A STUDY OF THE OBVIOUS

I just read a study that followed 1,446 patients and was recently published in "The Annals of Oncology." Entitled "Evaluation of psychosocial distress in patients treated in a community-based oncology group practice in Germany" the study determined (among other things) that patients who fought the hardest to be released from inpatient hospital stays generally lived longer than patients who followed doctors' orders and waited to be released.

I'm happy to note this appears to confirm one of my first rules for patients: "Never allow yourself to be admitted to the hospital unless you are convinced the only alternative is death. Always remember: Hospitals are looked upon as revenue producers and profit-centers by their administrators and are now, more than ever, not a place to get better.  Try like hell to stay out and then fight like hell to get out as soon as you can.

AGING IS NOT THE SAME AS GETTING OLD -- AS LONG AS YOU LET LIFE BREATHE

It doesn't make it any easier to deny the truth, so I'll just confirm reports that today is my birthday. It's my 63d birthday. I certainly don't feel like I'm in my 60s and I don't think I act like I'm a sexagenarian (very often), but I've double-checked the math and any claims to the contrary are clearly wrong.  The cancer that wants to attack my body has been beaten back for the moment but probably will resume its guerrilla war inside my body when it finishes a few more months in rehab and is strong enough for hostile activities. But I've used this latest lull in combat to grow stronger myself and I'm more confident than ever that that particular battle will be won.

For almost 20 years now, March 16 has taken on another very special meaning for me, In 1993, on my 45th birthday, a rebel editorial staff led by me took over the New York Post and published the paper's now-legendary Alexander Hamilton edition --  a paper where every story screamed facts against the paper's new owner in a last-gasp effort to replace the publisher and let the paper survive. It's an edition and a rebellion that I can proudly claim credit for. No one will dispute this well documented fact..

It was the high-water mark of craziness during two months of insanity that those closest to it have come to call "The Carnival." It is, was and will be the highlight of my life. And I knew it at the time. On my 45th birthday I knew I was living through a battle that my entire life would be judged against. To be honest, life became considerably more complicated when I realized what fate had drawn me into. 

I discovered that other men before me had experienced the same fate. I became obsessed with Joshua Chamberlain, the hero of Gettysburg who literally saved the Union while in his 20s and then went on to become the governor Maine and a college president. But he wrote extensively of the burden of reaching his peak early in life knowing he could never top it.

Those writings, and others, made me realize how foolish it would be to spend the rest of my life burdened by my biggest success. This bit of knowledge changed my life in many ways. Most importantly, it gave me the self-confidence and courage -- yes, courage -- to find, fall in love with and marry the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world. 

Marcia might become as great a moment in my life as those days in 1993. But either way, I can honestly say: "Life is good. Very good."

And. at the end, I'll proudly stand on my record. Right now, I'll just wish myself a self-satisfied (and admittedly self-absorbed) Happy Birthday!    


 

MY PLAN - 50 YEARS AGO TODAY

A few weeks ago one of my doctors asked me if my next appointment could be on March 11. The date seemed familiar. So familiar that I hesitated before I checked my calendar. Then, suddenly, I remembered – March 11 was the date of my bar mitzvah. On a hunch, I did a little math in my brain and realized it’s the 50^th anniversary of the event this year.

 

The memories came rushing back. The years of fear and torture before the day. Being so incredibly uncomfortable and the sheer terror of the day. And, especially, that one magic moment when it was finally over that has been forever seared in my memory and made it all worthwhile – I guess.

I was first sentenced to the torture of Hebrew school when I was eight years old and still living in The Bronx. It was in an orthodox shul and my teacher was a young Israeli guy just out of the army. He told us incredible stories of the many battles he fought against the Arab legion and yelled at us if we didn’t read Hebrew as well as he thought we should. And he screamed at us for being soft Americans who didn’t appreciate our easy lives. I clearly remember that he told us if we were lucky enough to have been born in Israel we would already be experienced runners in the army dashing through sewers and ducking bullets to deliver important messages during desperate battles with well-armed Arab troops who were constantly sniping at the peace-loving Israelis.

Even then, I could tell that foreign languages were something I was never going to master. Hebrew was even harder than other languages because we weren’t expected to know what we were reading, We were just required to be able to make the sounds required by the strange symbols printed  backwards on pages that went the wrong way. So I did what any other Bronx kid would do in the 1950s. Instead of going to Hebrew school five days a week after regular school, I enjoyed myself playing with my friends and just stopped going to Hebrew school. I expected the worst when my parents discovered my scam but was surprised by my father’s reaction – he understood.

But in my family, not having a bar mitzvah was not an option. I came to look upon it as a kind of initiation into Judaism. But in my case it was definitely more like hell week. Reading Hebrew – or rather not being able to – was the biggest problem. But since Judaism is one of the few religions that is still practiced in a foreign language – something that most religions have abandoned -- I had to learn how to do it if I was going to complete the initiation. So, when we moved to Queens in 1960, I gave Hebrew school another shot.

It was a little different. For one thing, the new shul was conservative. And classes were only three days a week. So I started over again learning how to read Hebrew – and got about as far as before.

But I faked it pretty well. At least until the time came to focus on my bar-mitzvah and learn my haftorah. For those unfamiliar with Jewish ritual, the haftorah is the part of the Sabbath service that explains the meanings (some of them hidden and mystical) of that week’s portion of the Torah that was read earlier in the service. It’s origins are a mystery but there is a different haftorah for each Torah portion. Some are short and some long. Like everything else in a kid’s world, it wasn’t necessary to understand what the Hebrew meant, it was just necessary to be able to read it – or, rather, sing it. 

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the haftorah had to be sung. I also forgot to mention that I cannot sing. Not a note. Totally tone deaf. In junior high school I was the one who was told to just lip synch because my voice was throwing off everyone around me who could actually carry a tune. Luckily, I didn’t know yet that I couldn’t sing, Lucky for me but torture for everyone listening to me. 

About a year before my bar-mitzvah the rabbi figured out which week it would take place and presented me with my haftorah. Two things of note here – my haftorah was the one of the longest of the year and I would have to do it alone. Oy vey!  I was never told what the haftorah was about, but I learned years later it concerned what animals were to be slaughtered to atone for different sins. The entire haftorah – as well as the Torah portion it explained -- was made obsolete by the destruction of the Temple by the Romans in 73 AD. 

My torture became official when the rabbi handed me that little blue booklet containing the text of myhaftorah and a 78 rpm vinyl disc of him chanting the text. I remember that the record had two holes in the middle and was a very poor quality recording of the rabbi’s especially nasal voice. I still can’t figure out how I was going to learn this 25-minute  chant  in the single year they had given me.

About a month before the big day, the rabbi discovered I was just as pathetic as I was 11 months before. I think he told my parents how bad it was because they made me take specil lessons from him despite the extra cost. Needless to say, the lessons did no good at all.

For at least a year, I was incredibly worried about what I was going to do on March 11 because I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. It kept me up at night and even made me take out the scratchy record and try to learn the haftorah. I was sure I was going to humiliate myself and my entire family on the big day. For over a year my father had struggled to finish our basement for the “expensive” reception that had been arranged immediately following the ceremony. I figured if my dad could do heavy construction by that deadline, the least I could do was learn the haftorah. But I couldn’t. Even if I tried, I could not learn the damned thing. What was I going to do? Man, was I scared. 

The answer came to me like a lightening bolt. It was an amazing plan. It was perfect. And like all great plans it was elegant in its simplicity. I had nothing to worry about. Three days to go and I had figured it out. Genius.

The big Saturday arrived and I didn’t have a care in the world. I remember singing “Get Me to the Shul On Time” from the “My Fair Lady” as I got dressed. The action triggered the first hitch in my plan. Everything I put on was brand new and purchased especially for the occasion. My shirt collar was so itchy that my neck turned bright red before I left the house. And my new wool suit was, of aqll things, made out of wool. I couldn’t wear wool. It was itchy. I was actually unable to wear a wool suit for the next 30 years – until I discovered that for a little more money, the more expensive suits used a better quality of wool that was actually comfortable. So on the big day, I had to wear a pair of thin cotton pajamas under my suit pants. It would have been embarrassing if anyone discovered what I was doing but it was worth it. And no one found out.

With my plan in place, I spent the first two hours of the morning Sabbath service sitting next to the rabbi on stage in shul. Every so often, the rabbi would tell me to change the page number that the congregation was to turn to – a job I had secretly craved for months. Even with my plan in place, I was getting nervous. I was experiencing the torture of my ancestors after all. My shirt collar was even tighter and it was a struggle to keep my pants pulled down over my pajamas. When the time came for my big moment, my knees were actually knocking together. It was the only time in my life – so far – that that has happened to me. I remember my voice was very weak and shakey during  the first part of the haftorah, a part that I had gone over so many times that even I knew it by heart. 

I was about to get into the no-mans-land of my haftorah when my plan kicked in. I quickly settled down and, for the next 20 minutes, calmly and loudly chanted the unknown. The plan kicked in and a calm settled over me because about a week before, I had transliterated the rabbi’s recording and carefully printed in light pencil the entire haftorah using equivalent English letters. Brilliant! And it worked.

When it was over, I looked up for the first time. In the first row, left of center, were my parents. I remember my father’s face like it was yesterday. He had a very unusual look. It was a look of pride. Pride in me. It was the first time I had ever seen that face and one of only a handful of times I remember him having that look.

Then the cantor came over and shook my hand. This was no small thing because he was Steve Lawrence’s father. Then the rabbi came over and took my hand. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.” Then he took my battered blue book from the alter and was about to hand it to me. It was almost in my hands when he glanced down and saw my plan.

“I’ll just keep this,” he said and put the secret in the inside pocket of his double breasted darl blue suit. I never learned what happened to it. All I k now is that I survived. I passed the initiation. At least I guess I did.