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

Ten years left to live

by Brian on June 27, 2026

in A Parent in Israel,Cancer,Food,Health

What would you do if you had just ten years left to live? How would that change where you spent your time and what you chose to do?

No, I haven’t gotten a definitive medical diagnosis that I will expire at age 75. (I’m 65 now.) But I’m trying to get real as I settle into my “new normal” of lower energy and ongoing side effects following my successful CAR-T cancer treatment. What happens if the cancer doesn’t return but my symptoms never quite go away?

Layer on top of that the natural effects of aging, and I’ve begun to let go of the idea that I’ll still be here at age 85 or 95. Instead, I’m increasingly considering that 75 would mark a mighty fine lifetime.

This thought experiment is not dissimilar to when someone retires – what do you do with all that freed-up time? Take up a new hobby? I don’t see myself gardening or becoming an avid birder.

But I do wonder how many new clients I should seek in my waning years. I already get disability discounts, and soon there will be social security and Israeli National Insurance Institute (bituach leumi) payments on top of savings, private pension and sabbatical funds (keren hishtalmiot). I won’t stop writing, dear readers, but maybe I’ll put more time into personal projects, including several new book ideas that should keep me alert and engaged.

When I asked friends what they’d do if they felt that they had just a decade left to live, the answers ranged from the mindful – “try to do something meaningful every day” – to the hedonistic: “Skip cardio and weights, eat whatever I want and spend more time in nature.”

*Eating what I want at Zahara in Jerusalem. Sashimi and goose leg salad.*

Some waxed philosophical – “I’d want to live each day as if it were my last” – to the prosaic: “I’m 84. I may not have another ten years. I plan to live every day doing what I want without overly worrying about living long.”

A good friend who I worked with 30 years ago in the U.S. is “in remission” (his air quotes) from pancreatic cancer. He put together a web page with an “unbucket list.” It included getting a pilot’s license, skydiving (Hey – I’ve done that – twice!), and buying a custom-tailored suit in Indonesia.

My own bucket list is filled with travel ideas, too. There are whole continents my wife, Jody, and I have never been to. Could we take off every couple of months? Would my body tolerate such a grueling schedule? Can we take it easy and minimize the long hikes we used to value?

Then I wonder, nihilistically, what’s the point of checking places off a bucket list? When you die, does any of that matter?

Moreover, frequent travel conflicts with the number one item on my list – and the top one for most of the folks I asked – “Spend more time with family.”

Jody and I have three children and two grandchildren (so far). We adore them all and are joyfully aware of how incredibly fortunate we are that they all live within walking distance. We spend time with them as often as possible.

Still, I find myself grasping.

In 10 years, our oldest grandchild will be just past his bar mitzvah, and our granddaughter will be celebrating her bat mitzvah. I should be able to make it until then. But it will be at least another decade until the first gets married. And what about any potential weddings of our two unmarried children? Will they find their special someones before our time together is up?

Nor can I ignore the political state of the world. My mother is 95, a lifelong Democrat and a worried follower of events in both the U.S. and Israel. My brother is sure she’ll live to be 100, “Oh no, I don’t want to be alive that long and have to see those changes!” she exclaims.

I get it. We haven’t even gotten to Israel’s own fall elections, but if the “wrong” party (fill in your own blanks) forms a coalition, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stomach where this country could go.

The rest of the world isn’t looking particularly welcoming either. The evil genie of antisemitism has been uncorked, and I don’t foresee a vaporous return any time soon.

Since I’m not planning to go anywhere, imagining that the only “leaving” I’ll be doing is vacating this body in 10 years provides some ironic cold comfort.

Although I can envision, on my deathbed, crying out, “But I don’t know how it all turns out!” Will Iran nuke us? Will AI enslave us as batteries in a virtual reality pod? Will flying cars ever happen?”

Which leads me to the most mundane thought of all: How will the multiple TV series I binge-watch end?

I remember fretting, back when I was obsessed with Lost, of being afraid of having a fatal heart attack and never knowing if the castaways get off the island. Now, it’s: Can Carol stop the “others” in Plurubus? And why are there so many silos in Silo?

I think I’ve taken the conversation too far into the absurd. The point is not to worry about FOMO in an afterlife that I don’t believe in.

I’ve lived a good life. I have a wonderful family, a strong marriage, and somehow, 31 years ago, Jody and I made that fateful decision to immigrate to Israel and throw our lot in with the rest of our fellow crazies.

Whether it’s one, five, 10 or – gasp – even 20 years, I can’t, in all honestlyhonesty, complain too much about the past. And I will do my best to be grateful for every day, despite all the aches and pains.

I first posted about life expectancy at The Jerusalem Post.

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My curly hair

by Brian on June 14, 2026

in A Parent in Israel,Cancer,Covid-19,Just For Fun

Here’s one side effect I never expected after cancer treatments: curly hair.

I shouldn’t have been that surprised: Hair growing back curly after chemo is a fairly common experience. My friend Laura Ben-David, who died in 2025 after a long battle with ovarian cancer, sported some lovely curls in her final days.

My new curls highlight a long history with hair, both my personal story and how changing hairstyles often mirror cultural developments in society at large.

Sociologist Rose Weitz writes in her book Rapunzel’s Daughters, “Hair is one of the first ways we learn to tell the story of who we are.” UCLA historian Robin D.G. Kelley concurs. “Style is never superficial. It is how people make history visible on their bodies.”

My tale begins in elementary school, although I didn’t have much follicular autonomy back then: My parents kept my hair short and respectably suburban.

Entering junior high at the beginning of the 1970s, though, marked a turning point. I began sporting a quasi-Beatles cut with thick bangs (even if I was ten years too late to culturally appropriate true Beatlemania).

The main thing was my hair had to cover my ears. I wanted to appear like the hippies who populated nearby Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, even though I had no idea what a hippie actually was at the time.

At that age, unfortunately, I didn’t look particularly masculine. That led to a traumatic experience where a math teacher, substituting for my beloved Mrs. York, called on “the young lady in the back row.”

Yup, that was me.

The class erupted in laughter, and I became known for several years as “Briana.” (Any former middle school friends reading this: If you were part of that crew, an apology would be more than welcome.)

By high school, my hair still covered my ears, but now that I had more masculine features, I was ready for some facial hair. I wanted to mimic the looks of my favorite progressive rock stars, all of whom (other than Freddie Mercury of Queen) were properly bearded. However, my tenth-grade attempt to grow a mustache prompted my English teacher, Mrs. Andreski, to suggest I might want to consider using a black felt-tip pen to fill in the gaps.

Then, there was the summer when I tried to emulate the cool kids who parted their hair down the middle. I had my bangs cut specifically for that look, which would have worked out fine if not for Jeff Miller, reveling in his role as tormentor, who mocked me relentlessly until I sheepishly returned to the familiar side part before the school year started.

By college, I was finally able to grow a full beard and mustache, which I kept for the next twenty years. For two of the three years I attended Oberlin, I went entirely without a trim. When I posed with my friend Jane Segadelli next to a poster calling on support for the Sandinistas (as with the hippies, I had no idea what a Sandinista stood for), I looked every bit the Central American Marxist wannabe I wasn’t.

In the spring of my senior year, I came up with an experiment: I would cut it all – hair, beard, mustache – then show up to class, expecting that no one would know who I was!

Unfortunately, the weather took an unexpected wintry turn, and I had no choice but to come to campus in my highly identifiable orange down jacket.

Cover blown.

My hair grew progressively shorter as I gained in years. By the 1990s, then married and living in Israel, the clean-shaven look, bald-if-you-dared was all the fashion. I wasn’t ready to go entirely hairless, but let’s just say I never needed to run a comb through my hair.

When Covid hit in 2020, I stopped going to Dave, the only hairdresser I’d seen since we made aliyah 26 years earlier, and Jody became my in-house barber. She liked my hair longer. Cutting my hair in the living room meant I could get more frequent trims without needing to shell out a hundred shekels a pop.

Two years earlier, when I was diagnosed with cancer, to acknowledge this unwanted status, I defiantly grew my beard back, although it was more like George Clooney’s five o’clock shadow than a revolutionary pose.

Last year marked perhaps the final turning point. My hair style this time wasn’t tied to a particular decade or fashion. R-CHOP, a particular chemotherapy I’d hoped to avoid, became inevitable. I lost most of the hair on my head, as well as my arms, legs and pits. (Kept my eyebrows, fortunately.)

A few months after the CAR-T treatment I received a year ago that saved my life, my hair began to return as well. Jody noticed it first: thick curls on the left side of my head in the back. The curls spread – first upwards, then to the right side.

Jody loved it. Me? I’d spent 65 years with straight hair. What did I know from curls?

But as much as Jody loved running her fingers through my thick mane of flips and waves, it began to get unruly. Jody attempted a trim that would return some sense of order, but as she hacked away, the curls were inevitably sacrificed. The haircut looks great and the curls will, I’m sure, eventually grow back.

When they do, and assuming we can find a style that somehow maximizes both propriety and wild abandon, I will wear it with pleasure as a sign of my body’s resilience and the strange way it has of showing that off, both at the present moment and in the many hairstyles that have defined me through decades of personal and societal change.

I first wrote about my curls for The Jerusalem Post.

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Packing list: Planning a vacation during wartime

by Brian on May 31, 2026

in Cancer,Health,Reviews,Travel

I hate packing. Vacation is great, but before you leave, you have to spend so much time picking out the right clothing combinations that will fit your specific needs. That’s especially complicated when the weather can be blazingly hot during the day and bitterly cold at night.

Then there’s the travel medication. In addition to any regular meds, you need to anticipate every inevitability: pills for pain, creams for stiff necks and dry toes; sleeping capsules, antibiotics (always be prepared!), meds in case of nausea, opioids if everything goes totally sideways.

Now, try packing all of that when you don’t know if war is going to start up again while you’re abroad and your flight home could be canceled.

Prudence dictates you should double or triple up everything. That, at least, was our experience overpacking for what should have been a quick jaunt to Cyprus for a four-night stay at the Secret Forest, the popular Israeli-run kosher resort.

My wife, Jody, and I started planning the trip in January. But when the U.S. and Israel attacked Iran and the regime responded in kind, we didn’t feel comfortable finishing our booking not knowing if we’d still be at war. People were hoofing it to Taba or Amman or Sharm el-Sheikh to make their international flights.

When it looked like the ceasefire seemed to be holding, we got back in touch with the resort. They were just two seats left on the El Al flight to Paphos (the Secret Forest takes care of accommodations, board and flights for one price), so we had to act fast. Not succumbing to our typical days-long debate, we let whim guide our decision and grabbed those spots.

The very next day, the headlines blared, “U.S. preparing to restart war in coming days.”

Oy, what had we done?

But this was to be my first trip overseas since my CAR-T cancer treatment, and I didn’t want to miss out.

We also desperately needed a break from the frequent trips to the bomb shelter, the constant checking of the “Can I Shower Now?” app or waiting for the scritch-scratch alarm on our phones indicating that a siren would likely sound shortly.

When no missiles had landed on Israel by the morning of our trip, we headed to Ben-Gurion airport and hoped for the best.

Part of the allure of Cyprus is it’s so close to Israel. But when you factor in transport time to Yitzkak Navon station in Jerusalem, then the train to the airport, check-in, security, passport control and grabbing a bite to eat (since short flights don’t serve food), followed by picking up your luggage and boarding the bus for the 40-minute ride into the mountains, it’s actually close to the same as the drive to Eilat.

The Eilat comparison proved apt. The Secret Forest makes for a bizarre combination – a cross-section of Israel transported into the Cypriot mountains.

The resort is 100% Hebrew speaking. All of the lectures, guided meditations, yoga and Pilates instructors, the evening entertainment, the experiential “reversing” seminar and, of course, all 200 guests were Israeli. The kosher food (dairy and pescatarian) attracts a significant percentage of observant guests.

With Hebrew the linga franca, there was no feeling we were getting a taste of another country’s culture. Other than the waiters in the restaurant or the shuttle drivers, we could have been in Hadera or Holon (where half the guests seemed to be from).

If there’s a Cypriot favorite food, it wasn’t offered at the expansive farm-to-table brunch buffets. But there were two kinds of shashuka and a plentiful supply of smoked fish and fresh breads, mainstays at any respectable Israeli hotel spread.

The views eerily resembled the hills of the Upper Galilee; utterly familiar, still beautiful.

My point is: If one is looking for an escape from the Israeli pressure cooker, the Secret Forest aint it.

That doesn’t mean it’s not worth going. The grounds are gorgeous – the place was an established retreat before Yoni Kahane, an Israeli tourism entrepreneur and Chabadnik who owns and manages other kosher properties in Cyprus and beyond, acquired it in 2023. His vision was to refashion the Secret Forest as a comprehensive, adults-only wellness retreat.

The staff encourages guests to tuck their phones in their suite safes or at least not to follow the news back home too closely.

There are no chocolate treats waiting on your bedroom pillow; rather, each room has a full supply of nuts and fruits. Throughout the resort, wine and cocktails are free (no soft drinks allowed). Before brunch, which starts at 10:00 am, unlimited strawberry and mango smoothies are available. The honey in the dining hall buffet was so fresh, it was still attached to the comb.

Rinat, who performed two of the four nights we were there, was less an Eastern Mediterranean troubadour than a classic Israeli erev shira (Hebrew for sing-along) cheerleader. The one night when there was a local Greek band, they davka had learned a few Hebrew hits to throw into the mix.

Much dancing and merriment ensued.

The highlight of our time was a hike to the neighboring village of Miliou. The foliage-friendly dirt path parallels a brook that babbles absently. I was surprised by how out of breath I was during the at times steep climb (I’m still working on accepting my post-cancer “new normal”), but I did it, which made both Jody and me feel proud.

As our time in Cyprus drew to a close, we began the seven-hour return home. Upon landing at Ben-Gurion, nothing seemed to have changed.

“As Iran talks stall, Israel and U.S. prepping to renew war as soon as next week,” one headline announced.

I unpacked all the extra clothes and medications we’d stuffed into our already overweight suitcase, all the while wondering if this, too, has become a new normal.

I first wrote about packing during wartime for The Jerusalem Post.

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One year since I nearly died

by Brian on May 15, 2026

in Cancer,Health,Science

Here’s something your doctor will probably never ask you: “Do you want this potentially life-saving treatment? Or would you rather die?”

But what if the question were phrased differently?

“There’s a 30% chance the medicine won’t do anything to keep you alive. Moreover, if it does help, when you come out the other side, you won’t be the same person you are now. But we can’t actually tell you what your quality of life will be. Every person is unique.”

What might have seemed a clear-cut choice now seems muddier, right?

This week marks the one-year anniversary of my decision to opt for what was behind Door Number One – the life-saving treatment – and yet these questions still loom large.

The treatment in question, CAR-T, which transforms your own T-cells into cancer-chomping Pac-men, worked for me. In two weeks, it had knocked out the lymphoma from which I’d suffered for some seven years.

That said, I am definitely not the same person I was before.

A few months before my cancer transformed into aggressive DLBCL, my wife, Jody, and I had been hiking the hills of Lisbon and Porto. By the end of that year, I had lost a kidney, was deep into the one type of chemo I’d desperately hoped to avoid, and had lost my hair, my stamina and my appetite.

I was six weeks in the hospital getting my CAR-T, during which time I was barely able to get out of bed without help; just taking the daily recommended stroll around the ward was an exercise in embarrassment.

Eventually, I was released, cured for now, but incredibly weak, with my bladder lining so decimated from all the drugs and radiation that every pee felt like a sushi chef’s jujitsu knife at play.

This was not the body I knew.

But slowly – very slowly – I started to get stronger. I returned to my exercise routine and added back yoga. I was able to put aside the cane and could get up the stairs without clinging to the banister.

I was feeling so positive, I planned a cruise for our entire family. The logic was, if I was especially tired one day, I could just hang back and enjoy the endless buffet and heated pools while the rest of our party went out and explored the local scenery.

Then, without warning, my blood counts crashed.

My platelets, which normally should be at a minimum of 150,000, hovered around a paltry 20,000. My neutrophils were in the toilet, as was my hemoglobin. My doctor reassured me this is not unexpected after CAR-T, but it was another unanticipated gut punch.

I wound up needing to take three different injections a week just to keep my levels at a bare minimum. I became a regular pincushion at the nearby blood lab. Every month, I haul myself to Hadassah for IV infusions to boost my IgG levels. I take 15 pills a day.

My son, Amir, commented that the entire process had aged me by 10 years. I might be 65 chronologically, but I feel and act more like 75. Nor has it been gradual aging. I went from 65 to 75 seemingly overnight.

All of which makes me wonder, if I were to require more treatment – if the cancer were to come back or something new cropped up – would the question my doctor never asked a year ago become relevant this time?

I think about bioethicist and author of Eat Your Ice Cream: Six Simple Rules for a Long and Healthy Life Dr. Ezekiel Emmanuel’s famous assertion that, at age 75, he wouldn’t do anything to prolong his existence. No chemo, no colonoscopies, no cardiac stress tests.

Had I reached that point – just 10 years earlier than expected?

And yet, my mind remains clear. I am able to pontificate as lucidly as before, whether in my writing or at the Shabbat table. I’m learning new things, like how best to employ AI. While I do forget a few things here and there, that probably is age-related!

In the first months after I was released from the hospital, I’d regularly ask Jody, “Why didn’t you advise me to say no to the treatment? You knew I wouldn’t be the same.”

It’s a good thing she didn’t. “I want to live,” I now say with a faint smile.

My hematologist tells me that every time I’m at Hadassah for a checkup, she tells her team, “Here comes my walking miracle.”

Optimism has, for the moment, won out. Perhaps that’s why I just put a deposit down on another trip – a 20-day excursion to Vietnam and Cambodia for Jody and me.

It’s not for another year – early 2027 – by which time I hope I will have regained enough of my strength that we can explore the streets and waterways of Hanoi and Hoi An and Ha Long Bay. (I made sure we can always cancel and get our money back.)

I’ve even started to keep a gratitude journal. Every night, I write down one good thing that happened that day. Playing with the grandkids. A satisfying meal. A compelling TV show.

Psychologist and Atlantic contributor Arthur Brooks has a different approach: He keeps a log of his regrets and disappointments.

Whenever he writes something down, he leaves two lines blank underneath. Then he makes a note to look at it in a month, and again in a month after that. The original complaint – the feelings, thoughts and emotions around it – invariably seem smaller, he claims.

Science has a name for this: the Fading Affect Bias. While roughly 60% of unpleasant experiences lose their emotional sting over time, only 42% of the pleasant ones fade. This creates a gap of nearly 20% — an inclination towards positivity that edits the narrative of our lives.

That works for me. In the meantime, who wants to meet next year at Angkor Wat?

This article first appeared in The Jerusalem Post.

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Dripping acid

by Brian on May 10, 2026

in Cancer,Health,Science,Technology

I have always tried to be honest about my health. Still, it’s difficult to share about one particular malady that’s been vexing me these past months.

One of the treatments I had in the last year – most likely the chemo I received prior to the CAR-T that knocked out my cancer – did a real number on my bladder.

The toxins in the chemo apparently damaged my “GAG layer.” That’s the protective boundary that keeps the acidic urine from irritating the bladder wall itself. (To amuse myself with this new terminology, I will sing the “gag me with a spoon” line from Moon Zappa’s 1982 epic, “Valley Girl.”)

When I went to my urologist to complain about the constant burning and urgency “down there,” he ordered the bladder operation I wrote about in a previous column.

The pathology showed no cancer, but it did point to severe inflammation of the GAG layer. And by severe, I mean the pain has become unbearable. It’s a Catch-22 situation. The better hydrated I am, the less concentrated the urine and the less pain it causes. But the more I drink, the more the urgency dominates.

“Most people just live with it,” my urologist told me, in that blunt Israeli way.

“I’m not most people,” I shot back.

We first tried a low-dose course of steroids – the same prednisone I had left over that may have saved young Ethan’s life during the High Holidays.

Steroids were not my urologist’s first choice – he didn’t even know the dosage to give me or for how long. I asked my “shadow doctor”: AI. When ChatGPT supplied what seemed like a non-hallucinatory answer, he readily agreed.

The pills, unfortunately, didn’t work. Worse, it resulted in “rebound” pain more intense than when it all started. That left us with Plan B: hyaluronic acid (HA) instillations directly into the bladder.

HA is a molecule found in the body that helps hydrate skin, lubricates joints and cushions tissue. Since it’s very effective at holding water, HA is commonly used in eye drops, fillers for wrinkles and as an aid for healing wounds and tissue regeneration.

HA is naturally present in the GAG layer, so adding extra HA can fill in any missing patches to shield the underlying tissue from irritants and bacteria. Exactly what I needed.

Sadly, there’s only one way in. I was so hoping the steroids would work, but given that my symptoms were making it difficult to be more than ten seconds from a bathroom – not helpful if you’re playing in a typically toilet-less Israeli park with your grandkids or stuck in your seat during an airplane’s final approach – I decided to instill the bullet, so to speak.

It was to be the ultimate acid test (minus the Ken Kesey psychedelic antics).

HA installations are quick but must be repeated every week for eight sessions – that is, a full two months – and you don’t usually feel relief until about three-quarters of the way through.

Something to look forward to every Monday morning.

I’ll skip to the good news first: The instillations weren’t as bad as I’d imagined. Tal, my initial HA nurse, grew up partly in Chicago, so he was able to explain what he was doing in fluent English, which already put me more at ease. Of the three nurses I worked with over the course of the treatment period, only one spoke no English.

The nurses use a “baby catheter” – the thinnest one available – and lots of numbing lidocaine gel. Getting the lidocaine in there was actually the most painful part. Once the local anesthesia kicked in, I barely felt the baby catheter.

Next comes the HA itself. As the fluid filled me up, I felt a not inconsiderable amount of pressure, like I had to pee right then and there (which of course I couldn’t with a one-way catheter blocking any exit).

The whole process, thankfully, takes less than three minutes.

When the instillation is done, the catheter comes out and the hardest part begins: You’re not allowed to use the bathroom for at least an hour. Of course, that’s all I wanted to do. I hobbled around the hospital corridors and eventually shoehorned myself into the car to drive home.

Would I have preferred to be knocked out by general anesthesia so I wouldn’t feel a thing? Sure, but total body sedation for such a short procedure would have been both overkill and cumulatively dangerous.

HA is not covered by Maccabi, our local HMO, so you have to buy it from the manufacturer; if you have private insurance, which thankfully we do, you’ll get reimbursed.

However, my doctor recalled that I had done several rounds of radiation to reduce my tumors in the past. Is that what caused my GAG layer damage? Hard to say, but Maccabi’s regulations say if the inflammation may have been due to radiation, the hyaluronic acid is free.

The only thing worse than the HA instillation itself is the weekly anticipation. I’d rather be looking forward to a nice hike or one of the brisket sandwiches from Bruno (the best sandwich shop in Jerusalem). Moreover, I sleep poorly as a general rule; knowing you’re going to get a spritz of acid followed by a wobbly afternoon does not engender a restful night.

I’m writing this at the end of my eighth week doing HA. It seems to be working a little but not fully. It can take a while to really settle in, apparently, so I go back now for monthly “maintenance” sessions. I’m hopeful that, in the end, three minutes of discomfort to dislodge months of misery will be a bargain worth taking.

In the meantime, I’ll do my best to gag any layer of complaining.

I first wrote about my acid experience for The Jerusalem Post.

GAG layer image and Ialuril from the ProPharma website.

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