A Meditation on The Day Of Atonement - 2010

As we approach Yom Kippur, we are encouraged to examine our lives, perhaps improve them, and ask those whom we may have wronged for forgiveness. This year I thought I'd change my habit, and recognize a few people who performed acts of remarkable good.

We're getting on to two years since I was operated on for removal of a brain tumor. It's a curious experience. When you see the diagnosis on the sheet of paper that you're carrying around from one doctor's office to the next, things become clear. At first, that critical diagnosis block said xxxxoma, or some such. Then, one day, sitting in the neurosurgery clinic at Georgetown University Hospital, my eyes wandered over the latest sheet to be clipped to the outside of my medical record. There, with a clarity that any non-medical person could grasp, was the new term: “brain tumor.” How much easier to comprehend. The term comes with its own particular sets of meanings, family history, and, if I'd been so inclined, fears.

It took months, and a second hospital and surgeon, laboriously located through my wife's intrepid searching, before I came upon the surgeon who was confident that he could actually remove the tumor without doing me in. While the previous doctor had seemed a bit dismayed at the possibility of operating on my tumor, this fellow seemed to view it as routine. He ticked off what could go wrong, but he did it as if just going through formalities. Part of that was inspiring patient confidence, no doubt, but you can't do something really difficult if you don't believe in your ability to do it. And this, my friends, was really, really difficult. He spent nine an a half hours doing it. Later, I asked all three of his residents how much he let them do. The told me that he did it all. His name is Dr. Aaron Dumont. He's THE man, and he's got all the chips he needs on the positive side, as far as I'm concerned. If my wife hadn't found him, I suppose that I'd be dead or paralyzed now, since I probably wouldn't have bothered looking for him myself. If he wants to drop by on little or no notice, with his family, for a cookout, or to learn to tie flies, he shouldn't hesitate. My door is open

Doctors, of course, are in the business of repairing us. What about people who don't actually know you that well, and don't have command of quite so impressive a set of technical skills? When I got home from the hospital, I was in need of near constant care for more than a little while. Two members of our congregation spent hours, or more likely days, at a kitchen facility, cooking meals for us, which they then froze, labeled, and stored in a freezer in one of their garages, where my wife could fetch them, as needed. We're not talking about a few TV dinner-like items. We are talking about full scale, delicious meals – serious productions. It's difficult to express just how welcome something like this is when you require constant attention whenever you are on your feet. We didn't ask these ladies to do this. They just did it. It was a mitzvah that we couldn't measure. That behavior reminded me of my father. He never waited to be asked.

Last year at this time I wasn't able to deal with the mental and physical debris of the operation. My body was still so impacted by the after effects of the operation that I preferred to make every day as close to normal as possible, as if nothing had ever happened, so I didn't give much thought to those who had done so much for me.. It wasn't a very effective strategy, but fortunately, that phase is over. The other day I was digging for something in a corner of my workshop, and came upon a big sheet of heavy foil that I'd saved to use on this year's scare crow. It was a cover from one of those meals that had been prepared for us. I'm not likely to forget the preparers, Diane Dietz and Cindi Reiss, any time soon, either. Nobody asked them. They just did all that cooking.

So, along with considering what we might have to atone for this year, we might consider debts that we owe to others. Those debts frequently can't be repaid, but they should be remembered.