970. 'Neath the elms

I'm still here! Spending much of my free time these days immersed in another project I hope will one day become part of my design business. It's starting slowly—but it's starting, the most important part. Alas, I have only so much extra creative energy to go around once the work day is over. I'm not taking my usual, wonderful writing class this winter, and haven't been blogging very much, either, both to make more time and space in my brain for the other venture. But "on chanting" and I haven't disappeared, and I hope to be back in full(er) force one day soon.

Meanwhile, a great deal of chanting going on. My casual remark to the cantor resulted in six weeks of aliyot of various lengths over the last eight, some sort of personal record. My nerves, still present, seem to have reached a peaceful if tentative detente with the rest of myself. One of my rabbis is teaching a wonderful class on prayer as seen through the writings of Heschel and Hassidic masters, and last week we studied these words of the Maggid of Mezeritch:

"... As the breath leaves you, it ascends to God and then it returns to you from above.
Thus that part of God which is within you is reunited with its source."

So, added the rabbi, sometimes it's good to just stop and breathe, and remind ourselves that we're constantly being recharged with (in the author's words) "that breath of heaven that is always flowing into you from above." We exhale and send the air in our lungs to God, who gives it right back. I remembered this as I chanted on Shabbat, when I placed my yad on the first word and took a deep breath. Please add a little more confidence to the mix when You return it, I thought.

I was too focused on trying to pronounce strange words for the names of jewels I could barely even recognize in English to notice if my prayer had been answered (but perhaps my concentration proved that it was). The section concluded with a description of the "Urim v'tummim," mysterious words on the high priest's breastplate meaning, maybe, "Light and perfection," although there are many other possible translations and mystical explanations. Coincidentally—or not—I had to rush out of services get to my college choir's 150th anniversary celebration, held on an enormous stage in front of a massive pipe organ crowned, at the very top, with the Yale seal emblazoned with those very words. I've written here before about the deep influence on my life of the Yale Glee Club, and especially its conductor. One of my first blog posts, almost exactly six years ago, was about my first time back on the campus in a decade. Back then, as yesterday, the place was alive with ghosts of my youth, of my mother, and of loss, joy, love.

(To be continued.)

969. Pluck

Serves me right (in an entirely good way) to have asked about more opportunities to chant. Yesterday I read haftarah, and have lots o'aliyot coming up next week and the week after. Yikes (in a good way). I've also discovered I have no idea how long it takes me to learn a section. I'm faster than I think, mostly. But I always dwell on the exceptions, and so say no when it comes to adding an aliyah or two. I need to be a little more brave.

As I walked over to the bima, the rabbi leaned over and said, sotto voce, "Go for it!" Exactly what I needed to hear. (I wonder if he noticed my big, nervous intake of breath a minute earlier before chanting the blessing.) So I threw caution to the winds, and tried to sing with everything I had. Not that I hold back, especially during the High Holy Days, but am at times more decorous than others. The rabbi's words in mind, I let more of myself through than nerves had allowed me in awhile. It was fun. Much easier to do this for haftarah, when I can clutch my own piece of paper, complete with notes and vowels, rather than when maneuvering the sea of letters that float above the dizzying cliff of memory required to read Torah--but perhaps some of my pluck will last until next Shabbat.

(I learned to chant exactly nine years ago! Why am I still nervous? But I am. And I think it's a good thing; those nerves make me look beyond the obvious, with respect to myself as well to the act of singing and reading. The answers, like Torah, change over time and are sometimes inscrutable.)

968. Finally: chanting!

Yes, believe it or not—and right before Shabbat, to boot—a post about chanting. (Not that I don't have more to say about the stem cell donation. I finally got my act together last week and answered my recipient's note, accompanied by extensive musing about how she is now a part of me as much as I am of her. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, which happens more often than I'd like, I just imagine her life, struggles, strength. They trump mine many times over; acknowledging that, I shrug and pick myself off the floor. I'm beginning to think the donation worked both ways, a little bit of her spirit flowing into me in exchange for the cells.)

But back to chanting. I did so last week, just one short aliyah, for the first time in two and a half months—my longest leining-less gap in years. No particular reason for the silence, although I did get paranoid for awhile there (and successfully talked myself out of it). The current crop of b'nai mitzvah are more amazing than ever before, and generally cover the entire reading each Shabbat between the two of them. In some instances one child reads the whole thing his/herself, as will my brilliant student in September. The relatively few chances for adults to read went to people who asked, or (it seemed to me) hadn't read much in the recent past, so it was their turn.

My short section was to fill in for someone at the last minute, and I took the occasion to ask the cantor, hmm, it's been awhile, any more opportunities coming up? So I'm reading again next week, which feels very good. I mean that literally, physically: singing, breathing for singing, is more refreshing first thing in the morning than jumping into the ocean on a hot day. (Or inhaling a mug of soup on one of these recent freezing days.) Learning an aliyah becomes an aliyah in the truest sense—my soul feels lifted up with every word. I ran into one of my b'not Torah students at services last week, who acknowledged that it was really depressing to have stopped singing after that intense event. And I realized these past 2 1/2 months took the same toll on my spirits, as well. The break was good, in many regards; I re-channeled that creative energy to a bunch of new and previously neglected projects. But I'm very happy to redirect it back home, especially since those other ventures are starting to take flight.

967. Update!

Yes, another post not about chanting, and with an exclamation point in the title to boot—update received from my stem cell recipient, and so far all is well! Engraftment was successful, meaning that her body didn't reject my cells and they're starting the process of creating a new immune system. She's home from the hospital, although not yet out of the woods (rejection, infection, and other nasty things could happen at a later date)—but this was the first big hurdle. I'm glad to able to say "congratulations" in my answer to her note.

I am now very proud of my stem cells, if I say so myself, and of God (and many teams of doctors) for knowing what to do with them. This is great news to have at the start of the secular year, just as donating those cells was a fitting way to begin the Jewish new year. Good timing on the part of the universe, which sometimes does get it right.

966. What is the Qur'an?

Here's an excellent video, linked from Islamicate:

"What is the the Qur'an? An Agnostic Jew Speaks. Lesley Hazelton at TEDx."



(TEDxs are "independently organized TED events.") The title says it all, and the speaker is brilliant, straightforward, and funny. And I wish she could have been at my side at a recent gathering when a member of my extended family severely tested my commitment to shalom bayit. I bit my tongue and knew I'd lost the argument before even uttering a word, because he was the kind of guy interested in no opinion but his own (wrong, scary, bigoted one). Lesley Hazelton could have made him a believer, however.

965. Rain

Not much blogging here lately, I know. But I've been writing, mainly for the wonderful class I'm taking once again where we study a little Torah and then listen to one another's words—I am awed and inspired by both. I wish there were more hours in the day to do that, and work, and sing, and draw (an old hobby newly resurrected—or will be, once I finish clearing some space out in a corner of my bedroom). Oh, and socialize and pray and look at art and relax. I need a 48-hour day.

Meanwhile, in the middle of today's 24-hour one I led a shiva minyan. I arrived to see the rabbi deep in conversation—must be a scheduling mistake, I thought, since they certainly didn't need me if he was present. "No problem," I said to the son of the deceased. "I'm glad to stay." "The more the merrier," he answered, not ironically. A torrent of laughter came from the dining room; you could almost see the love pouring from all these good spirits. But I didn't know a soul, and suddenly felt uncomfortable. I'm not great at being a stranger in the middle of a crowd, even a really nice one. Just as I began to strategize which back wall to melt into, the wife of the deceased came over.

"You can lead now," she said with a smile. And there was the rabbi, putting on his coat and thanking me; he just came by for a visit. (Maybe he was on his way to another minyan. This winter, once again, brought a depressing increase in deaths within the community.) I was relieved to have something to do, and to do this thing in particular. (And also that the rabbi would not actually listen to me lead. Silly! They hear me sing all the time. But not in someone's living room while pretending to be in charge, even though I sort of am. It's less stressful to wear that mantle in a room full of people I don't really know.)

Today was the last day of shiva and everyone prayed wearily, too familiar with the drill. I learned that the deceased was alive and eating dinner at this time just a little more than a week ago, and then died very suddenly. The family cried and smiled and laughed, lovely, gracious people who made sure to thank crowds of friends for their support, and didn't seem numb, but I knew they were. I walked out into the rain very glad to be alive, chilly, and wet in the middle of Broadway.

964. Grateful

(Written earlier today en route to a wonderful holiday celebration.)

"I am grateful: for the enormous hearts of friends; for all the words that seem to find my eyes at just the right times; for my niece and how she can make food out of love, and vice-versa; for the solid roof over my head; for the way rain caresses the streets of my city; for cats, in general; for the ability of strangers to suddenly find each other and become one; for the miracles of science; for the fact there there are no miracles, because life in general is just one, big, amazing invention; for the blood in my veins; for the love I’ve been given and the love I have to share."

Above, my contribution to the Shine The Divine Gratitude Quilt—see here for beautiful words about why we're lucky to be alive. My day began with a little holiday breakfast with friends, and I'm now en route to my niece's new home for a magnificent feast. (I'm not particularly grateful for two hours on the train next to a woman who is talking on her cell phone in a really loud voice--about, unsurprisingly, her recent hearing test. But this wouldn't be a Jewish blog without some kvetching, right?). Thanksgiving was never a big deal when I was a kid, and always a bit depressing. I became inured to the cycle of feeling jealous and certain the whole world had better families than mine--followed, after reaching the stage of complete misery, by shrugging it off and acknowledging that things weren't so bad, after all. When I was really little, we went to my Aunt Lil's house for turkey and decorating the Christmas tree. Aunt Lil was my mother's very Catholic best friend from a childhood as part of the only Jewish family in a tiny Queens neighborhood (eventually plowed under by the BQE). I had a very Catholic best friend back then, as well, despite living in a massively Jewish neighborhood, so assumed this interfaith experience of Thanksgiving was de rigeur.

Then my parents divorced, and Thanksgiving turned into dinner at my (related by blood) aunt and uncle's. Sometimes we went out to eat, and other years did nothing at all. I don't remember much about those occasions, aside from one really depressing time at a steakhouse chain in the mall a few months before my mother died. I'm amazed, in retrospect, that she had the energy to go anywhere at all; I wish I had understood the extent of this sacrifice at the time.

But I've come to realize that my checkered holiday experiences have left me in better shape than others I know who now find themselves without family, for whatever reason, and remain stuck at the miserable part. I feel for them—but also want to slap them like Cher in Moonstruck: "Snap out of it!" Today is one of the few Thanksgivings of my adult life that I'll spend with more than one actual family member. Many past dinners took place at restaurants with wonderful friends I'll miss very much tonight, where we ate vast amounts and felt free of traditional tsuris. We live in a family-centered culture, and even in this modern era of new and fluid definitions of the word it sometimes feels like those of us without a large assortment of relatives have second class status. I know a number of people who are ashamed to admit having nowhere to go on Thanksgiving. (I hasten to add that I know more who are role models for how to reach out with strength, humor and compassion during even the crappiest of circumstances.)

So I do my best to make Thanksgiving into an occasion to share gratitude with friends--nice if they happen to be family, but equally wonderful if not. Meanwhile, about an hour away right now from some delicious food, and the loud woman just got off--a reason to be doubly thankful.

963. Student

Back to my wonderful student. I don't have much experience around kids, let alone teaching them. Awhile back I tutored a little boy, a second grader, through a public school reading program. The few personal details I was able to extract suggested that his parents were wealthy and way too busy; they bought him a room full of books but never sat there while he opened them, so he rarely did. He and I spent our time reading together, me correcting him on words while encouraging him concentrate and get excited by the stories. And he did, eventually, because I think I was one of the few adults in his life who paid this kind of attention.

I hope he learned something during our partnership, but I know I did, or more accurately, re-learned: how to think like a child, a combination of infinite patience and thoughts moving more quickly than the speed of light. I tried to remember this when preparing for my new chanting student, who could not be more different from the little boy. She's quick and focused and fascinated by a million different things, all supported by her deeply involved parents. She studies more than I ask, and is bummed that her portion isn't longer. She's also learning faster than I can teach her, and asks questions harder than anything I could come up with. Although someone else will be helping her write her d'var Torah, we've also started to study the parasha together (Shoftim), at her request. Once again, I'm pretty sure I'm learning more than she is, which I'm beginning to think is the whole, unadvertised point of teaching.

962. A note!

So I sat down to get this blog back on topic and write about my new student, a little girl preparing for her Bat Mitzvah next fall—the first non-adult I've taught—and how brilliant and quick she is, with a beautiful, strong voice that belies her tiny stature, and an almost scary ability to remember tunes as soon as she hears then (or maybe all kids are like this, and it's just we adults who are a little slow?)—when suddenly:

A note! From my stem-cell recipient!

Of course the news was delivered via a cell phone message from the bone marrow people on Wednesday afternoon, same day and time as always. I guess Wednesdays are when they leave momentous messages. I'm at a client's office at that time, and answer only when I see that number on Caller ID—which for awhile was happening every week. This time the phone was in my bag, and I didn't notice the message until I was halfway back home. I ducked into a doorway and listened. Call me, said the woman who'd given me all the news since day one, and I'll read it to you before I send it to you! I ran the rest of the way and called, out of breath.

I had no idea my recipient could get in touch before a year had passed. I recall references on other blogs to letters received, but the chronology was vague; I assumed they came after a year. But in fact both donor and recipient can exchange notes at any time, as long as they remain anonymous, via the agency that facilitated the transplant.

It was a beautiful letter, full of thanks. My recipient is a real person, and my stem cells are now doing their work in her body. It actually happened; I haven't been dreaming these past 6 months; I have her voice, in writing, to prove it. She has a family, people she loves and who love her, and the goal of getting well in time to take part in a life cycle event next year. She received a transplant before that didn't work. I am her second chance and, in clear, strong handwriting that I saw today when I finally held the actual note in my hands, wrote that she couldn't find enough words to express her gratitude for my gift of life.

Ecstatic, astonished, overwhelmed, I exhaled the biggest ever sigh of relief... but a small part of me wasn't surprised. For some reason I always imagined her as having grown children and a big family, as the note implied, perhaps because I didn't want to think of someone so gravely ill as being at all like me, who have neither. Or that it was too sad to envision her all alone during this struggle. I had harbored a secret wish that she was nice and friendly, afraid of the opposite: that she coped with disease by becoming bitter, shutting off, and would never want to know me.

It's still very early, less than a month after the transplant. Bracha is nowhere nearly out of the woods, and all I know about her condition is that she has enough energy to write, which seems like a good thing. I'll get an official update in a few weeks, and then I'll answer the note. The next update after that will be in April, or perhaps I'll get a letter in reply. Even if I don't, I now feel like God has done God's job—and quite well, at that—for this phase of the adventure.

961. Storybook

So—back to the topic of this blog, sort of. Last week I led two shiva minyanim, both for a dear friend whose mother had passed away very suddenly. Despite the shock, this family was able to speak and let others into their grief—functional, unlike some others I've encountered who were completely frozen in pain. My friend shared wonderful stories of traditions that created memories and a foundation for everything that followed in her life; her words invited us all into that warm and loving place for a few minutes. It was a little gift of a kind of childhood for which I didn't yearn back then, but only later on when I figured out that other peoples' lives were different from mine: trips to new places, laughing crowds, patterns and rituals that continued with the expectation of never ending.

I would not change the way I grew up for the world. Yes, there was yelling and death and a small, often contentious little unit of us that never travelled further than the Bronx Zoo, but also a lot of love amidst the strife. It was rarely expressed in a storybook way, with big holiday dinners or group sing-alongs (although I'm working on an essay right now for my writing class about songs my father sang to me when I was really, really little, some of which have been re-appearing in popular culture and dredging up long-forgotten Russian melodies from the dustier parts of my brain). But I knew with certainty that my parents, aunts, and uncles, for the brief period I had them, had hearts bigger than the universe, and I was in the center of them all.

My friend's siblings span the spectrum of Jewish observance: far right, middle, and disdain for the whole business. And in their grief, differences became more powerful than all they shared: the outer two factions would not help those of in the middle (my friend and I) form a minyan. They found enough people on the nights I led, but not the others. This caused everyone a lot of pain, although not enough to cross boundaries of observance. Which would have been a betrayal of memory and tradition as well, I guess, so it really was a no-win situation. It also reminded me that even storybook lives have their torn pages.

960. She jumped!

Whew. It's taken me a while to catch my breath after the donation. Physically, it was over when it was over and all I had was a big bruise on my arm. But the emotional bruise was bigger; as expected, I felt adrift. But I was secretly sure that expecting the feeling would fortify me against it. Not so. Suddenly there was nothing to do but... nothing, no more anticipation, no needles to stick myself with, just waiting to find out what would happen. And the possibility that, worst case, nothing would—a month would pass, and another and another, and "my patient" wouldn't be ready for the transplant.

But last week I got my monthly check-up phone call from the blood center, along with some very good news: "the product was infused" last Wednesday. Whew! Suddenly the whole adventure seemed scarier than even a really, really big needle: she jumped off the cliff, no turning back. And part of me jumped with her. I was taken back to the surreal feeling of that very first phone call: how is it possible that my cells can rebuild the immune system of a stranger? And how in the world can part of me be inside someone I don't even know? But it is. My friends keep reminding me that they're prime, healthy cells, and so have a excellent chance of fulfilling their purpose. I can only hope and pray, and try not to let good or bad fantasies of what might happen get in the way of living with the kind of patience and strength I imagine my recipient must have learned over the course of her illness, and the waiting for last Wednesday.

959. A list

Some random things, in no particular order, that are (in my opinion) more challenging than donating stem cells:

• Having surgery of any kind
• Root canal
• Food poisoning/stomach flu
• Ending a relationship
• Beginning a relationship
• Maintaining a relationship
• Obtaining a college education
• Working hard enough to pay all your bills
• Putting together an Ikea wall unit from instructions in Swedish (unless you're Swedish)
• Finding a job in this crappy economy
• Being audited by the IRS (so I'm told)
• Traveling anywhere by air, especially if changing planes is involved
• Chanting Torah

So I encourage everyone who is physically able to register with the NMDP. If you've lived through even one of the things on this list, trust me—donating stem cells won't seem hard at all.

958. Post-donation

I came home and fell asleep, and made it to Shemini Atzeret services the next morning after 12 hours of unconsciousness. I felt quite rested, although my energy level was less than normal and I looked kind of out of it. But happy. I also had an enormous bruise on the inside of my left arm, thanks to two IVs, bandages, and anticoagulant. (Something similar happened years ago when I gave blood.) It hurt to straighten my arm or apply pressure above the elbow, even that of a long-sleeved shirt. It's much better as of this writing, a week and a half later—today was the first time I woke up without any pain from sleeping on it—but still does hurt and looks (in the words of a friend) like I was the victim of domestic violence. I'm sure it will be better by next week; I haven't at all minded this physical sign of my donation.

I came home, slept some more, and headed back to the synagogue that evening for Simhat Torah services. I was glad to watch the joy rather than participate; my blood dancing through a big machine the day before was quite enough activity. The following morning I did manage a few circuits around the Torot while being very careful not to bump into anyone. And when I came home that afternoon I was welcomed by a beautiful bouquet of pink and white roses, still open and alive more than a week later,  from the blood center. I've made a point every day since to stop and inhale their aroma first thing in the morning, even before coffee, and spend a moment in gratitude for my life and health.

During Hallel on Shemini Atzeret, the cantor sang a beautiful, slow melody I'd never heard before to these lines of Psalm 116:

Be at ease once again, my soul
For the Lord has dealt kindly with you.
He has delivered me from death,
my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.
I shall walk before the Lord in the land of the living.
I kept my faith even when greatly afflicted, even when
in panic I cried out: All mortals are undependable.

God did not deliver me from tears at that moment; I wasn't sure if they were from joy, awe, or something completely different. I became the transplant recipient, caught between death and life and trying not to panic. I prayed I would prove her wrong about all mortals being undependable, and that she heard the prayers so many friends in my community had sent out.

The next day was Shabbat Bereshit. After talking to a friend about how many people were involved in this one miracle—everyone from the scientist who invented the apheresis machine, to the nurse who connected the collection bags, to the coordinator at the blood center who put thorough the paperwork, and the list goes on and on, hundreds of people trying to save the life of a single stranger—he observed that it was just like the parasha itself, the beginning of a story that repeats as soon as we finish telling it. Constant creation, routine and amazing. I feel like I've glimpsed angels in the back room, a new part of God that had been hidden to me. And have received, as another friend put it perfectly, the gift of being able to turn my life into someone else's path.

957. Donation, day 2

Day 2 was less dramatic because I knew what to expect, although no less intense—but not hard at all. I took myself out for breakfast and ordered the exact same thing as the day before (scrambled eggs, hash browns), since it seemed to work well. I watched through the diner window as people sped past to get to work, and felt suddenly swept up in routine, as well. Except my work for the day happened to be donating stem cells.

I left the diner and tried to get a cab, but soon realized this was impossible during rush hour. So I took a bus to the hospital, instead, which did feel strange—a little too ordinary for the task at hand.

I arrived at 9AM and met my friend Y., who had graciously offered to sit with me for the day. Although they hadn't yet finished counting the cells by 9:30AM, I was hooked up to the apheresis machine just the same. The "in" IV was placed in my right arm after a few tries (my veins were not in terrific shape after a day of hard work) and the "out" in my left, as before. But after a few minutes the machine started to beep—my blood was not flowing through the needle. It and my arm were moved and re-adjusted every which way, to no avail. Then F., my nurse for the day, called over A., a distinguished-looking man with some sort of European accent and apparently the go-to-guy for such problems, and they decided my right arm was a lost cause vein-wise. The "out" needle would now go in my left—along with the "in," through a different vein in my hand. A nice side benefit: I would have complete use of my right arm.

So IVs were moved around with very little pain (although I wasn't exactly relaxed about the whole affair), blood began flowing, and all was well. Turns out my veins weren't at fault, but rather a small blood clot at the tip of the needle site that appeared before the anticoagulant could start flowing.

By then my cell count had come back from the lab; they had over half of what was needed, but decided to keep me hooked up for the full four hours. The rest of the day was just like the day before, except this time I was in a different chair situated right in the thick of things. After hour three I was again completely exhausted, but this time hour three coincided with lunchtime. Suddenly I didn't feel well—dizzy, lightheaded. Y. and the nurse reminded me to eat, and I was just fine after a few bites of tuna on whole wheat.

Apheresis machine, day 2

Finally, hour four—the machine beeped "DONE", and a woman in a white coat carrying a big cooler swooped in and left with the bag of my cells. I was steadier getting up this time—my body, and particularly my left arm, had gotten used to not moving. All three donor liaisons arrived as I got unhooked, like an official farewell.

I couldn't leave the hospital until my platelet counts were checked—below a certain level required that a nurse tell me officially that I shouldn't skydive, etc. So Y. and I, along with K. from the blood center, moved into the waiting room. A man sat there there as well who looked and sounded like my sort-of Uncle Ray (my mother's best friend's husband)--tall, bald, amiable and funny. We all got into a conversation about the weather.

Suddenly K. stared at the man. "You're the courier, right"? she said. He nodded. (I assume she recognized his voice from phone calls.) This was the person who would hand-carry my stem cells to wherever in the world they needed to go. I don't think we were supposed to meet, and soon the conversation grew more circumspect, no mention of cities or names. C. returned with my blood counts—low, as expected. (They would be back to normal in a week.) F., the nurse, came over to remind me not to operate heavy machinery. I was glad to go home, although didn't want this adventure to end just yet—but I had the distinct feeling they were rushing me out, in case inadvertent clues were leaked about the destination of my cells. K. offered to get me a cab, and I gathered my stuff.

As I walked out the door, I turned and looked Uncle Ray straight in the eye. "Thank you," I mouthed. He nodded.

956. Donation, day 1

(Probably more detail here than anyone cares to read, but I wanted to capture a picture of the entire process.)

It feels like yesterday... it feels like years ago.

My friend Z.* gamely showed up at my apartment at 7:30AM, I picked up a sandwich at the deli for lunch, and we jumped in a cab get to the hospital by 8. Trying to write a note to the recipient kept me awake for most of the night before, but I was too excited to notice I was tired. We were greeted by S., the blood center liaison I met during my very first set of tests back in May. I was given a slightly-too-tight wrist ID band, and a finger stick blood test at the lab down the hall. Then C. arrived, the sweet gentleman from the hospital's donor center, and we headed down another corridor for my final Neupogen injection.

A nurse took my temperature and blood pressure, and I got on the scale. I had gained a pound since last week (they weighed me right before the first shot). No big surprise, I thought, considering all the Chinese food I ate that past weekend.

"Those are the stem cells," said C. "Your bones are literally heavier now." (Just as the verse from the Yom Kippur haftarah predicted.)

I was also sniffling, and my chest was congested. "You look like you have a cold," C. observed. I felt fine—but thanks to that massive amount of white cells, my body was trying to fight something off even though there was nothing to fight.

Another nurse arrived, the same one who had taught me to stick myself with a needle. She went through a checklist of side effects, and the answers were the same as the previous four days; a little achy, but nothing too bad. Did people usually have a lot of pain, I wondered?

"Only the men," she answered. "Cops and firefighters, big strong guys. We women are a lot tougher!"

She gave me the final two shots, and then S., Z., C. and I headed outside to a deli for breakfast. (NMDP protocol requires waiting an hour between the last Neupogen injection and the start of stem cell collection; other donor registries have different rules.) I had a big order of scrambled eggs and hash browns while admiring photos of C.s daughter, and then we all headed inside to the blood bank. A nurse asked more questions (no, I have not become a drug addict in the past five days), checked my temperature and blood pressure again and another finger stick to test hemoglobin, and began to affix little ID stickers to a pile of paperwork.

This is really happening, I thought. Soon I will be stuck with big needles. I had a sudden impulse to run back outside, maybe grab a coffee and bagel and sit in sunlight in the park. But the room began to spin before I could do any of those things.

"I'm a little dizzy," I said.

The nurse looked at me with alarm, darted out of the room, and before I could blink returned with Dr. D., in charge of the blood bank. His face radiated calm and confidence. "Have something to drink," he suggested. The nurse handed me a bottle of water. I took a sip, but by then the wave of irrational fear had passed, vanquished by the doctor's smile.

E. would be my nurse for the day, and he directed me to a comfy chair in the corner that looked like a cross between a hospital bed and Business Class. I climbed in, buttressed by pillows beneath my arms and behind my neck, and he began to describe the process while preparing needles, tube, dials, and other mysterious objects. (And I climbed out twice more to use the restroom. Four hours is a long time.) I was still nervous, even though I knew I was in the most competent hands in the country, maybe the universe. My cell phone rang: my rabbi, reminding me that the recipient and I were in everyone's prayers. (I think God must have whispered in his ear: "Right now is when she needs to hear it." It worked. I relaxed.)

The doctor, along with a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young man I gathered was an intern, came over before I could get nervous again. For the next 15 minutes Dr. D. explained the workings of the apheresis machine in detail: how it would separate my blood into red and white cells, the latter containing the stem cells to be transplanted, and then return the red cells to my body along with Citrate, an anticoagulant, and calcium to counter a side effect of the Citrate. I should tell the nurse if I experienced any side effects of calcium loss such as numbness of hands, feet, or face. I asked my burning question: how did the machine know which were the stem cells? It didn't, he explained. It was a centrifuge, so separated cells by weight—and so know how to grab the white cells. But they would look red in the collection bag, since the machine wasn't quite smart enough to filter out all the red cells.

All the blood in my body would go through the machine 2 1/2 times each day. At any given time about 10 oz. of my blood would be in that machine.

Dr. D. and intern left, and E. prepared the IV. My right arm would be "out". I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and felt a little needle prick in my left hand, a.k.a. "in". This was where my blood would return—minus the stem cells, so a smaller needle was just fine and I'd also have some mobility to do things like scratch my nose. It hurt a bit until he taped it down, and then I didn't feel a thing.

Then he went to work on the "out" arm, a bigger needle (to transport that pound of extra stem cells) for the vein in the crook of my arm. He stuck me—not nearly as painful as I feared—and then un-stuck me. Even though the nurse declared my veins to be in excellent shape not just once, but twice, and I'd spent the weekend drinking gallons of water to make them as plump as possible, they were not cooperating. He called over another nurse, and they bent intently over my right arm—and suddenly it was taped. They had poked around and found a better vein before I could even notice.

The machine began to hum, kind of like the rumbling of a subway or laundry room, and I saw a clear liquid drip into the bag closest to me.

"Those are the stem cells," said E. I said a Sheheheyanu prayer: thank you for this new season, this new beginning. Then my friend Z. came over and sat patiently for the next four hours, providing excellent conversation as nurses adjusted dials, straightened needles, hung new bags of liquid, checked my temperature, recorded numbers on forms at a little rolling table, and asked about side effects: none at all. (Thanks, I think, to the massive amount of calcium-rich cheese I consumed that weekend.) Although I wasn't cold, another possible side effect, I was grateful for the tip I read on a donor blog about wearing socks, since the blanket over my feet had to be lifted to get my blood pressure from my ankles (since my arms were otherwise occupied). Every once in awhile Z. and I stared in awe at the aphereis machine. (On Thursday at Shemini Atzeret services, I kept seeing it in my mind's eye whenever God's name was mentioned.) Meanwhile, the blood bank swirled with activity: a man in the next bed donating stem cells for an autologous transplant, his wife hovering patiently and nervously. Something important happening behind a curtain next door, nurses with masks going in and out. All the activity seemed routine and well-rehearsed, despite being miraculous.

I tried unsuccessfully to write emails on my iPad with two fingers. (By day 2 the iPad was a celebrity, with Dr. D. and E., the nurse, debating if it needed a phone or camera.) I did not watch any episodes of "Lost," as planned, since I had no attention span whatsoever.

Soon I barely noticed there was anything stuck in my arms. And I had no sense at all that blood was leaving my body and returning at a rapid rate. At about 1PM I managed to eat a sandwich with one hand, followed by a chocolate bar kindly provided by C. After hour three, I suddenly felt exhausted and could barely keep my eyes open. The nurse explained that my heart was working harder than usual to pump all that blood, so it was like strenuous exercise without moving at all. But I forced myself to stay awake, since I didn't want to miss a thing.

Soon another nurse came by and did some quick calculations: amount of stem cells needed divided by rate of blood flow = remaining time. Just a few more minutes. Then the machine flashed "ALL DONE!" (or something to that effect), and I closed my eyes and took another deep breath as the needles were un-stuck and neon pink pressure bandages applied. I couldn't believe four hours had passed; it really seemed like no time at all.

I swung my legs slowly over the side of the bed and waited for the room to stop spinning. I put my feet down on the floor and they felt different than at the beginning of the process—lighter. I could tell immediately that something was gone from my body. I stood up and shuffled across the room to the bathroom (all that anticoagulant did take its toll), and then out into the waiting area. After a few more minutes to make sure I was intact, and a big piece of chocolate cake courtesy of the blood bank, Z. and I hopped into a cab back home.

I tried to answer emails later that afternoon, and even managed a few phone conversations, but by 8PM felt like I had run a marathon. S. called to let me know that they hadn't finished counting the collected cells, so I should come back at 9AM the next day to find out how long I'd be needed on day 2.
-----
* Because most of my friends seem to have the same first initial, I've picked random initials for everyone. They know who they are, which is what really counts.