg. It then shifted and he couldn’t use his back-left leg. He started walking sideways. He fell over. Climbing our home’s internal staircases became an ordeal, like heading up Mount Everest without a Sherpa in sight.

Ironically, we got Monty when he was three months old, just after we returned from a trip of our own to Nepal, where we celebrated my 50th birthday and our youngest son, Aviv’s, bar mitzvah. After 11 days hiking in the Himalayas, we figured we’d exhausted our bucket list of big family trips and could now consider a furry addition to the Blum household. (We were wrong about the trips – that one turned out to be just the beginning.)

Monty was pure Maltese, bred by a family in Jerusalem who, remarkably, didn’t ask for any payment.

We debated names for a couple of weeks. We considered “Malty the Maltese,” but that seemed too on-the-nose. “Monty” was close enough, plus it was a congenial reminder of my 50-year-long Monty Python obsession.

Jody gave it a more Jewish spin, insisting it was short for “Montefiore.”

Monty quickly became our constant companion – and occasional nemesis (I still miss the slippers he chewed up in his first days at home). He accompanied us on long hikes, cuddled in bed, and barked frenetically at doorbells and other dogs.

As the vet’s three-month “deadline” loomed, Monty’s behavior was running more and more ragged. He wiggled less when we offered him a walk, he regarded us with disdain when we deigned to affix his diaper, and his days sprightly ascending stairs, let alone mountains, were all but over.

When it was clear that all we were doing was prolonging the inevitable, we tried to schedule a date. But my own hospitalization was getting in the way. I wanted to be there to hold him as the vet administered the sedative that would put him to sleep before a second shot of phenobarbital stopped his heart.

As “luck” would have it, I was released from Hadassah for a weekend “Shabbat hofesh” (vacation). My room would be saved and, if anything untoward happened over the weekend, I could come right back “home” rather than the ER.

The vet opened up a special slot for us on Sunday morning at 8:15 am. The whole process took 10 minutes. I waited for Monty to close his eyes, not realizing he was already gone, and his breathing had ceased.

It was tremendously sad and, when I return home, his absence will be felt in so many large and small ways. His legacy will live on in our hearts and in the hundreds of pictures and videos we’ve taken over his well-loved life.

As for me, I’m still wearing that damned diaper, hoping the treatment will work and I’ll reach the equivalent of Monty’s 98 “human years.”

I first wrote about Monty and me in The Jerusalem Post.

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